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Liquor & Love: McDonough Boys #1
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Contents
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
Ten
Eleven
Twelve
Thirteen
Fourteen
One
Peggy Fitzgerald was lost.
Again.
The day she began the search for her real father, Peggy took a left off Highway 9 on the way to Dawson, Georgia, and found herself on a dirt road that led to nowhere. She realized her mistake about six miles after the turn, when she pulled to the side after seeing nothing but dirt in front of her and dust in her rearview.
"Peggy," she told herself, "you've done it again."
Bright, inquisitive, and freethinking, Peggy had been blessed with no sense of direction. It had been forever since she saw another car, and there were no houses or buildings alongside the roads, just mile after mile of national forest land.
Dawson was nestled between parts of the Chattahoochee National Forest, but when she looked at the road map, unfolding it on the front seat of her 1936 Ford DeLuxe, a burgundy convertible with cream-colored interior, she realized her mistake.
"Damn this infernal map," she said to the three crows that were calling from the pine tree nearby, "I shouldn't have turned so soon. It was the next left I wanted."
Her first thought was just to turn around and head back the other way, but the road was too narrow, and it was lined on either side by deep ditches. One false move, one inch too much on the turn, and she'd be nose down in a gully and facing a six-mile hike in heels back to the highway.
There was also the problem of the gas left in her tank. It had been since Alpharetta that she had seen a filling station, and the needle on her fuel gauge was buried on E. She might have been able to tell how much gas was hiding in the bottom of the tank, except this was a new car. New to her, anyway. She had owned it for less than six hours, and she was still unfamiliar with its idiosyncrasies.
There's got to be a back way, she thought and consulted the map. There really isn’t such a thing as a road to nowhere, is there?
North Georgia was nothing like her hometown of Dearborn, Michigan. Like most of the Midwest, Dearborn was laid out on a grid, so there was always an alternate route to your destination. Not so with Dawson. It was a tiny burg that had been around for almost a hundred years. It got its start as a mining town after the Dahlonega gold rush in the 1830’s. Since then, it had grown a little bit, but it still wasn't anything to write home about, and the paths of its winding roads looked more like streams than streets.
Peggy traced her finger along the road on the map. A mile ahead on the other side of the river, the road connected with a route that would take her to the west side of the city. It should be only about two miles, which suited her. That way, she didn't have to risk turning around and she didn't have to worry about fuel. Fords were notorious for holding on to a gallon or two after the gauge went to empty, and she prayed that her DeLuxe was going to do the same.
She refolded the map precisely and stuck it in the glove compartment. She put the car into gear and hit the accelerator. Her tires threw dust into the air, and the wind whipped her scarf like a flag. Now this was freedom. The open road. The top down. Fresh air, except for the wafting scent of manure. Sure, when she stopped, her hairdo would look a fright, but what was the point in driving a convertible if she didn't enjoy it?
According to the map, after the bend ahead there would be a straightaway for a couple hundred yards and then a bridge that crossed the river. Once past the bridge, she had a fairly straight shot to town.
She kept her speed around forty miles per hour, not sure of how fast she dared go. Not that she was worried about a redneck Wyatt Earp jumping out from behind a tree. If a deputy had positioned himself in the forest to catch speeders, he was going to find slim pickings, sort of like a spider that builds its web inside a refrigerator to catch flies—there just wasn't much point in it.
She took the sharp right and then turned down the straightaway for the bridge. A hundred feet ahead, she spotted a sign that read:
Caution. One Lane Bridge Ahead.
"One lane bridge, huh?" she said. "Good thing I'm only using one lane."
She laughed at her own joke. It wasn't very funny, she admitted, but when a young woman was traveling alone in the world, she would laugh at anything.
When she got close to the bridge, a structure made of iron I-beams for the frame and a series of wooden slats for the deck, she heard the rushing water below. The river wasn't very wide, probably only about sixty feet across, but its waters were fast, with white caps forming over river rocks as big as boulders. She had heard the word rapids used to describe this type of waterway, and she knew that some brave and stupid people actually used canoes to ride through them.
Downshifting as she slowed, she came up to the bridge and aimed her wheels for the decking. The sign wasn't kidding. The bridge really was just wide enough for one vehicle, and barely wide enough for that. She slowed again, almost to five miles per hour, and steered her wheels between the two supports. There were maybe six inches on either side of her car, and she knew if she sneezed, she'd put a rip in one of her fenders.
Slowly, she started rolling across, concentrating on the ten feet or so in front of her. The decking was rough, and the car bounced like a Mexican jumping bean as she slowly rolled across. She glanced out of the corner of her eye and her heart did a double take. The water felt like it was only inches from the bottom of her car, and she could hear the rapids rushing so violently, the engine noise was drowned out.
"Keep it steady," she said. "You can do it, Peggy. Stay the course and keep your wheels straight."
Peggy was so transfixed by the water and the task at hand that she didn't hear the horn sounding ahead. When the sound finally did sink in, she looked up to find a Dodge pickup truck forty feet ahead and closing fast.
"Holy Toledo!" she yelled and honked. "Hey! There's a car here!"
The driver hit his horn again and stuck his hand out the window to wave furiously. "Back up!" he yelled. "I was here first! Didn't you read the cotton picking sign?"
"Of course I read the sign, and it said nothing about picking cotton!" It also said nothing about having to stop and check to see that no other cars were on the bridge after you got started. What kind of idiot would build a bridge with only one lane?
Peggy instinctively tapped her brakes and slowed down. Her car was already crawling along, and the braking brought her almost to a standstill. She waited for the Dodge to get closer. When they were bumper-to-bumper, she would get out, and the two of them would discuss a rational, reasonable way to resolve this conflict. Two people couldn't be on the bridge at once, and so one of them had to back up. Since Peggy had put her car on the bridge first, she, of course, felt the other driver should honor the right of way. It was the polite thing to do.
But the other driver had his own ideas. He didn't slow at all. He kept coming at the same speed and even revved his engine before slamming on his brakes and burning rubber, filling the air with the stink of exhaust and scorched brake shoes.
"Move it, lady!" He stopped just a few feet from Peggy's bumper and laid on his horn. "I ain't got all day!"
It was an early August morning, and it was already as hot as blazes. Peggy's lips started perspiring, and she could feel her underarms begin to sweat, too. She was wearing traveling clothes—a light blouse, a knee-length skirt, and a jacket that she had taken off north of Atlanta and tossed into the seat beside her. She had kicked off her wedge heels and was driving in stocking feet.
> "You can take that horn and shove it, mister!" she yelled. "I was here first!"
When the horn blowing had less than its desired effect, the other driver stuck his fist out the window. He might have yelled something that Peggy couldn't hear over the noise, and his face wasn't visible inside the cabin. The sun was reflecting off the driver's window, making him unrecognizable.
"What d'you think you’re doing, lady?" he yelled, sticking his hand out the window and leaving the horn alone, thank God. "Didn't you read the sign? This is a one-lane bridge. Only one car at a time. Back up! Back on up! Before I’ve to ram you!"
"That'll be the day!" Peggy yelled over her windshield. "What happened to Southern hospitality?"
"It’s on the other side of the bridge!"
She'd be damned if some ignorant, inbred redneck was going to push her out of the way, even if he did have a bigger, heavier vehicle. Her Ford had a flathead V8, one of the best engines ever made, and she was sure that with her chrome bumper, she could hold her own and make the other driver do the backing up. She shook her own fist and laid on her horn. When the Dodge started rolling forward, she put it in gear and met him, bumper for bumper.
If this bullheaded redneck wanted to play, then she was going to show him a thing or two.
With a loud clang, the two vehicles rammed together. Peggy felt the jolt, and her neck snapped backwards.
"If you give me whiplash, I’m going to sue!" she yelled.
Something told her that she needed to be careful, but her temper had gotten the best of her, and she pressed down on the accelerator. In the rearview she saw blue smoke filling the air behind her. She smelled burning rubber in the air, and grayish black smoke joined the exhaust, sending a cloud rising behind her.
The same thing was happening behind the truck. His tires were spinning on the wooden decking, sending splinters flying. The truck was light in the back, being built for hauling rather than comfort, so the rear end fishtailed back and forth, the fenders clanging against the supports of the bridge like a hooked catfish trying to break free from a fishing line.
Peggy tapped on the accelerator, and her rear wheels turned wildly. She steered to the left, trying to catch the truck mid-fishtail and push it into the side of the support.
"Come on!" she cajoled the Ford.
It didn't work.
There just wasn't enough room to do anything but butt heads like two angry bulls.
"This is stupid," she said, frustrated.
Peggy shifted the car into first, set the parking brake, and turned off the engine. If the jackass wanted to waste his gas on such a stupid exhibition, he was more than welcome to.
"Let's see you move me now, mister!"
With one foot on the brake pedal, Peggy folded her arms and fumed. This wasn't the kind of reception she was expecting from the inhabitants of Dawson. In Atlanta, people kept telling her that mountain folk were very friendly and hospitable, as long as you looked and talked like them.
Peggy had one of the two covered, at least. She had the same look as the people there, being a tall brunette with a certain amount of brashness. Sounding like them was the hard part. She had been raised in Michigan and had spent time in Europe, so her accent was as far away from hillbilly as it could be.
"I don't know what you hope to accomplish." She sat on the windowsill of her door. "At best, all we’re going to do is wreck each other."
The other driver let off of his accelerator. "Won't be a wreck, as long as you get out of my way."
"Is that all you want? To make me back up?" She would have gotten out, except her door wouldn't open, and there was no way she was going to crawl onto the hood and put herself in danger while some jackass maniac was trying to push the two bumpers together. "That may be the dumbest thing I've ever heard of, and I was in the Army, so I know a dumb thing when I see one."
"That ain't going to work!" The driver stuck his head out of the window, and Peggy could see that he was young, early twenties, with dark hair and smoky eyes. Very smoky eyes. "I've got a delivery, and the only way to make it is to go through you."
"You could just back up!"
"I was three quarters across the bridge before you got in the way," he said. "I ain't about to back up that far. It's easier for you to do it."
"Why should I? I got on the bridge first!"
"Then drove like somebody's old, half-dead granny. If I'd waited for you to cross, I would've been waiting till noon."
"If you had just waited for me, I would've been off the bridge by now, and you could've been on your way."
"I was on my way already," he yelled, "so how about being a good little girl and back on up."
"Did you just call me a little girl?"
"If the shoe fits!"
"If the shoe fits? If the shoe fits! Do you like shoes? I can show you shoes!"
Without a second thought to consider the consequences of her action, Peggy grabbed her wedge heels from the seat. She perched between the back of the seat and the windshield, then one after another, fired her shoes at the Dodge.
The first one bounced harmlessly off the hood of the Dodge and disappeared over the side.
A few seconds later, it made a splash in the river.
The second shoe, though, caught the driver in the face as he stuck out his head to complain about the first throw.
"Hey! Watch it! I just had this truck—ow!"
The heel hit him in the forehead and flew into the air.
With cat-quick reflexes, the man grabbed the shoe. He reared back as if to fire back at her, then paused. "What kind of woman throws her shoes at a complete stranger?"
An idiot woman, Peggy thought. One who didn’t own so many pairs of shoes that she could afford to toss them off a bridge. That wasn't the smartest thing you've ever done, Margaret Anne Fitzgerald, she told herself, but she wasn't about to admit it to the other driver.
"A woman who is stuck on a bridge with an ape in front of her who refuses to move, that's who!"
"You know what? You are crazier than you look. If there is one thing my daddy taught me, it’s to stay out the way of nutso females. You want the bridge? You can have the bridge."
"Who are you calling nutso?"
"You, nutso!"
He tossed the shoe inside his car with a grinding of gears, put his truck in reverse. The Dodge’s engine rattled as he backed away, far faster than anyone should have been able to do. He kept one hand on the wheel and his eyes on his back and, somehow, steered straight as an arrow off the bridge and then whipped around onto the far bank. He sat there idling for a few seconds, then revved the motor three times. It was his way of telling Peggy to hurry up.
"Ha!" She applauded over her head. "It was worth the shoes to get you to move, you big ape! Who likes wedge heels anyway?"
Peggy jumped behind the wheel and took off across the bridge. This time she put her foot on the accelerator, leaving the grannyesque driving behind. Her teeth rattled as the old tires pounded on the wooden deck. When the car hit the edge of the bridge, a bump sent her rising into the air.
"Woo-hoo!" she yelled, then promptly bit her tongue. "Ow! Dammit!"
As she passed the driver of the Dodge, she slowed down and blew him a kiss. "So long, pal!"
Peggy took the hard right and found herself on the back road to Dawson. The gas hand on the dashboard was still buried on E. She knew that she'd have to baby the accelerator, or she was going to find herself walking into town.
In her rearview, she watched the Dodge go back onto the bridge and take off at a fast clip. She saw the driver's profile and left arm hanging out the window, his white shirt sleeves rolled up. Whoever the driver was, he was built like a Sherman tank.
A pretty handsome tank, too.
Over the noise of the tires hitting the decking, she heard a distinct sound, like rattling glass, as if the man had a truck bed full of milk bottles.
Odd, Peggy thought, because he didn't look like a milkman of any sort. But the thought quickly evaporate
d as she drove toward town. She decided to put the bridge skirmish out of her mind, along with the sound of the milk bottles. Dawson was ahead, and there were many things to think about, chief among them what she was going to say to her real father when they met for the very first time.
Two
"Hello," she practiced by speaking to the rearview. "My name is Peggy Fitzgerald. I’m from Dearborn, Michigan. Pleased to make your acquaintance. I’ve come to see you because I’m your bastard child. No, no, that is not going to work."
She sighed deeply, trying not to let the deep yearning she felt inside make her rush through this process. Take it slow, she kept telling herself, you'll meet your father in good time.
A mile earlier she had passed a roadside inn claiming that she had reached the city limits of Dawson, Georgia, although she had seen nothing that looked like a city so far. She had been rehearsing the speech she was going to give her father when they first met. But she couldn't get it right. What exactly did you say to a man who got your mother pregnant twenty years before and then was never heard of again, letting another man raise as his own child?
"Hello, you rotten bastard," Peggy said to the rearview. "My name is Peggy Fitzgerald, Mr. Hogan, and I’ve come to collect eighteen years of child support payments and to punch you in the face."
Peggy laughed and shook her head. Obviously, she couldn't say that to Mr. Francis Jackson Hogan, but it's what her broken heart wanted to say. There were other questions she wanted to ask, too, but they would have to wait until she found the mythical Mr. Hogan and introduced herself. After she had done that, she had no idea how he would react or if there would be time to ask anything else.
Who knows, Peggy thought, he might want to punch you right back.
A hundred feet ahead, Peggy saw her first sign of life. A young boy in overalls, bare chested and barefooted, rolled a bicycle tire rim with a stick down the dusty road. He was walking in front of a shotgun shack, its yard covered in pine needles and old car parts.
Not exactly the Ritz, Peggy thought. When she got near the kid, she slowed down next to him.