Jaxon rolled his eyes. Some things never changed. He let them fight it out for a few minutes until Dawson got Huck in a chokehold and his face started turning blue.
“Let him go, Dawg.”
Dawson grinned up at him. “Or what?”
“Or I’m going to remind you why I’m the big brother.”
Dawson’s grin got bigger. “I’d like to see you try.”
Jaxon sighed. “Shit.”
Now that he and Dawson were evenly matched in weight and muscle, it took much longer to prove his point than it had when they were kids. They took turns having the upper hand, while Huck sat on the bed and cheered Jaxon on. Finally, Jaxon was able to maneuver Dawson into a full Nelson.
“Cry uncle, Dawg.”
“When hell freezes over.”
Jaxon knew his little brother wasn’t kidding. Dawson would pass out before he gave in.
“Stubborn ass!” Jaxon released him and rolled to his feet. His pants were ripped in one knee and he glanced in the mirror to see his hair wild and a split lip dripping blood onto his new shirt.
He glared down at Dawson who sat on the floor testing his jaw. “Happy now?”
Dawson grinned. “As a matter of fact, I am.” The smile got even bigger. “You want to borrow a T-shirt and jeans, Jax?”
They arrived at the church looking exactly like what they were.
The Hennessey Hooligans.
Jaxon’s bottom lip was twice its normal size, Dawson had a swollen jaw and carpet burn on his forehead, and Huck had a red neck and a black eye that he’d gotten from a bar fight he’d been in three nights earlier.
What made matters worse was it looked like the entire town had shown up for their mama’s funeral. Since Rosie had never been close to anyone in town, Jaxon figured the townsfolk were all there to see them. When he and his brothers followed the funeral usher to the front pew, Jaxon could feel every eye in the church on them. He knew exactly what they were thinking. It wasn’t poor Hennessy boys. It was more like . . .
What a shame Rosie had such loser sons.
And they weren’t wrong.
Regardless of Rosie’s parenting skills, good sons wouldn’t have cut all ties with their mama so she couldn’t even contact one of them when she’d had her first stroke. Good sons would have been there when she drew her last breath.
The preacher took the pulpit and started droning on and on about how Rosie was now with the Lord.
But Rosie had never believed in God. She had believed in only one thing—Honky Tonk Heaven. The bar she’d inherited from her daddy had been her life and her only love. Not her one and only husband, Rory Hennessy. Not their four children. And not any of the men who had come and gone after the car accident that killed their daddy. All she’d ever cared about was a clapboard building that smelled like sweaty cowboys and stale beer.
“. . . so there’s no need to worry about the soul of our sweet sister,” the preacher continued. “I know for a fact she’s watching us from heaven as I speak.”
Dawson’s snort had Jaxon shooting him a warning look. Although he understood how his brother felt. If there was such a thing as heaven and hell, he doubted seriously that their mama would be looking down. She drank, cussed, smoked, and had eaten nothing but greasy bar food all her life. Her dying from a stroke hadn’t come as a shock to anyone in her family.
The cemetery where Mama would be buried was located just outside of town. While Jaxon had never set foot in the town church before today, he had been to the cemetery. Every New Year’s Day, his mama had him and his siblings placing flowers on their daddy’s and all their other relatives’ graves. While they had few living relatives, they had a lot of dead ones—something that happened when your family were bar owners who loved to party.
Now, there was a brand new headstone amid all the other Hennessys’. This one twice as big with a smiling angel perched on top. Since his mother had been anything but angelic, Jaxon had to wonder if she’d done it as a joke.
Rosie had loved a good joke.
Jaxon didn’t find it amusing.
Nor did he find humor in the epitaph engraved in the hard, cold stone.
Rosie Frances Hennessy
