Home To Texas

“Little brother,” he said with genuine affection and embraced Jonah. Good Lord, the kid didn’t look like a kid anymore; his even features had lost their last trace of boyishness.

Jonah accepted the embrace awkwardly. Like their father, he was embarrassed by emotional displays. But unlike their father, he was not judgmental. Once you were in the circle of Jonah’s affection, the devil himself couldn’t pry you loose.

Jonah mumbled, “Good to see you.”

Grady disengaged himself and punched his brother’s shoulder affably. He faced his father again. “Okay if I spend a couple nights? I don’t know how long my truck’s gonna be out of commission.”

“I suppose.” Bret’s mouth was grim. “Where you heading this time?”

“A spread down in Florida,” Grady said. “Via New Orleans.”

“What’s in New Orleans?”

“That’s what I aim to see,” Grady said, keeping his real reason to himself. He gave his brother’s shoulder another punch. “You want to come, kid? Those French Quarter gals would love you.”

Jonah’s handsome face darkened in a blush, but he smiled.

“Jonah’s got a job here,” Bret said emphatically. “A steady job. And his dissertation to finish.”

“Dissertation.” Grady eyed Jonah with playful pride. “A doctor in the family. How’s it goin’?”

“Okay.” The same little smile stayed, playing at the corner of Jonah’s mouth. He seemed truly pleased to see Grady.

Bret wished he could feel the same easy pleasure. But his emotions were rent in two as he studied his two sons, the youngest and the eldest.

He wondered how he had gone so right with one, so wrong with the other. There was Jonah, as dependable as gravity, marked for certain success. And there, on the other hand, was Grady.

Grady wasn’t as tall as Jonah, and his good looks were more rugged. His hair was almost black, his skin was tawny, and his eyes, like Bret’s own, were as dark as strong coffee. When he flashed that killer smile of his, weak women melted. Hell, even strong ones melted.

And Grady liked to melt them. He was used to it. He had charm, and Bret believed it was his undoing. Everything had always come easy to him, so he had never had to apply himself to anything.

Grady was in his prime—thirty-five years old—and he had not accomplished one blasted thing in his life. The fates had given him every gift. He was smart—his test scores in school had proved it. But he’d dropped out of school when he was seventeen and hit the road.

Look at him, Bret thought, fighting down his disappointment. His son’s jeans were faded and dusty. His boots needed a shine. His shirt had a black smear down one sleeve. But the hat, as usual, was tipped to a cocky angle. That hat told the world, I don’t give a damn. I never have. I never will.

Bret stared at his firstborn, thinking, so much potential; so little accomplished. It had broken Maggie’s heart, though she would never admit it. “He’ll settle down someday,” she’d always say as if she could believe it.

Grady had not even made it home in time to see Maggie before she died. Oh, he had his excuses, of course, like always, but not being at Maggie’s deathbed was a lapse Bret could not forgive.

After the funeral, Bret had rebuked him bitterly, but his son wouldn’t bow and accept the blame he so justly deserved. When he’d left, Bret had been secretly glad to see him go.

Now he was back. Acting—and this was Grady’s special gift—as if nothing had happened. Oh, he could charm the pants off a duck if he tried. He was even making Jonah talkative.

“Yeah. Lang’s coming home. He should be here by tomorrow night,” Jonah said.

“No kidding?” Grady grinned. “I’ll be danged. Perfect timing. It’ll be old home week. Is he bringing Susie?”

“Just h-himself,” Jonah stammered.

“Susie left him,” Bret said, more sharply than he meant to. “Now she wants half of everything. He’d just put the earnest money down on that little horse spread. He’ll lose it.”

Grady’s dark eyes flashed. He snatched off his hat and slapped it against his thigh. “Hellfire and monkey turds! How much bad luck can one man have?”

“Plenty,” said Bret.

Millie Gilligan came walking into the kitchen. She stopped in the doorway, eyeing Grady as if he were something strange and out of place, like a green grizzly bear.

“You’re not the one,” she said to him.

Grady, his face still flushed with anger, stared at her without comprehension.

“He’s not the one what?” Bret demanded of the woman.

“He’s not the one you said was coming,” she replied, something akin to censure in her voice. “He’s not the one you expected.”

Now how in the hell did she know that? Bret wondered, but he didn’t have time to think about it. “You’re right. Tomorrow my middle son comes. This is an unscheduled visit. Mrs. Gilligan, this is my oldest son, Grady. We’ll need a place to put him up tonight. Grady, this is Mrs. Gilligan, the housekeeper.”

“Pleased to meet you, ma’am.” Grady all but bowed to her. “Are you the little lady responsible for the savory brew I smell?”

She peered at him, uncharmed. “You were swearing in my kitchen.”

Grady blinked. “Beg pardon, ma’am. I’d just heard some bad news.”

“Ahh. You’ll soon hear more,” said Mrs. Gilligan, not taking her glass-green eyes off him. “But for every yang, there’s a yin. Many an accident happens, and many an accident will, or maybe it’s fate in a fright wig—who’s to say? I’ll go fix you a room. Don’t swear in my kitchen. Nobody swears in this kitchen but me.”

She turned and left, and the three men stared after her. “I’ll get more?” Grady asked, dumbfounded. “More bad news? Accidents? What’d she mean by all that?”

As if in answer, the kitchen phone rang.

THE INSIDE OF THE HOUSE YAWNED immense and nearly bare. It smelled of dust and mildew. Yet Tara’s heart sprang up in love for it, in spite of the must and shadows.

A cathedral ceiling, beamed with oak, soared over the front rooms. No wall divided the living and dining areas. Instead they flowed into each other, separated only by a free-standing fireplace of gray-white stone.

Still carrying Del, Tara followed Lynn through the rest of the house. The west wing contained a guest room, a sitting room, an enormous master bedroom and a bath fit for an emperor. A large office came with a modestly sized library room and its own half bath. Except for its dusty fixtures and shelves, this part of the house was empty.

Lynn’s and Tara’s footsteps echoed eerily on the slate floors, and Lono’s toenails went tap-tap-tap. He happily sniffed the strange new scents. Del, breathing heavily, was falling asleep, his head on Tara’s shoulder.

This wing would be Gavin’s private living quarters when he came, and Tara was already having visions of how she could make it rich and full of comforts for him.

The east wing, which would be hers and Del’s, held three good-size bedrooms, each with its own bath. The rest of the space had been engineered into a boggling series of spacious storage closets.

True to her word, Lynn must have hit every yard sale in Claro County. She’d pulled together enough used furniture and appliances to provide bare essentials for Tara and Del—and then some—even a washer and drier. She’d had all the utilities turned on and a phone installed.

Two of the east wing bedrooms each had a single bed with faded but clean bedclothes. Each had a somewhat battered dresser. Del was growing heavy in Tara’s arms, so she lay him down on the bed in the room that was his. Next to the bed stood a scuffed toybox spilling toys.

“Stay,” she told Lono quietly. The dog wagged his tail and leaped on the bed, turned around twice, then curled up snuggling against Del’s side. The look on his face said, “Don’t worry. I’m here.”

Tara gazed down at her son. “I won’t shut the door. He has—dreams sometimes,” she whispered to Lynn. “If he wakes, I want to hear him.”