Texas Born

“Wow!”

He smiled.

“Then, you’re an American citizen,” she said.

“Our parents did the whole citizenship process. In short, I now have both Canadian and American citizenship.”

“My dad loved this Canadian television show, Due South. He had the whole DVD collection. I liked the Mountie’s dog. He was a wolf.”

He laughed. “I’ve got the DVDs, too. I loved the show. It was hilarious.”

She glanced at the clock on the wall. “I have to go. If you aren’t going to run over me, I’ll have to fix supper in case she comes home to eat. It’s going to be gruesome. She’ll still be furious about the stamp collection.” Her face grew hard. “She won’t find it. I’ve got a hiding place she doesn’t know about.”

He smiled. “Devious.”

“Not normally. But she’s not selling Daddy’s stamps.”

He let go of her hand and got up from his chair. “If she hits you again, call 911.”

“She’d kill me for that.”

“Not likely.”

She sighed. “I guess I could, if I had to.”

“You mentioned your minister. Who is he?”

“Jake Blair. Why?”

His expression was deliberately blank.

“Do you know him? He’s a wonderful minister. Odd thing, my stepmother was intimidated by him.”

He hesitated, and seemed to be trying not to laugh. “Yes. I’ve heard of him.”

“He told her that his daughter was going to pick me up and bring me home from church every week. His daughter works for the Jacobsville police chief.”

“Cash Grier.”

She nodded. “He’s very nice.”

“Cash Grier?” he exclaimed. “Nice?”

“Oh, I know people talk about him, but he came to speak to my civics class once. He’s intelligent.”

“Very.”

He helped her back into the truck and drove her to her front door.

She hesitated before she got out, turning to him. “Thank you. I don’t think I’ve ever been so depressed. I’ve never actually tried to kill myself before.”

His liquid black eyes searched hers. “We all have days when we’re ridden by the ‘black dog.’”

She blinked. “Excuse me?”

He chuckled. “Winston Churchill had periods of severe depression. He called it that.”

She frowned. “Winston Churchill...”

“There was this really big world war,” he said facetiously, with over-the-top enthusiasm, “and this country called England, and it had a leader during—”

“Oh, give me a break!” She burst out laughing.

He grinned at her. “Just checking.”

She shook her head. “I know who he was. I just had to put it into context is all. Thanks again.”

“Anytime.”

She got out and closed the door, noting with relief that Roberta hadn’t come home yet. She smiled and waved. He waved back. When he drove off, she noticed that he didn’t look back. Not at all.

* * *

She had supper ready when Roberta walked in the door. Her stepmother was still fuming.

“I’m not eating beef,” she said haughtily. “You know I hate it. And are those mashed potatoes? I’ll bet you crammed them with butter!”

“Yes, I did,” Michelle replied quietly, “because you always said you liked them that way.”

Roberta’s cheeks flushed. She shifted, as if the words, in that quiet voice, made her feel guilty.

In fact, they did. She was remembering her behavior with something close to shame. Her husband had only been dead three weeks. She’d tossed his belongings, refused to go to the funeral, made fun of her stepdaughter at every turn, even slapped her for messing up the sale of stamps which Alan had left to Michelle. And after all that, the child made her favorite food. Her behavior should be raising red flags, but her stepdaughter was, thankfully, too naive to notice it. Bert’s doing, she thought bitterly. All his fault.

“You don’t have to eat it,” Michelle said, turning away.

Roberta made a rough sound in her throat. “It’s all right,” she managed tautly. She sat down at the table. She glanced at Michelle, who was dipping a tea bag in a cup of steaming water. “Aren’t you eating?”

“I had soup.”

Roberta made inroads into the meat loaf and mashed potatoes. The girl had even made creamed peas, her favorite.

She started to put her fork down and noticed her hand trembling. She jerked it down onto the wood and pulled her hand back.

It was getting worse. She needed more and more. Bert was complaining about the expense. They’d had a fight. She’d gone storming up to his apartment in San Antonio to cry on his shoulder about her idiot stepdaughter and he’d started complaining when she dipped into his stash. But after all, he was the one who’d gotten her hooked in the first place.

It had taken more money than she’d realized to keep up, and Alan had finally figured out what she was doing. They’d argued. He’d asked her for a divorce, but she’d pleaded with him. She had no place to go. She knew Bert wouldn’t hear of her moving in with him. Her whole family was dead.

Alan had agreed, but the price of his agreement was that she had to move down to his hometown with him after he sold his very lucrative practice in San Antonio.