by Pamela Tracy
“And you’re what’s best for Robby?” Sunni asked.
“I am.”
Sunni nodded, leaned forward and said, “You’ve got no ammunition here, nothing to help your case, not even guardianship papers. Marcus’s family will have the law on their side. You knew Marcus was the father but never informed him, so basically, you’ve been raising his son without his knowledge or permission.”
“But Tisha—”
“Abandoned her son.”
“I took him when no one wanted him.”
“Don’t even begin to go with that argument.” Sunni tapped the letter from Lucky’s lawyer. “This is just the first step in a long walk that leads to how many people want Robby.”
“I…” Natalie stopped talking. Tears dripped down her nose. She’d spent more time crying this last month than she had her whole life, including when her dad sold off all the horses.
Sunni waited, her face a neutral mask of professionalism. It was just what Natalie needed. Tears didn’t win wars; lawyers did.
“What do we do first?” Natalie finally said, bracing herself. She had no clue what advice the lawyer would give. She just hoped there would be advice.
“We get your cousin Tisha to sign over guardianship.” Sunni picked up her pen. “What’s Tisha’s number?”
“I—” Natalie managed a weak smile “—have no idea.”
Lucky was back at Bernice’s after spending the weekend on the road. He’d gone to Vinita, Oklahoma. He’d already paid the entry fee, and he needed the purse. Plus, he was going stir-crazy hanging around Bernice’s place, waiting to hear from the lawyer and forcing himself not to drive to Natalie’s place. Then, too, he was feeling guilty about keeping a secret from his mother. She was still in Selena, at the end of what she called a two-week vacation. She’d be heading back to Austin next weekend. He needed to tell her soon. He needed to call his father, too, but not until he was sure.
He could only call the last few days educational. He’d learned that when on the bull, he indeed forgot everything else, so great was his concentration. Off the bull, he couldn’t forget Natalie and Robby Crosby. He remembered the way her hand automatically went to Robby’s shoulders, a protective move. He remembered how her blue eyes snapped, looking right at him.
And he remembered Robby, who he could clearly see now looked so much like Marcus.
His body had been at the rodeo; his thoughts were in Selena, but Selena wasn’t a paycheck. While Bernice served up breakfast, Lucky took out his calendar and started checking dates. At Vinita, he’d walked—okay, limped—away in third place. Respectable, yes. Advisable, no. He’d met up with Travis Needham there, and he and the rookie decided to travel together some. Made sense since Lucky’s new jumping off place was Selena. Still, the commitment also reminded Lucky of his last partner, his brother.
Where was Lucky due next weekend? Could he afford to miss a rodeo or two and deal with Natalie and Robby, or did he need the standings? Before he had time to make a decision, his cell phone rang.
“Wish you wouldn’t bring that to the table,” his mother scolded, glowering at the phone.
He checked the number. Finally, his lawyer. He excused himself. Ten minutes later, he returned to the kitchen, having reached an agreement with his lawyer and had a disagreement with his father. Bernice busied herself by pouring more orange juice. Howie Junior stomped off to get ready for school.
“You know what I wish?” Lucky said.
“That you’d done better than third?” Bernice guessed.
He had to grin. Trust Bernice to cut to the chase. Too bad she had the wrong topic.
“That Bernice was making fried chicken again tonight.” This guess came from his mother. They’d played the game before. Lots of times. Usually with Marcus. Never with their father. He’d found it a waste of time. “If you want to say something, say it,” he’d demand. If they didn’t manage to say the words in a certain amount of time, Henry Welch would put on his hat and be out the door.
Marcus tired of the game after a while, but Lucky never had.
“I wish things never changed.”
His mother nodded, and Lucky knew she was thinking about Marcus, maybe even thinking of when her two boys had been young and dependent on her.
“Things have to change.” Bernice handed Howie his lunch and ushered him to the porch just as the school bus pulled up out front.
Lucky looked out the window, at Howie running to the school bus. He and Marcus had walked to school or their mother had driven them. Big cities had the luxury of schools every few miles. Not so here in Selena. As a matter of fact, his mother had been bused to Selena from Delaney. She’d spent two hours a day on the bus.
“I never did homework,” she’d joked. “I always did buswork.”
When Bernice came back in the kitchen, Lucky pushed aside his breakfast and asked, “Bern, do you have any pictures of us, me and Marcus, when we were little? Say about four or five.”
“Ten, twelve or a hundred, probably.”
“Can I see one when Marcus was, oh, about three or four?”
“Can you? Yes. May you? I don’t know. Why?” She gave him a strange look and went to get a picture.
A moment later, Lucky studied the photo. She’d chosen one taken at his grandfather’s place. He and Marcus stood in front of a carpet-covered barrel. Marcus wasn’t looking at the camera. He concentrated on the practice barrel, and Lucky, who knew his older brother well, figured Marcus resented the time posing for the camera took away from the pretend bull. Lucky, ever the good son, looked right at the camera and grinned. Even at four, he was a poser.
“Mom, Bern, do you remember when we were this little?”
Bernice looked at Lucky’s mom and took the picture. “Of course we remember when you were little. This was taken when you were about four. I think Marcus was five. Am I right, Betsy?”
Lucky’s mom took the picture. A slow smile crossed her face. “Yes, I took the picture because every time my mother tried to get Marcus to stand still, he ran over and got on that barrel.” Betsy chuckled. “Your grandmother got so mad she stomped into the house and said she didn’t care if she ever got a picture of the two of you together or not. Somewhere, we have five or six pictures of Marcus standing on that barrel and you looking up at him.”
Yes, Lucky looked up to his brother, even during Marcus’s dark days.
Whoever loves his brother lives in the light, and there is nothing in time to make him stumble.
The Bible verse echoed in his heart as loneliness slammed into Lucky’s gut with a force that almost uprooted him.
He missed Marcus. Oh, how he missed his brother.
“Mom, tomorrow I’m meeting with my lawyer.”
His mother laid the picture on the table. “Why? Are you thinking that rodeo doctor could have done something more, that maybe Marcus needn’t have died?”
“No,” he said slowly, surprised that his mother jumped to such a conclusion so quickly. He almost lost his nerve.
“Lucas.” Bernice used his given name. Not a good sign. “Why did you want me to fetch that picture? You want to tell us what’s going on?”
“No, I don’t want to tell you.” He was still speaking too slowly, but he couldn’t seem to help it. “But I probably need to.”
And he needed for his father to be here, but per the three-minute phone call, Lucky knew that wouldn’t be happening yet. Henry Stanton Welch’s absence proved some things, some people, never changed. A few minutes ago, after he’d hung up from the lawyer, Lucky had called his father. He didn’t mention Robby. Lucky only mentioned a family meeting, an important family meeting, and when could he come?
His father’s first response was that the important family meeting should take place in Austin, and by his tone, Lucky knew that the word important didn’t impress one bit. Next, Dad got out his calendar and couldn’t decide. Finally, Lucky did what he usually did when trying to get through to his father. He gave up. Yet, in the long run, Luc
ky’s father would be mad at missing this meeting. No, come to think of it, his father would be more than mad that he wasn’t put in charge of the problem.
But Robby was not a problem; he was a gift. Every good and perfect gift is from above, coming down from the Father of the heavenly lights, who does not change like shifting shadows.
With that verse resonating in his mind, Lucky looked at the two women who’d stayed silent while he fought his memories. “I’m meeting with my lawyer tomorrow with and concerning Natalie Crosby.”
He got out of his chair and came to kneel on the floor beside his mother. “Mom, by any chance did you see the little boy Natalie had with her at the rodeo?”
“No.”
“Little Robby,” Bernice supplied. “He’s full of spit and vinegar. When he was a baby, his grandpa Leo would take him everywhere. Carried that baby seat like it was just another arm. I think he got three marriage proposals based on the way he loved that boy.”
“That boy,” Lucky said slowly, “is the spitting image of Marcus.”
His mother’s mouth opened, but no words came out.
Bernice’s eyebrows drew together, then her lips pursed for just a moment before she said, “Oh. Oh. Oh….”
She might have “oh’d” forever except Lucky took the picture from his mother and walked it over to Bernice. “Tell me I’m wrong. You’ve seen Robby since he was little. Tell me I’m wrong.”
“Oh, my.” She looked up from the photo. “I can’t quite grasp this. You think Robby is Marcus’s son? No, little Natalie and Marcus? I just can’t see…” Her words faded, but her facial expression didn’t. She did see.
“Yes, little Natalie and Marcus,” Lucky said. “Marcus has a son.”
A chair screeched across the kitchen floor and Betsy, a wild look in her eyes, grabbed the photo from Bernice’s hand. “Marcus? Marcus has a son? No way. We’d know.”
Bernice’s mouth was still open in a perfect 0. It looked like she wanted to say something. Silence didn’t sit well with Betsy. Lucky’s mom grabbed Bernice by the arm. “Why do you look so spooked? This cannot be true.”
“Oh, it just might be. What was I thinking? I remember seeing Natalie at the grocery store with Robby and thinking he was a good-looking kid. Why didn’t I realize where he got his good looks from? Oh, my. What are you going to do, Lucky?”
Maybe change my stupid nickname, Lucky thought. He sure didn’t feel lucky. He felt kicked in the stomach. All this time, his brother’s son had been living in the same town as his mother’s best friend, really only a stone’s throw from where his mother grew up.
“And little Natalie Crosby’s his mother,” Aunt Bernice repeated. “She’s a town favorite, you know.”
He knew.
Not exactly a hanging offense.
Just an annoying roadblock.
“How old is he?” Mom asked.
“Three, he’s three,” Bernice said. “I remember when Natalie showed up with him. She went away to college and came home a mommy. Remember? I told you. And I couldn’t imagine what kind of man wouldn’t step up to the plate.” She covered her mouth with her hand. The unspoken name “Marcus” lingering in the air.
“Robby. I have a grandson named Robby.” Betsy sat back down, as pale as Lucky’d ever seen her.
“And I’m going to find out our rights tomorrow, when we meet with the lawyer.”
Lucky’s mother slumped forward, her eyes closed. Dark circles huddled under her eyes. “Three years, and nobody told us. We need to call your father and—”
“Mom, we’re not sure about anything, the whys, the whats, the hows. That’s why we’re meeting tomorrow with lawyers. Let’s tell Dad after we have proof, something tangible.”
“Betsy, I’m still going to say that Natalie’s a good girl. I’m—I’m flabbergasted at this information. I cannot picture her with Marcus…”
“Marcus never had trouble getting females,” Betsy mumbled. “They started calling him when he was in second grade. His father and I, we tried to teach him right from wrong.”
It was like Lucky wasn’t there. Or worse, he was a teenager again. The irritable teenager who stood in his parents’ living room while everyone discussed his future. Which college he would go to; what he would major in; whether he should live in the dorm the first few years or would an apartment be better?
Marcus had endured the same and had packed up in the middle of the night, left, and didn’t call for two months.
Lucky’d disappointed them, too, but he’d been a man about it. He’d told his parents his plans.
Dad said not to let the door hit him on the way out.
This morning, Lucky’s mother had the same look on her face as she’d had that night Lucky had walked out. Disappointment in life, disappointment in her children.
Why couldn’t Lucky have found Robby in Timbuktu? Away from family, away from a family history that was so hurtful, where he’d have time to set things to right?
Probably because Timbuktu didn’t have a rodeo.
Chapter Five
F inding Tisha had become Natalie’s number one—no, number two—duty. Robby came first. While Sunni searched the Internet for information on Tisha, Natalie used her dialing finger.
Neither venture garnered much progress. Sunni found three Tisha Crosbys, none the Tisha they were looking for. Natalie found the few postcards Tisha had sent. Since dropping off Robby, Tisha changed boyfriends and addresses about every six months, but judging by the postal marks, it had been over a year since she’d last made contact. Natalie really didn’t have a single phone number. Using the return addresses and the Internet, in a week’s time, Natalie found and spoke to a movie-star boyfriend, a dentist boyfriend and, of all things, an animal trainer. He’d sounded nice.
The most recent postcard proved to be the most difficult to track. According to Tisha’s brief note, she was happy; he was wealthy. Natalie had an address and no name. At least on the earlier postcards there’d been names. It took Natalie three days to find a number. Judging by the clipped tones, Natalie figured Tisha hadn’t made any friends in this household. According to the “Livingston Residence” Tisha’d been gone for two months, no forwarding address, and please don’t call again.
At that point, Sunni made her next suggestion: hire a private detective to find Tisha.
Unfortunately, they’d only arrived at the decision yesterday. Today, Natalie and her lawyer had to meet with Lucky and his lawyer and hopefully delay any action.
Selena’s courthouse was the oldest building in town. It was a redbrick monstrosity, a facade that misrepresented the town’s size and importance. Natalie stepped from her car and pulled her coat tighter around her. Texas weather, ever fickle, had changed from warm to cold in the blink of an eye.
The chill seemed foreboding. The sting of the weather matched the biting fear that gripped her heart.
She saw her lawyer’s car, but, unfortunately, she didn’t see Sunni.
Robby was over at Patty’s, enjoying a day on the farm and getting dirty. Patty would feed him candy and let him follow her own kids around. He’d eat dirt and have a wonderful time.
“Are you all right?”
Natalie blinked. She’d been standing beside her car, not moving. And, wouldn’t you know it, Lucky Welch was now standing next to her.
“No, I’m not.”
“I’m not, either,” he said gently.
He didn’t look like a bull rider today. He looked like an urban professional. He wore light brown slacks and a white dress shirt. Over it, he had a too-small brown jacket. One that emphasized the broadness of his shoulders, the strength in his arms. He still wore boots, well-worn and also brown.
“Can we just stop this?” Natalie asked hopefully. “Turn around and pretend I never approached you?”
“No,” he said. “My mother’s waiting at Bernice’s. It was all I could do to keep her from attending. We need to come to some solutions today that work for both of us because I have to let my
father know all that’s going on, and the more we decide together, you and I, the easier it will be.”
“This day is not going to be easy,” Natalie predicted.
“It’s going to be a lot easier than if my father was involved. If he were involved, you’d need a more expensive lawyer, and I wouldn’t be using a man I love and trust who specializes in sports law.”
Sports law? Lucky Welch was using a man he loved and trusted and not a cutthroat? Natalie studied Lucky’s face. He looked sad, lonely, and maybe even wistful.
She wished she looked the same. She looked, felt, terrified, lonely and threatened. Not the combination she really wanted. But one she deserved. A moment’s desperation, a rash act, had culminated in this.
She turned and walked away. Lucky Welch, the preacher, may have been sincere when he asked, “Are you all right?” But he was also sincere when he said, “You’re going to need a more expensive lawyer.”
He was not on her side.
They met in a conference room. It was as brown as Lucky’s outfit and smelled like Lysol. Lucky’s lawyer, Paul Wilfong, didn’t act expensive. Lucky was dressed better than Mr. Wilfong. The lawyer wore jeans, a flannel shirt and boots that looked like they needed to be replaced.
Sunni nodded for Natalie to take a seat on one side of the table. She put a slim folder on the surface and sat beside Natalie. Before she could protest, Paul Wilfong was helping adjust her chair.
Sunni’s lips pressed together.
Wilfong just grinned.
If this were any other place or time, Natalie might enjoy the show, but if this Wilfong fellow was putting on a show, it had better not be to disarm them.
“Let’s begin,” Sunni said after both Lucky and Wilfong sat down.
Wilfong looked at Natalie and remarked, “You sure do resemble Tisha.”
Natalie felt Sunni’s hand gently pat her knee. Good thing, because Natalie didn’t have the breath to respond. Sunni said, “We’re here to talk about the custody of Robert Crosby.”
