by Cara McKenna
“For what it’s worth, I was surprised when he left town,” Nita said. “He loved you boys.”
Casey frowned. “You think?”
“Oh yes. He bragged about you both. Never within your earshot, but he used to come by to fix my old Pacer—Tom Grossier was the best mechanic in this town,” she added, and sipped her wine. “Was and still would be. Anyway, I’d bring him a coffee or a beer, and I’d mention whatever I’d seen you and your brother getting up to in the yard that day, and his face just lit up, every time.”
“What’d he say?”
“He always told me exactly how tall Vince was, right down to the half inch—like I didn’t see the boy every day with my own eyes. And he was always going on about how smart you were.”
“Smart?”
“Oh yes. About how you’d invented a new game, or taken something apart to see how it worked.”
“Jeez. All I remember is getting yelled at, for breaking stuff.”
Her smile turned sad. “Well, fathers can be like that with their sons. They can equate praise with coddling, I think—my own father was like that with my brothers. And Fortuity’s not the kind of town a man wants to subject a softhearted child to.”
“No, I guess not.”
“But come on, Casey. The suspense is killing me. What was the bad news?”
“I, um . . .” He lowered his voice, even knowing his mom would be tuned in one thousand percent to whatever crap was on the TV. “I found out that Vince and I . . . That we don’t have the same mother. Our mom isn’t his mom.”
Nita’s expression changed, but not as Casey might have expected. There was no puzzlement there, no shock. The realization hit him in an instant. “You knew?”
She nodded. “I did, yes.”
“Jesus.” He’d said it too loud, and she shot him a cautious look. He said it again, more quietly. “You fucking knew, all these years? Since when?”
“Since after I’d known Dee maybe a year or so. She and your dad moved here when Vince was tiny—just a few months old. No one had any reason to suspect she wasn’t his natural mother. But then when she was pregnant with you, she told me. You were her first and only biological child, after all. I think she needed to tell someone. Everyone assumed she’d already been through childbirth once before. That couldn’t have been much fun.”
“So who in the fuck is Vince’s real mom?”
She shrugged. “I honestly don’t know. Dee never talked about her much, except to say she was your father’s ex-girlfriend. And she didn’t think too highly of her—that’s for sure. Though how could she? She loved your brother like a son. He was her son. Imagining how another woman could ever give him up was beyond her.”
“How the fuck am I supposed to break this to Vince?”
Nita looked cagey, fiddling with the stem of her glass. “Do you think it’s even wise to?”
“You think I can just know this, just sit on this news, and not tell him?”
Nita studied the tabletop a moment, then met his eyes with her brown ones. “You have to understand a couple things, Casey. Firstly, that your mother loved you both—loved Vince as much as she does you, her own biological son, and even with Tom leaving her the way he did. And she still loves you both, in her way. But secondly you need to understand that Vince loves her, too, in spite of everything that’s happened. He’s sacrificed a lot to stay here, to take care of her, to provide for her.”
Casey felt his legs go leaden at that, guilt catching like an anchor.
“Vince might talk big about how loyal he is to this town, especially with that casino coming down the pike,” Nita said, “but he truly committed to Fortuity when he committed to your mom. He accepted that he was stuck here for as long as she lives, and at some point, he must have decided to make the most of it.”
And sadly, “making the most of it” in Fortuity amounted to menial jobs or physical labor for most people.
“But that makes it even more fucking unfair,” Casey said. And it made him feel like more of a world-class shit than ever, for not having been the one who’d stepped up and stuck around. “That Vince could’ve gone someplace else, been something more. But he chose to stay here, to take care of a woman who’s not even his real mother?” And if he hadn’t, it would’ve been down to me. And what scared Casey worst of all was trying to guess if he’d have done as his brother had. Manned up, been the good son. He honestly couldn’t say.
“Think about it this way, Casey.” Nita took a long drink from her now dwindling glass. “What do you think would’ve happened to Vince, if he hadn’t had your mother tethering him to Fortuity?”
“I dunno. And none of us’ll ever know, since he never got the chance to find out.”
She smiled sadly. “Your brother’s no saint, honey. Even with all these responsibilities, he’s been to prison twice, and jail more times than I can count. And that’s with your mom to worry about.”
Casey considered that. “So, what? You think he’d be even worse off if he wasn’t stuck caring for her?”
She made a noncommittal face. “No one can say for certain. But if he’s been as careless as he has, with the fights and the drinking and the questionably come-by cars, all with a major responsibility on his shoulders . . . I’m just saying, it wouldn’t have shocked me if Vince wound up serving a far longer sentence in his life, if it weren’t for your mother’s decline. I think that loyalty could quite easily have saved his life, in fact. Vince, more than most anyone I know, needs something to be loyal to. Take that away, and I don’t care to guess where his life may have gone.”
Casey felt sad at that—sad way deep down, enough to ache. He’d never thought too deeply about his brother’s motivations. Vince was an open book in most ways, so unapologetic there seemed no reason for him to keep secrets. Casey, on the other hand . . . He was used to serving only his own interests, and he’d done things he wasn’t proud of. He kept secrets not only because the truth could get him incarcerated for the rest of his life, but also because he knew in the back of his head, he didn’t want decent people—people like Nita or Duncan and especially not Abilene—to know about them. Though now I’ve got no choice but to do better. All his excuses had been obliterated by that one phone call. And more even than he needed to start doing better; for the first time in his life, he wanted that.
“So you don’t think I should tell Vince?” he asked Nita.
“Only you can decide that, Casey. But before you do, ask yourself what there is to be gained from him knowing the truth.”
What there was to be gained . . .
It was so fucking tricky, trying to be a good man. He’d have thought that being honest was the simple answer. That the truth was always best. But she had a point.
The truth would bring Vince, what? Pain and confusion, maybe a full-on fucking identity crisis. The knowledge that he’d spent the past decade caring for a woman who wasn’t his real mother.
But she cared for him, too. Raised them both the same, the best way she could manage.
And maybe . . . maybe, addled or not, she was entitled to her secrets, too. There was no dignity left to her anymore, no autonomy, no independence. Maybe she deserved to at least hold on to this—the myth that she’d raised a son good enough and loyal enough to stand by her, through every ugly turn her mental health had taken.
Why take that from her? Why taint Vince’s own choices and sacrifices by telling him the truth? The truth would only hurt him. Keeping it buried only hurt Casey.
And don’t I owe my brother just a little suffering, for how he stepped up when I wouldn’t?
“There’s a lot to be said for the family you choose,” Nita said softly. “You and Vince, you’re like my nephews. You’re the closest I’ll ever have to sons, and I know you know that.”
He nodded.
“And the fact that I chose to make you two hooligans a part of my life, and to see your mom as my sister, hard as things have been . . . In a way, that means more than the family you’re b
orn to, obligated through your blood.”
Casey nodded again, lost in thought. Lost in a singular thought—in the knowledge that there was a part of him that very much wanted to be able to point to Mercy, a year or two from now, and tell somebody, That’s my daughter. Not by blood. By choice.
He took a deep breath, feeling too much. And nowhere near drunk enough, frankly. There was only one question nagging at him, before he could commit to his choice.
“Did she ever try to get in touch?” he asked Nita. “Vince’s real mom?”
She shook her head. “I haven’t got a clue what became of her. All I really know from your mother is that she was young. Young and unfit. How, I couldn’t say, or even whether that was just your mother’s opinion. But no, she’s never made contact, far as I know.”
He sighed, feeling a hundred. “Guess Vince and Raina have even more in common than I’d thought. Wait a second—Vince’s real mother wasn’t Mexican, was she?”
Nita smiled. “I don’t think so.”
“Okay. Just making sure Vince and Raina aren’t, like, brother and sister or something. Though, thank God they never fucked.”
Nita rolled her eyes. “How’s Abilene doing, anyhow?”
Casey decided to spare her the finer details of the drama, saying simply, “Things are quieting down.” No sense mentioning the other mystery now plaguing the ranch; Nita was probably on track to go to bed happy, knowing Casey wasn’t crazy. Let her stay in that space.
“She and the baby are doing good,” he added.
“Lucky girl that she’s got you at her beck and call.”
He blushed, and bright pink to judge by the fever creeping up his neck.
“Oh, Casey—you’ve not taken up with her, have you?”
“Why would you even think that?”
“Because you’re red as a beet.”
“We’re not . . . anything.” Now, there was one heck of a lie—they were about sixty things to each other. “I mean, we’re not dating.”
Nita blinked dryly. “Oh well, that doesn’t leave anything out, now, does it?”
“We’re not. And I wouldn’t wish me on her, anyhow.” If he’d been too selfish to step up for his own mother, what happened if he got serious with Abilene and the going got inevitably hard with insta-fatherhood? Well, then they’d all find out exactly how closely he took after his old man, wouldn’t they? And that question scared him about as bad as those unknown test results had.
“What do you mean?” Nita demanded.
“You know me—my love life’s always been a fucking sideshow. Plus all the girls I date wind up being crazy, and Abilene’s perfectly normal. So maybe it’s just not in the cards.”
Her eyebrows rose. “Are all these ex-girlfriends of yours in junior high?”
He frowned. “No, of course not.”
“Then you’ve been dating women, Casey.”
“Okay, fine—all the women I date wind up being crazy.”
“Sounds like the common denominator might be you.”
Casey rolled his eyes. Nita smirked, wrecking her snooty poker face. Though actually, when he thought about it . . .
“If I am the common denominator, then it stands to reason I’m probably the last thing that girl needs in her life.”
“You’re not used to being there for people, are you?” she asked. “Not used to being the man a woman sometimes needs, when she’s struggling.”
“No, and that’s exactly my point.”
Nita smiled kindly. “You’re so unused to it, in fact, it seems you don’t even realize that’s exactly what you’ve become.”
He blushed again, brain scrambling to figure out if that was true.
“I won’t make a big deal of it,” she said, “but I’d be remiss not to say I’m proud of you. And how much you’ve grown, these past few months.” With that, Nita looked at her watch, then stood. “I’d better check on your mother.”
He eyed the microwave clock. “You just don’t want to miss Wheel of Fortune.”
She laughed. “Well, maybe not.” She paused halfway to the door, turned back to him. “Why don’t you join us, Casey? If you can spare the time. Vince and Kim are due back any minute.”
Seven thirty? He’d miss out on a hot dinner at Three C, but fuck it. Christine had freed him up until nine.
Plus, wonder of wonders, Casey kind of felt like hanging out with his family, just now.
Chapter 19
Miah dragged himself up the porch steps and through the front door close to eight, beat to the bone. His workday had started at six, after staying up until past two dealing with the previous evening’s episode with the burglar. And while he’d thought a steer caught up in a length of barbwire fencing—in need of disentangling and a visit from a vet—had promised to be the headache of the day, he’d been wrong.
When the animals caused trouble, that was just the job. But when it was people who showed up, looking to lend you a headache . . .
He’d swung by the house around three, in search of something to appease his growling stomach, just as an unfamiliar luxury SUV had rolled under the arch and into the lot. He’d paused by the front door, already knowing what it would be about, but praying he was wrong.
He hadn’t been.
The property scout—a different one than earlier in the week, though no less pushy—never made it past the porch, but he still managed to eat up twenty minutes of Miah’s time, hinting at outrageous figures but not producing any until Miah was on the verge of kicking him back down the steps. The man hadn’t matched his shiny wheels. He’d been well dressed but greatly overweight, and sweating in a way that no healthy person did, not in February, in one of the driest patches of the country. Miah spent too much time around animals to enjoy the interaction; he could sense nerves in a steer or a dog or a person, and they set him on edge himself. He’d wanted the man gone, and fast, but even forsaking the thinnest veil of courtesy, it hadn’t come quick.
“Maybe we ought to take this inside,” the man had suggested. Miah had suggested he was perfectly happy with his feet planted right where they were.
How many ways did you need to tell a person you weren’t interested? In the end the scout had written a number down, all discreet and conspiring, like he was letting Miah in on the deal of the century. And in truth, the number had given him pause. More than Three C was worth—acreage and infrastructure and stock included—and the guy had claimed he worked for a hospitality outfit, interested in turning it into a dude ranch. They’d way overvalued the place, for their purposes. Miah didn’t doubt that such a venture could do well, once the casino had tourists paying attention to this quietest corner of the state, but even so. The number had been ludicrous, if all they intended to do was throw up some imitation-rustic luxury cabins and hire horseback-riding instructors. Granted, eighty percent of the land in Nevada was owned by the government, but they could still find a decent chunk of property elsewhere in Brush County and build it all from scratch for a fraction of that price.
Ludicrous or not, no number scrawled on a business card could ever change Miah’s answer, nor his dad’s, nor his mom’s. He didn’t even need to consult them. The answer was no, and always would be, no matter how long they stood on the porch.
“That’s a shame, Mr. Church. A real shame,” the man had said, frustration finally cutting through his cheery magnanimity, reddening his already pink cheeks. “But you hang on to that card. How about that? Maybe run it by your folks?”
“Our answer won’t change,” Miah had assured him, but tucked the card in his pocket all the same. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got work to get on with.”
“Of course, of course. But you talk it over with your parents—Donald and Christine, isn’t it? And if you decide maybe you’d like to hear more, well my number’s right on the card. Morning, noon, or—”
And Miah had stepped inside and closed the door. Not aggressively, but firmly. He half wondered if the guy wouldn’t stand there talking to the
wood for another twenty minutes. It was no less pointless an endeavor than trying to win any of the Churches over.
The rest of the afternoon had gone to plan, at least. He was behind and much of the day’s tasks were physical, and by six he was exhausted and ready for a beer and a chance to put his feet up, except another wrench lobbed itself into the works.
One of the younger hands, Katrina, had found him in the stables. She was crying before he could even hang the coming week’s roster on the clipboard’s peg, and tears always stopped him in his tracks. Ranch workers weren’t soft people, and this girl had never been an exception.
“I have to go away for a while,” Kat had told him. “I’m going back to Layton to stay with my parents until somebody catches whoever’s been sneaking around at night. I mean, I hope you’d still want me back, after, but I can’t stay.”
He’d had to take Kat to the bunkhouse kitchen and sit her down with a cold drink and wait for her to calm—another fifteen minutes lost—but he’d gotten to the bottom of it. She’d been stalked by an ex when she was nineteen, and the entire situation with the camera flashes freaked her out, even if everyone thought it was a burglar. Miah couldn’t fault that. He made sure it sounded unlikely that this ex could possibly be the one who’d been coming around Three C, and promised her that of course her job would be waiting for her once everything was cleared up. He’d even carried her suitcases out to her car and made sure she had cash for a coffee and gas.
He’d waved as cheerfully as he could manage as she turned out of the back lot, but inside he’d felt miserable. Everything around here was a fucking shambles. Property vultures circling, creeps skulking around. Why couldn’t the chaos look like it usually did—brush fire, rustling, maybe a cougar sighting? Hell, he’d even take a listeriosis scare over all this human drama.
And so it wasn’t until eight that he found himself done for the day. He normally liked to grab a shower before dinner, but when he stepped inside he could smell that his mother had been busy, and suddenly hygiene could wait. He headed for the kitchen, surprised to find Abilene flitting around, not his mom.
