THE HOMECOMING

by Maggie Shayne

  * * *

  Contents:

  1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16

  Epilogue

  © 2001

  * * *

  * * *

  Chapter 1

  ^ »

  Luke stood at the graveside of his best friend and mentor, the man he'd always wanted to emulate, and waited for the others to arrive—but they never did. The minister stood there, too. He was a small, skinny man with a road map of a face. He didn't wear flowing robes, though. The only things that marked him as a man of the cloth were the collar of his shirt and the Bible in his hand. It was a pretty day in Tennessee. Birds singing. Traffic rushing by. Flowers in bloom. Just like nothing had ever happened. Just like the greatest long-distance trucker in the business wasn't lying dead right now in a box about to be lowered into the cold womb of the earth.

  The minister looked at his watch, then at Luke.

  "Are you sure we're not early?" Luke asked. He'd expected hundreds to be in attendance. Buck was a legend. A favorite of every truck-stop waitress and diesel mechanic in seven states. His rig had been the most recognizable one on the road, all decked out with chrome, and more lights than a Christmas tree. Oh, it had been a showpiece. Buck's pride and joy.

  It twisted Luke's stomach to think of the way it had looked when he'd stopped by the wrecking yard to view the remains. Just a pile of twisted metal and shattered glass. Nothing left of its former glory.

  And now it looked to Luke as though there was even less left of its owner-operator. It bothered him that no one had come to say goodbye to Buck.

  The minister cleared his throat and met Luke's eyes. Luke sighed and gave him a nod. The preacher began to speak, but he didn't really have much to say. He read the Lord's Prayer, said how Buck had gone on to a better place. He talked about salvation. Luke listened until he couldn't listen anymore. Then he said, "'Scuse me, Reverend, but um … do you think it would be all right if I, uh…"

  The man smiled, new wrinkles appearing in his face. "By all means, son. Say a few words. Lord knows, you knew this man better than I."

  Nodding, Luke cleared his throat. He held his hat, a duck-billed green one that had a bulldog and the word Mack on the front, in his hands in front of him. "Lord," he said, "this man was one of the good ones. I suppose you know that already, but I want to make sure it gets said. He never passed by a broken-down four-wheeler on the roadside without stopping to offer a hand. He never left a hitchhiker out in the rain. He never left less than a dollar tip for a waitress, even if all he ordered was a cup of coffee. And there was never a better driver. Not ever. Why, I've seen Buck Waters perform acrobatics with his rig when he lost his brakes on a three-mile downgrade, when any other driver would have wound up jackknifing and taking a lot of people with him. I've seen him pull out of a slide on roads so icy you couldn't walk on them. I've seen him avoid accidents that would have killed anyone else, when ignorant folks pulled out in front of him or cut him off. In fact, he never did have a wreck—not until this one. Now, I know it doesn't seem like much of a legacy to leave behind. But it's all he had. And I sure hope you won't hold that against him. Some men just aren't cut out for settling down, raising families and all that. And just because no one's here today, no kids or wife crying at the graveside … well, that doesn't mean Buck Waters wasn't loved. He was. And it doesn't mean he didn't touch lives. Because he touched mine."

  Luke lowered his head as a flood of feeling rushed up into his throat and kept him from saying more.

  A soft hand fell on his shoulder. "That was very eloquent, son."

  He glanced up at the minister, pulled himself together and shook his head. "It's not right that no one's here for him. There should have been lots of people here today."

  The older man's brows rose. "Well, you're here." He paused a moment, deep in thought. "From what you've said about your friend, it seems his life was as full as he wanted it to be. Maybe so is this service."

  "No," Luke said, shaking his head. "Every man wants to think someone's going to miss him when he's gone. Every man wants to leave something of himself behind."

  Smiling very gently, the minister said, "No, son. Not every man. But it's pretty obvious you want those things."

  "Me? No. No, not me."

  The minister looked at the shiny coffin and smiled sadly. "Maybe this service is Buck's way of reminding you that you won't get those things in the end if you live the way he did. Family. Loved ones. Oh, I'm sure for him his life was perfect without those things. But maybe … yours isn't?" He shrugged. "It's something to think about, at any rate."

  Luke frowned but said nothing. A million disjointed thoughts were spinning in his head. Above them all was the voice of his mother, telling him he would never settle down, that he had been born with the wanderlust, just like his father.

  The minister turned again to the open grave and held one hand, palm out, above it. "Lord, we commend the soul of Buck Waters into thy tender care. May his soul fly on wings of angels into heaven. Amen."

  "Amen," Luke intoned. "Hammer down, Buck."

  The minister patted Luke again as he left. Luke spent a few more moments in the cemetery. Then he headed into the parking lot, where his rig took up most of the spaces. It gleamed like a gem, that rig of his. A turquoise-blue Pete, with a sleeper the size of a condo. Had a fridge, a microwave, TV and VCR. He could live in it. Hell, he did, a lot of the time. The polished Aluminum Bud wheels all the way around shone in the sunlight. On the side, in silver lettering, was his name. Lucas Tyrel Mason Brand, Owner-Operator. The rig was running, flaps on top of the twin smokestacks clicking up and down as if talking to him. You didn't just shut a semi down for a brief stop and start it up again like you would with a car. You let her idle. Let her purr. It was good for her.

  Luke climbed behind the wheel, closed his hands around its familiar shape. And he told himself he wasn't all that much like Buck. Sure, his life was on the road, hauling loads of goods from town to town, state to state. He didn't really have a home.

  But, unlike Buck, he had family. Well … relatives, anyway. His daddy's wandering ways had seen to that. The man had been married to two women at the same time. Fathered two kids on the East Coast and five in Oklahoma before he died in a hail of gunfire twenty-some odd years ago. Luke had no real memory of John Brand. His own mother hadn't been a wife at all, legal or otherwise. She'd just been a fling. And Luke had been the result of it. Still, John Brand's name was listed on Luke's birth certificate. And the old bastard had sent money, even come to visit several times a year until he'd been killed, according to Luke's mother. Not that Luke had much memory of the man himself, but his mother had always been very honest about it all. And when she passed last year she'd made Luke promise to visit his seven half siblings and all those cousins in Texas—the children of John Brand's brother, Orrin.

  Of course he hadn't done it. Hadn't seen any reason to. Until now.

  He drew a deep breath, sighed heavily. He supposed having relatives didn't really mean a hell of a lot if you'd never met them. Still, it was a daunting prospect. What was he supposed to do? Just pull the big rig into some stranger's driveway and yell, "Hi there, I'm your illegitimate bastard half brother."

  His mobile phone rang. He picked it up. "Lucas Brand Trucking," he said automatically.

  "Hey, Luke, it's me. How was the funeral?" The voice on the other end belonged to Smitty, one of Luke's favorite brokers.

  "Not too good, Smitty. But I suppose funerals aren't supposed to be."

  "Guess not. Look, I know this is a bad time, but I've got a load bound for Texas, Luke. And it needs to go out today. Can you take it?"

  Luke swallowed hard. Texas. Of all places. Odd coincidence, just when he'd been thinking about the relatives he'd n
ever met. "Where in Texas?" he asked.

  "Town called Quinn. It's in the neighborhood of El Paso," Smitty said.

  The words fell on Luke like bricks. He just sat there a minute, blinking in shock.

  "Luke?"

  "You've gotta be kidding me," Luke finally managed to say. "Quinn? You said Quinn, Texas?"

  "No, I'm not kidding. Why, what's wrong with Quinn? Look, the call just came in, Luke. I guess your friend Buck was slated to take this load today, but, uh … well, with the accident and all…"

  "Buck? This was Buck's run?"

  "Yeah. Is that too, you know, morbid for you, Luke?"

  Luke closed his eyes. In his mind he heard the minister's words of only a few moments before. Maybe this is Buck's way of reminding you that you won't get those things in the end if you live the way he did…

  Buck had never steered Luke wrong in his life. He'd been the father figure Luke had never had—had never even known he wanted. And crazy as it might seem, Luke had the feeling Buck was trying to guide him just one last time. It didn't make any sense to think that way. Hell, he wasn't even sure he believed in life after death. But … but he couldn't not do this. It was almost like Buck's last request.

  "I'll take the load," he said finally.

  "Great," Smitty said. "Luke, is there anywhere in particular you want to head from there? I can hook you up with an outgoing load if you want."

  Luke licked his lips. "Let's leave this one open-ended. I might, um … I might be staying there a while."

  He heard the surprise in the other man's voice when Smitty said, "Oh. Okay, sure, Luke, whatever you want. The load you're hauling out there is fertilizer. Pick it up at the Farm-Rite Depot on Eaton and Main. Can you find that?"

  "Yeah," Luke said. "I can find it." He hung up the phone, glancing back toward the cemetery and the grave of his friend. "Hell, Buck, I suppose you're taking it easy on me. Cousins in Texas are going to be a lot easier to start off with than a pile of half sisters in Oklahoma."

  Drawing a deep breath, he revved the engine, released the brake and slid the truck into gear.

  Halfway there, Luke decided it might not be a bad idea to call these poor unsuspecting cousins in Quinn, Texas, and let them know he existed and would be in town for a visit soon. He had a momentary bout of panic when the operator told him there were five Brands listed in Quinn.

  "Five?" He downshifted, cradling the phone between his ear and shoulder.

  He didn't have a clue.

  "Do you know the address?" the operator asked.

  "No. Only that it's some kind of a ranch."

  "There's a dude ranch…"

  "No, it's a regular ranch. Cattle, I think." He racked his brain to recall the name. His mom had mentioned it once, he was sure she had.

  "I have two ranches. Sky Dancer Ranch, and The Texas Brand," the operator said.

  "That's it. The Texas Brand." He swallowed hard. "Can you connect me?"

  Luke didn't know what to expect, really. The man on the phone, Garrett Brand, had been surprised but kind, and he'd seemed welcoming. He'd even given Luke directions to the ranch from the depot in town and asked him what time they could expect him. But Luke was still nervous. In his experience, in his entire life, the word family had almost no meaning. It was him and his mother. And sure, they'd been close, but in more of an "us against the world" kind of way. His mother had never let anyone else into their world. Friends, neighbors, they were held at arm's length. His mother had told him over and over again that they didn't need anyone else. That they would be fine all on their own. She'd been a strong, fiercely proud woman who couldn't seem to trust. And maybe that had a lot to do with his father, and maybe there was more to it. Luke didn't know and probably never would. But in his experience, family meant, "hands off." It was a tight, closed relationship that did not welcome outsiders.

  So when he pulled his rig into the dusty curving driveway, underneath the huge wooden arch that had "Texas Brand" carved into its face, Luke was totally unprepared for what awaited him.

  It had only been four hours since he'd made that phone call. Yet a huge banner was draped from the wide front porch of the white ranch house. "Welcome Luke" was hand-painted in crooked letters across its face. Between that and the place where he brought his rig to a stop there must have been twenty people milling around amid picnic tables loaded with food.

  His throat tightened up a little as he shut the rig down, opened his door and climbed out. When he looked up, a big man stood in front of him, wearing a ten-gallon hat and a warm smile. He reached out and clasped Luke's hand. "I'm Garrett," he said. "Welcome to the family, Luke." His grip was firm and dry, and he shook Luke's hand with enthusiasm.

  Luke shook his head. "I didn't expect all this," he said. "You shouldn't have gone to all this fuss."

  "Hey, it isn't every day we get a new member of the family," a dark-skinned man said. He grinned and nodded toward the woman on his arm, whose belly was swollen. "Although in a few months, we'll be getting a couple more, right, Elliot?"

  Across the way another man, this one with reddish-brown hair, hugged his own woman to his side, and she, too, looked to be expecting. "Right you are, Wes. Three months, two weeks and three days, if Doc's accurate."

  Wes shook Luke's hand, introducing his wife, Taylor, and then Elliot followed suit, along with his wife, Esmeralda. The next man to come up to him was as big as Garrett, but blond, and his wife was a bit of a thing named Penny, who cradled a baby boy in her arms. Then there were the handsome Adam and his wife Kirsten, who looked to Luke like they should be modeling western wear in a magazine. And then there was a fellow named Lash and his wife Jessi.

  Finally yet another woman parted the crowd to bring two kids front and center. A strapping boy of six or so, and a little girl who couldn't have been more than three, stood right in front of Luke. The woman said, "I'm Chelsea, Garrett's wife. This is my son, Bubba, and Jessi's little girl, Maria-Michelle. And they have something for you."

  His head spinning, Luke hunkered down to more of a level with the kids. The little girl was just as pretty as a picture, and she held up a box to him. The little boy unfolded a piece of paper, and everyone around went silent as he cleared his throat.

  "In our family, we have one rule

  Bigger than all the rest,

  Family comes first, and family is best!

  So welcome to our family,

  We're happy that you came.

  But you need just one more thing

  That goes with the family name."

  The little boy looked up shyly. "I wrote it myself. Mom helped."

  "I don't know when I've heard a nicer poem, Bubba. Thanks."

  The little girl shoved the box at him and said, "I helped whap it! I put on the bow!"

  "And a beautiful bow it is," Luke said, taking the package. He opened it carefully, sticking the bow to his shirt pocket and seeing the little girl smile even wider. Then he took the lid off the box to find a soft brown Stetson hat inside.

  He swallowed hard, taking it out of the box and turning it slowly, admiring its perfect shape and its hand-tooled leather band. "This is just … too much. You guys are…"

  "Put it on!" Bubba said. Luke looked at the men around him. Most of them wore hats like this one, the colors varied, of course. Slowly he took off his Mack hat and replaced it with the Stetson. Then he straightened.

  A whoop went up, and then everyone was talking at once, slapping his back and tugging him toward the food. Someone turned on some country music. He smelled barbecue and smoke. And he felt … hell, he couldn't say just what he felt. It was as if his heart were swelling up in his chest. He hadn't known he could have this. He still couldn't believe it was for real. That these people wouldn't all just finish the show they were putting on for him and then send him on his way, and that would be the last he ever heard from them.

  He was wrong about that, of course. Three months later he was still there, and for the first time in his life, he was part of
a huge, open-armed, loving, real, honest-to-goodness family. And every night before he went to sleep, he whispered his thanks to his old friend Buck Waters for somehow leading Luke to what Buck himself had never had.

  * * *

  Chapter 2

  « ^ »

  Jasmine did not like having her son anywhere near the dive where she waited tables and occasionally danced on them. She didn't even like having Baxter in this part of Chicago. But once again, her low-life boss had forgotten to mail her paycheck, along with her roommate's, so she'd had no choice but to stop and pick them up. She pulled the car into the employee parking area in the back. There was not another vehicle in sight, and she considered that a good thing, given the kinds of people who tended to congregate at The Catwalk. Of course, most of them would be comatose at this time of the morning. Sighing, she turned to Baxter.

  He sat in the passenger seat, looking up at her through the round lenses of his glasses. Seven years old, and already his teachers were suggesting he skip ahead a grade. He was fully smart enough to understand why he should do as she told him. He seldom did, however.

  "Now listen to me," she said, and she made her voice as stern as it had ever been when speaking to her reason for being. "I have to get my paycheck so we can stop at the bank on the way to school and get you some cash for that end-of-the-year field trip today. All right?"

  He nodded, pushing his glasses up on his nose with his forefinger. "And you have to get Aunt Rosebud's check, too."

  "I know."

  "And her bag, too, Mom. Don't forget her bag," he reminded her.

  "I won't forget." She touseled her son's hair. "Your crazy Aunt Rosebud would forget her own head if it wasn't attached, wouldn't she?"

  He giggled. "Nobody could forget their head," he said, though he was smiling. "But, yeah, she sure does forget things a lot."

  Yes, she did. But last night, at least, she'd had reason for her customary absentmindedness. Jasmine's roommate had received a phone call last night from a lawyer, telling her that her mother had died shortly after she'd taken off. He'd been searching for Rosebud ever since. And even though Rosebud hadn't seen the woman in two years, the news had still hit her hard. Jasmine wanted to help, but she didn't know how. She and Rosebud were more like sisters than roommates. They worked together, lived together, shared their car, their expenses … even Baxter. Before Rosebud, Jasmine had never been willing to let any other human being into her world. It was just her and her son—no one else needed, wanted or welcome, thank you very much. But Rosebud had somehow worked her way into Jasmine's heart. It was good to have a friend. Someone you could trust. And it drove Jasmine crazy that she hadn't been able to ease the pain in Rosebud's eyes last night. "Mom?"