by Pamela Tracy
And when was the last time Daniel had needed a key to get in? He couldn't remember. Luckily, he found the one he needed under a fake rock in the garden, unlocked the door, and entered.
It felt wrong.
The silence.
At the very least, if the dog wasn't barking, his grandma's second favorite show, Jeopardy, should be blaring. It was second only to The Price is Right. During the last few phone calls he'd had with her, she'd mentioned the change to the new host and her wish for the return of the one she loved, Bob Barker.
His phone buzzed, and he swished it to on and checked the name before answering. "Hey, Dusty, I just walked in the door. I'm showering, and then I'll head to the hospital. I figure visiting hours are until nine."
"You sound better."
"I babied my tongue all the way here." Daniel had eaten only soft food and had gargled with salt at almost every stop.
"You made great time."
"I drove all night, pulled over in New Mexico and caught a few hours shut-eye, and then didn't stop until I got here."
Even so, he'd made it to Pecan later than he'd intended. Early this morning he'd hit Fourth of July traffic in every small town he'd driven through. He'd felt tense all the way, as if he'd needed to hurry.
"I've tried Luke's number twice," Dusty said. "I left messages."
Daniel stomped the dust from his boots and moved into the kitchen. Their little brother was running from a past he couldn't escape. Worse, he wouldn't accept the help his family offered. "I'll call after I talk to the doctor," he promised before disconnecting the call.
He poured himself a glass of water and went to the back door, opening it and calling Butterscotch's name.
The dog didn't come. His grandmother had always wanted a poodle, but when Grandpa was alive and so much was going on, they'd had shepherds, labs, and collies. Working dogs. Just two years old now, if Daniel remembered correctly, and a rescue, Butterscotch's only job was to be a companion.
Who'd gotten Gramma the apricot poodle? Daniel had a feeling it might've been Amy Benjamin, the woman who'd called him the day before, but all he remembered for sure was a happy phone call telling him about the dog. He and Dusty had visited a few times in the last year, and Butterscotch had always been at Gramma's side.
Not a very active dog. Not like Rebel, Daniel's dog all those years ago. Rebel had been a black lab who chased away the calf Dusty wanted to rope, who'd eaten Luke's favorite pair of tennis shoes, and who'd slept at Daniel's feet from the time he was eight until he'd turned eighteen.
Rebel died the first semester Daniel was away at college.
Closing the back door, he looked around the living room and in his grandma's bedroom. It would be nice to see the cat, not that the black and white fur ball ever came out when Daniel was around.
"She doesn't like strangers much," Gramma had said.
After feeding the chickens and filling Butterscotch and Peppermint's dishes on the back porch, Daniel went back to the kitchen.
He needed to fill his belly. That's when Daniel saw the cookies on the table, covered with a clear film and burnt to a crusty tar color. Not Gramma's then. Last time she'd burnt food it was meatloaf, and she'd been mad at Grandpa for not making it to one of Luke's soccer games. She never burnt the boys' food, not even when they fought against homework, wanted to skateboard on the back patio where the tiles easily broke, or got caught watching television shows she deemed too adult.
She thought ninety percent of television too adult.
He tried a cookie and almost broke a tooth. Nope, he'd grab a real meal at the hospital.
Man, he'd missed this place. When he saw the bannister, which, according to Miss Amy Benjamin, Gramma had broken when she fell, he mentally kicked himself for not making it back sooner. He ran his hand along the wood. It was probably original to the house and needed a little tender loving care, like his grandmother.
Thank goodness it had broken two steps from the bottom instead of two steps from the top.
His bedroom looked the same. The posters on the wall were Star Wars, and his desk still had video games stacked by a computer so outdated it probably couldn't get the Internet. His college diploma hung on the wall. So far, Daniel's degree in finance had only been used to help him keep afloat. He always managed his money so he'd have enough for food, lodging, and the next registration. His investment advice, however, had helped his twin, who not only had a nice bank account, thanks to his Top Cowboy status, but who now—unless he did something foolish—was prepared for the future.
Dusty couldn't imagine not rodeoing. It worried Daniel that he could.
Yup, Daniel was the brother who needed to come home, because Dusty's likeness was already on rodeo posters. Daniel couldn't compete with that.
He took a shower, chuckling that the bathroom was still done up in a Star Wars theme, and then hurried out the door, remembering to lock it behind him.
The drive to Texarkana seemed to take forever. Traffic was heavy, and at least a dozen cars slowed as folks waved at him, rolled down their windows, and shouted, "How's Shirley?"
"I'm heading to check on her now!" On this Fourth of July evening, he figured they were on their way to the church, where there would be a potluck starting and little kids would be running around with sparklers. Any other Fourth, and Gramma would be there helping serve.
Without meaning to, he increased his speed.
He'd been to St. Joseph's Hospital plenty of times, mostly for Dusty's assorted broken bones.
He parked in a half-empty lot—the Fourth must not be the most popular day for hospital stays—and headed inside. According to Amy, his grandma was in room 211. Walking down the halls, he noted the portraits on the walls—hospital leaders and community heroes. Not a single bull rider pictured. At the corridor's first turn, a sculpture of a growing tree greeted him, each leaf engraved with a donor's name. By the time he got to the elevator, he was questioning his role in society. For the last four years, he'd dragged from town to town and event to event. Off seasons he'd worked at a friend's ranch.
His grandma had asked him and Dusty to visit, but there was always somewhere to be, something to do, someone to see, money to be made.
It had taken Amy Benjamin's remark—"They're doing more tests. They won't tell me anything because I'm not family"—to wake him up.
His feet slowed when he got to 208, a few numbers down from his grandma. It was empty. His grandma didn't belong in one of these ugly, pale green rooms with cold tile floors and generic paintings on the wall. She belonged on the back porch, shouting over the noise that it was "Time to come eat!"
He made the mistake of glancing into room 209. An elderly man lay on the bed staring at the ceiling and moaning softly. No visitors were in that room, and Daniel remembered Amy's words that "quite a few from the church have stopped by."
His church family, both here and those who attended cowboy church, had never failed him.
At room 210, he stopped. Inside a woman silently wept while holding the slender hand of whoever was in the bed. If it weren't for the hand, the bed might have been empty, its covers merely tangled.
Feeling like he'd done something wrong, been some kind of peeping Tom, Daniel hurried to room 211.
His grandma's room was nothing like the other two. Gramma sat up in bed, pillows plumped behind her. She was laughing at something Lisa Templer was saying. Big, both in body and personality, Miss Lisa had been his third and fourth grade Bible school teacher, and he could never think of her as anything but Miss Lisa. Another woman, young, with the wildest mane of brownish-blond hair Daniel had ever seen, relaxed in a chair, her feet propped on his grandma's bed. A box of chocolates jiggled precariously in her lap as she too suffered from the giggles.
"Daniel!" Gramma said, sitting up.
Miss Lisa grinned. "The prodigal."
The young woman quickly stood, and the box of chocolate fell, sending candy rolling throughout the room.
"Oh," she muttered, "shoot
a biscuit."
It had to be the most polite curse Daniel had ever heard.
"Get over here," Gramma ordered.
While Daniel made his way to the hospital bed for a hug, Miss Lisa and the young woman scrambled around the floor picking up errant pieces of chocolates and returning them to the box.
"Let me see you."
"You scwared me." Daniel winced when both Miss Lisa and the young woman glanced at him. Great time for his tongue to act up again.
"You get hurt this time?" Without waiting for an answer, she turned to Amy. "Usually it's his twin Dusty. Daniel here can land on his head and say 'ow,' but Dusty, he likes to break something." Her gaze swiveled to Lisa. "Remember when Dusty broke his big toe over at the skateboard park while you were watching him?"
"I remember carrying him home because he swore he couldn't walk. Then, he saw you"—Miss Lisa pointed at Daniel—"practicing with your horse jumping over some box. Suddenly, he couldn't get out of my arms fast enough. Ran right over and climbed on the horse behind you. Healed, he was."
"I just bit my tongue," Daniel said. "It's a little swollen. Nothing serious. Day before yesterday. But I placed and earned some money." It had been enough to get him here, not much more.
His grandma smiled, but Amy Benjamin didn't. The expression on her face let him know she wasn't impressed, not with his boots, the hat he held respectfully in his hand, or his good looks.
#
Amy felt better now that Daniel was here, even though it was clear he was out of his element. No doubt, he'd be needing help. She'd give Miss Lisa a ring and suggest the woman give Daniel some advice on what to expect when Shirley came home.
Amy could tell him. She'd been her Aunt Abigail's caregiver for the final three months of her life. It had been exhausting, sometimes disgusting, and even more affirming than anything else Amy had done in her life. When Abigail died, Amy knew she'd made a difference and had made her aunt's final days both bearable and dignified.
Amy had grown—physically, mentally, and spiritually—during that time. In some ways, caring for Aunt Abigail had changed Amy from girl to woman.
Abigail's only other living relative, Amy's mom Jasmine, couldn't be found when Abigail died. Jasmine had never changed from girl to woman. And disappearing had always been her gift.
Yes, Amy could tell Daniel Starr what to do, but something about him made her nervous. Maybe it was his obvious joy at seeing his grandmother, or maybe it was the careful way he hugged the woman as if she were the most precious of things.
"Now that Daniel's here," Shirley said, "you and Lisa can head over to the church and watch the last of the fireworks."
Lisa was already gathering her things. She looked at Amy. "You coming?"
"I think I'll head home. I've got Butterscotch to take care of. He might be scared."
Lisa and Shirley exchanged a look. Amy interpreted it as The dog is afraid of fireworks. Amy is afraid of church.
Daniel nodded at Amy. "I'm glad Butterscotch is at your place. I wondered where he was." Then he quickly informed Shirley of all he'd done before heading to the hospital. He'd done more than simply toss feed to the chickens. As if he'd not been gone, he settled down on the edge of Shirley's bed and starting talking about watching Groucho, the rooster, catch a bug and feed it to one of the hens.
Shirley laughed, and Amy knew she'd done the right thing by calling Daniel. Neither of them noticed as she slipped out the door.
Lisa walked at her heels. "Are you sure you don't want to join us? The social's not even inside the church. It's in the back, more a picnic than a potluck."
"No," Amy assured her. "I've got things to do."
Since moving to Pecan, she'd formed the types of friendships she'd always only dreamed of. So what if most of her peeps were twice her age or more? They were the best kind of friends. On the drive home, she thought about Abigail, wished she and her aunt had met sooner, and wondered why Jasmine hadn't mentioned having a sister. Of course, Jasmine didn't mention family at all.
Abigail hadn't been much different. She didn't talk about her and Jasmine's parents except to say they'd been hard to live with and easy to leave. Aunt Abigail's early life had been a lot like Jasmine's, wandering town to town and taking one dead-end job after another. "Only without a kid, and I soon tired of it," Abigail had finished. Looking around the shop she'd owned for almost a decade, she'd said, "I stopped wandering when I turned forty and decided to make a dream come true."
That's how much she'd loved Craft Away the Day and the friends she'd soon made in Pecan, Texas.
Amy already felt the same way. She loved the friends she'd made, and she really liked Craft Away the Day.
Liked, not loved. But she hoped that would soon change.
Returning home, she parked in the alley behind her shop and hurried up the stairs to open the door to her upstairs apartment. Butterscotch brushed past her legs and down the steps, almost knocking her down.
"I let you out before I left to go visit Shirley," Amy reminded the dog as he hurried to a grassy spot next to the garbage cans. Butterscotch probably longed for Pecan Ranch, where he had a hundred and sixty-eight acres on which to do his business. Here he had five square feet, and she had to clean up after him. Ew.
Butterscotch trotted back to her. As he nudged her leg with his head, reassuring her that he cared, she thought about how quickly things, relationships, could change.
Three years Amy had been in Pecan, longer than she'd ever stayed in a place. And even after three years, Amy kept expecting to lose it all: her shop, her home, her friends.
Because somehow, she didn't deserve it.
Chapter Three
Tuesday morning, after a quick shower and breakfast followed by a walk around the block to get some of Butterscotch's energy out, they returned to Craft Away the Day. In her apartment above the craft store, Amy baked two dozen cookies before calling Shirley, who complained about the food, complimented her nurses, and said she expected company.
Downstairs, Amy turned the CLOSED sign to OPEN and stood behind the register verifying what cash was on hand before she did anything else. Butterscotch paced the store, not liking the smells. He clearly wondered why he wasn't at the Pecan Ranch and why Shirley wasn't next to him.
"It'll be all right." Amy felt a little strange talking to the dog, but Shirley talked to Butterscotch, and half the time, Amy thought the dog talked back.
Silly, Amy thought as she started what had become her favorite task: straightening up the displays. Really, she'd straightened up a bit last night when she got back from the hospital. It was routine more than anything, and Amy loved that she had been in one place long enough to have a routine.
Mentally, she checked off organize store before she started the coffee and turned on the computer. She made more money on mail order than she did one-on-one. The one-on-one, however, taught her soft skills. She needed to know how to talk to crafters. Some of them, like Miss Lisa, had been born sewing. Others, like herself, came to the habit late in life.
Not that twenty-two was old.
And, truth be told, she'd been old at sixteen.
The first customer, a regular, arrived at ten minutes after ten. No surprise. Carol Lamont walked to the store as exercise, bought one skein a day, used it while she sat at the store's back table. Come the next day, she was back to start the whole process over. Amy knew to keep lots of red, yellow, and orange skeins.
Once Carol paid, she sat at the head chair—her due as leader of the Nutty Knitters, as Amy dubbed them—and started crocheting. Amy took a cup of coffee as well as a couple of homemade cookies over to the woman, who barely stood five feet tall and had hair as black as a raven. Some of Amy's customers whispered it was a wig. Others claimed she'd been born with a full set of hair and lungs. Didn't matter. Amy liked her, and the store felt more comfortable once Carol arrived. A few minutes later, Carol's two best friends walked in. At almost six feet tall, Lynn Watson was the opposite of Carol. Lynn's hair was mussy
gray and thinning. She always wore a scarf over it. Because of the homemade cookies, Lynn thought Amy should open a bakery.
It would have been easier, Amy mused. She'd learned to cook before she learned to read. She'd had to, to survive. Baking had always been her way to escape.
Michelle Belmont was the youngest of the trio. She'd been in some kind of accident when she was young and walked with a slight limp. Her blond hair was turning white, and she wore it in a braid down her back. She was the same height as Amy, just about five foot five. Same build, too, curvy with a little extra to love.
The friends would sit and knit together for a couple of hours, offering free advice and sewing lessons to anyone who joined them, and then they'd go out to lunch. Used to be, their threesome was a larger group. Shirley Starr, when she'd had an easier time driving, had attended, and, of course, the mainstay: Amy's Aunt Abigail.
Since Abigail had passed away, the four women made it their mission to look after Amy, especially when it came to the shop. They made sure that anyone wanting to knit or crochet could stop by their table. Amy was figuring out the crochet stuff and had a shawl to prove it. As for knitting, well, finishing a project correctly was the problem. Amy had a knitted scarf that dragged the floor. Shirley, who was teaching her to quilt, experienced the most success, mostly because Amy was quite willing to crawl on the floor, aligning and pinning the batting under the squares. It was only when it came time to actually stitch that Shirley tried not to frown.
"Don't worry," Shirley had said more than once, handing Amy an alcohol prep pad to wipe her finger after the one millionth jab. "The Amish always make sure there are mistakes in their quilts. Only God is perfect."
Amy pretended to understand.
It hurt business some that Amy wasn't crafty, because she received calls for late afternoon or early evening instruction, and the Nutty Knitters were only available in the morning and some early afternoons.
