by Kaki Warner
Buddy was Suze’s husband, and through school, had been Dalton’s closest friend. A country boy in the best sense of the words, and a good match for Suze. Solid farm folks and hard workers, totally content to stay in Rough Creek forever. At one time, Dalton had thought that would be enough for him, too.
She gave him an assessing look, her gaze flicking from his scuffed prison shoes to his overlong dark brown hair and the too-tight shirt he’d been issued on discharge. “Gotten even bigger than when you got home from Iraq, I see. Bet nobody calls you Beanpole now.”
“Not lately.” Not after months of daily two-hour workouts. Another thing he’d learned in prison. If you don’t want to fight, look like you can.
“I like it. Even with that god-awful haircut, you’re still handsome enough to turn a girl’s head.” She winked. “Even one that’s happily married.”
He waved the comment aside, embarrassed, yet gratified that after being locked away with nothing but men for eighteen months, he still had enough polish left that a pretty woman would give him a second look. “Watch out, Suze. I don’t want Buddy gunning for me.”
The door opened and a couple came in. Tourists, by the look of them. Suze told them to sit anywhere they liked, then took Dalton’s order—bacon cheeseburger with extra onions, fries, iced tea, and a piece of Mellie’s lemon meringue pie for desert. She started toward the kitchen, hesitated, then turned back, a flush rising up her cheeks. “Look, I’m not sure if you heard, but Karla left. Moved to Fort Worth just after Christmas.”
“I know. She wrote to me.”
Suze looked relieved. “She talked about leaving Rough Creek all her life. The only reason she stayed so long was because of you.”
Dalton had no response to that. He hadn’t been surprised that Karla had cut and run after he was sent to Huntsville. Not many women as smart as she was would want to pin their futures on an ex-con. Still, he missed her. She’d been fun to hang with, even though he’d known from the beginning that she’d eventually move on.
His meal came in record time and was every bit as good as he remembered.
By the time he finished, the place was filling up with late diners, probably heading home after a local high school sports event. Spring football practice, or maybe soccer or baseball, judging by the uniforms. He recognized a few of the customers, but despite some curious looks pointed his way, no one approached him.
“How was it?” Suze asked when he went to the register to pay his tab.
“Best meal I’ve had in a long time. Especially that pie.” Seeing how busy the place was, he didn’t linger, told Suze to tell Buddy “hi,” then stepped outside.
A sense of hope spread through him. Maybe this wouldn’t be so bad. Maybe he really could put it all behind him and make a fresh start.
“Heard those idiots on the parole board let you out early,” a familiar taunting voice said behind him.
Or maybe not.
Dalton turned to see Deputy Langers coming from the direction of the sheriff’s office down the street. He and Toby Langers hadn’t gotten along since high school, when Dalton, a fourteen-year-old freshman, had taken over the older, smaller boy’s position on the football team. After Dalton’s arrest and while he’d been in county lockup awaiting sentencing, the taunting had only gotten worse. Not surprising, since Toby was the county commissioner’s local toady, and it was Commissioner Adkins’s nephew that Dalton was supposed to have killed. He had hoped the animosity between him and Toby might have cooled during his absence, but Dalton could see it hadn’t.
“Thought you’d have sense enough not to come back to Rough Creek,” Langers said. “’Specially now that Karla’s gone.” At one time, Toby had had his eye on Karla, himself.
“It’s my home, Toby.”
“Maybe not for long. And it’s Deputy Langers to you.” Puffing out his chest, Langers hooked his thumbs in a duty belt that boasted more paraphernalia than Dalton had ever carried as a grunt in Sandland. “I’m guessing you haven’t been out to the ranch yet,” he went on, rocking back on his heels so he wouldn’t have to tip his head back so far to smirk up at Dalton.
“Heading there now.”
“How?” Langers made a show of looking around. “You got a car? Oh, that’s right. You’re not allowed to drive, are you?”
Not strictly true, since his suspension was for only a year. But Dalton didn’t want to get into a discussion about it. “Thought I’d walk.”
“Probably wise. Hard for ex-cons to get rides nowadays. Best start now, if you plan to get there before midnight.”
Dalton turned and started walking, his jaw clamped on a rush of angry words best left unsaid.
“You be careful,” Langers called after him. “Lot of bad things happen on that road. But then, you already know that, don’t you? Be sure to give my best to your folks, in case I don’t see them before they go.”
Go where? But Dalton didn’t prolong the conversation by asking.
Luckily, he didn’t have to walk more than two miles before he heard a truck rattling up behind him. Spinning a one-eighty, he walked backward, facing the oncoming vehicle, his thumb out.
The truck slowed, tailpipe popping out a barrage of backfire that jittered along Dalton’s nerves and made him think of Iraq. He recognized the driver. Harve Henswick, an elderly man who lived two miles past his parents’ place and just over the county line.
With a belch of black exhaust, the truck rolled to a stop. The driver sat for a moment, studying him through the dust-and-bug-smeared windshield, then nodded.
“Thanks.” Dalton climbed in. Not sure if the old man remembered who he was, he stuck out his hand and was about to introduce himself when Henswick turned and gave him a hard stare.
“When’d you get out?” he asked.
Dalton let his hand drop to his thigh. “This morning.”
“Thought you were in for two years.”
“I got six months off for good behavior.”
“Well, then.” Henswick shifted into gear and gave the engine enough gas to make it shudder forward in fits and starts.
And that was the extent of their conversation for the next eighteen minutes.
Dalton watched ten miles of barbed wire fence roll by, broken by the occasional metal gate leading to wooden holding pens with loading chutes. In the middle distance, windmills slowly churned, their grit-scoured blades flashing orange in the lowering sun, while here and there, rusted pump jacks sat silent, their walking beams tilted down, heads to the ground like grazing horses.
The pickup began to slow. When it finally rolled to a stop, Dalton climbed out and shut the door. “Thanks for the ride,” he said through the open window.
“Tell your pa I’m still waiting for that ratchet he borrowed. I’d prefer he didn’t leave town with it.” Without waiting for a response, Henswick pulled out slow enough that Dalton was only mildly peppered with pebbles and black soot.
He stood listening to the rumble and pop of the truck’s exhaust until it faded and all that broke the silence was the rustle of the gentle breeze through new grass, the distant hum and whir of big irrigation sprinklers in nearby hay fields, and the skree of a hawk floating past on rising thermals. After a year and a half living in close quarters with almost two thousand restless convicts and shouting guards, the still openness was a balm to his battered senses. Even the air felt better.
Dalton closed his eyes and breathed deep.
Gradually the stink of sweat, disinfectant, rancid cooking oils, and harsh cleaners gave way to the familiar smells of alfalfa, cow and horse manure, and good old Texas dust, all underlaid with the faint scent of petroleum rising out of the abandoned wellheads.
It was good to be home.
He turned and walked up the drive toward the sagging gate with the familiar plank sign that read CARDWELL in faded gray letters. But as he drew closer, he slowed
to a stop and stared.
On the tilting post that anchored the gate was another sign. Smaller. Not familiar. Made of cardboard and carrying a single word in bold back script.
SOLD.
CHAPTER 2
“You’re leaving?” four high-pitched female voices cried in unison.
So much for minimizing drama, Coralee thought.
Dinner was over and they were on the veranda. Coralee had turned on the gas fireplace, as much for ambience as warmth. She’d already poured the first bottle of wine—another two were at the ready—and everyone was settled comfortably into the plush patio furniture overlooking the long, gently sloping lawn down to the rippling waters of Rough Creek. A lovely, relaxing scene.
Except for the astonished faces gaping at her. It was apparent Coralee’s carefully worded announcement had not been accepted as calmly as she’d hoped.
“Just to travel a bit,” she explained. “Walk the sands of Tahiti, as it were. Zip-line through a rain forest. Cruise past glaciers in Alaska. Whatever. Sixty isn’t too old to do that, you know.”
“Not alone, I hope.” Thirty-three-year-old Lennox gave her a look of concern. Living an insulated, wealthy, country club life in Dallas with her surgeon husband and two busy school-age children, Len thought dining alone—much less traveling unaccompanied—smacked of lonely desperation.
“I’ve always wanted to go to Tahiti,” Josslyn of the wandering feet said, surprising no one. Free-spirited Joss would go anywhere with anyone, as long it furthered her dream of becoming a country music star.
“Tahiti’s a fifteen-hour flight,” practical KD informed them. “With stops. Hawaii would be closer. They have nice beaches, and you wouldn’t have to take as many shots as you would if you went to a rain forest.”
Coralee battled a sense of loss. She still couldn’t believe her baby, Katherine Dianne—or KD, as she had renamed herself in high school—was now Second Lieutenant Whitcomb, recent West Point graduate, soon off to Lord knows where for who knew how long. Coralee might not see her for months. Years, even. It was too upsetting to consider.
“I think she should go,” Raney said. “Take as long a trip as she wants.”
“Naturally, you’d say that,” Joss muttered. “Then you’d have this big house all to yourself.”
Raney grinned and nodded.
“Oh, God!” Lennox bolted upright, eyes brimming. “It’s cancer, isn’t it? You have cancer and you’re trying not to tell us!”
“Cancer? You have cancer?”
“Cancer of what?”
“Hush! All of you!” From drama to hysteria. And Coralee thought the evening had been going so well. “Of course I don’t have cancer! I don’t have anything but a need for change. Good Lord!”
“Oh my God!” Joss clapped her hands in delight. “It’s a man! You’ve met someone, haven’t you?”
“Why is it always about men with you, Joss?” KD muttered.
“Who is it?” Len demanded. “Do we know him? Is he safe?”
“Lord have mercy.” With a weary sigh, Coralee rose. “Anybody else want a refill?” Amid a chorus of yeses, she uncorked another bottle of pinot noir, split it between four goblets—Joss still abstained, making Coralee wonder if she was planning a quick escape later—all the while assuring them that she wasn’t suffering Alzheimer’s, cancer, MS, ALS, or any other terrible disease, and had not turned into the town pump at the ripe old age of sixty—not in those words, of course. “I just want to have some fun,” she said, sinking back into her chair. “Try something different. Is that so hard to understand?”
“But what about the ranch?” Raney asked.
And there it was. The question Coralee had been dreading. She fervently hoped they would be reasonable and listen to what she had to say before they started overreacting. “That depends on what you decide.” Seeing their confusion, she explained their options. “We could sell it and put the proceeds into the family trust, rent it out, or keep it and let your sister continue to run it as she has for the last nine years.” She smiled at Raney, hoping to ease her anxious expression. “And doing an excellent job of it, I might add.”
Len frowned in thought. “Since I’m married, if we did sell and split the proceeds, would my share become community property?”
Coralee gave her eldest a sharp look. She knew that like most marriages, Len and Ryan’s had its ups and downs, but they’d always muddled through. That her daughter was voicing concerns about community property made Coralee wonder if she was contemplating divorce. “We wouldn’t pocket the proceeds,” Coralee explained. “Since the family trust owns the ranch, as well as the various accounts and funds that your father set up, the money would go back into the trust. And the only names on the trust are mine and you girls’. So, no, it wouldn’t become community property. All of us are paid a monthly allowance from the trust. Raney, you’re paid an additional salary as manager of the ranch.”
“In other words,” Raney said, frowning, “we couldn’t sell the ranch without breaking the trust?”
“I’m not sure. If you’re worried about it, Raney, check with the accountants and lawyers next time you meet with them. I’m as confused as you are.”
“But I don’t want to sell it,” Raney argued. “None of us needs the money, so why sell and risk having it broken up or subdivided? And what would we do with the horses?” How like Raney to worry most about her beloved horses.
“The ranch might not sell that easily, anyway,” KD argued. “Not on a cashout. Unless a big corporation bought it for development.”
“I’d hate that,” Raney said.
Lennox nodded. “Me, too. I may not ever want to live here permanently, but I like knowing it’s here, in case we need it.”
“For what?” KD asked.
“Financial security. Emotional security. It’s our childhood home, KD. Mama was born and raised here. We were raised here. Ryan and I got married out there on the back lawn. Losing it would be like losing part of our lives.”
Coralee watched them talk it over, hearing her own argument in their voices. She didn’t want to sell, either, and selfishly hoped they wouldn’t. But she couldn’t deny them that option if they chose to move on, too, so she remained silent.
After a half hour of what-ifs and if-onlys, Raney turned to her with tears in deep-set eyes so like her own. “Is that what you want, Mama? To sell?”
Coralee twirled the stem of the wine goblet in her fingers and watched the dark liquid swirl up the sides. “No. I don’t want to sell. I love the ranch, too. I love having it in our family. But I don’t want the responsibility of it anymore. Seems I’ve been tied to this piece of land forever, and I’m ready to try something different while I still can.”
Solemn faces stared back at her.
Coralee wondered what they saw. An aging mother suffering an identity crisis? Or an energetic woman not ready to give up?
“You could date,” Len suggested. “Maybe you’re just bored and looking for something to do. Why not start going out again?”
“I bet old Westbrook would give you another go,” Joss said.
Coralee almost shuddered. “Esterbrook. And I wouldn’t go with that man across an icy street in the middle of a hailstorm!”
“Why not? He seemed nice enough.”
“He’s strange.”
“Strange how? Like he cries at Hallmark movies?”
“Oh, I love Hallmark movies,” Joss said.
“Or strange like he keeps a shed full of doll heads and a shrine to his mother?” Raney had the most peculiar sense of humor.
“Why would he have doll heads? That’s creepy.”
“Laugh if you want,” Coralee scolded. “But the man has issues.”
“Like what?” KD asked.
“He’s too . . . touchy-feely.”
Joss nodded in understanding. “I
get that a lot, too.”
“It’s been nine years,” Len reminded her. “Maybe you’re just out of practice.”
Coralee sighed. “I thought that, too. And I tried. I truly did. But it was awful.”
Joss reached over and patted Coralee’s hand. “Maybe you need drugs. Or props. I read that—”
“Stop!” Raney shouted. “I’m calling an audible. Let’s get back to the matter at hand. Joss, do you want to sell?”
“No. I love the ranch. I loved growing up here and it’s a great place to raise babies. It’s been an island of tranquility in my turbulent life.”
“Good God,” KD muttered under her breath.
Lennox laughed. “Sounds like a line in one of her songs, doesn’t it, KD?”
Joss’s brown eyes lit up. “I know! I just thought it up. Do you like it?”
“Can we please get this settled?” Raney cut in before they wandered too far again. “Do we sell the ranch, or not?”
Lennox raised her goblet high. “I say we keep it, have Raney run it, and give Mama the best send-off ever!”
Joss seconded that. “Yay, Mama!”
KD held up her glass. “I’m in. Assuming Raney wants to keep running it.”
“I’ll have to think about it,” Raney said hesitantly. At their looks of surprise, she burst into giggles. “Of course I’ll run it! I’d love to run it!”
“Then it’s settled.”
“But . . .” Raney held up a hand. “Before we make it final, there are some changes I’d like to make. If y’all agree.”
“Such as?”
“Fewer cattle.” She explained that beef futures were unpredictable and hard to forecast, especially with all the Canadian beef coming in. Plus, the trend was toward organic, which meant lower weight and higher losses to disease. “I’d like to trim the herds and concentrate on a breeding program. AI is the only way to go, and prize-winning, proven bulls are money in the bank.”
Joss looked confused. “Artificial intelligence?”
