by Kaki Warner
Raney rolled her eyes. “Artificial insemination.”
“The gift that keeps giving,” KD said with a snicker.
“Turkey-baster ranching. It sounds so . . . festive.”
More giggles.
Coralee decided not to open another bottle.
Raising her voice over the laughter of her sisters, Raney continued, “And I also want to focus more on horses. Cutting horses.”
“No surprise there,” KD said.
Raney lost patience. “Do you know what a champion stud can earn? Maybe a million dollars. One horse. Think of what a stableful would bring.”
That sobered them up.
“We’d have to invest in young stock with strong bloodlines. And good trainers. But the sale of the cattle would cover most of that. What do you say?”
They liked it. While they discussed appropriate names for these champion stallions and mares Raney would breed, Coralee sipped from her glass. A mother’s pride added to the warm tingle in her throat as she watched her daughters laugh and tease and make plans for a future that seemed to stretch forever. She had done well. They were all good, strong women. Charlie would have been proud.
Her gaze swept over their lovely faces, each different from the other, and each beautiful in her own way. Lennox, so smart and chic and forgiving—she’d had to be with a husband like Ryan. Raney, the son they’d never had, capable and efficient and so beautiful she still had men trailing after her like lost puppies. Little KD, destined for a life Coralee could only imagine. And Joss, the family wild child, chaser of rainbows and butterflies, heading into the greatest adventure of all.
How she loved them.
As if sensing her mother’s gaze, Joss turned and looked at her. “What?” When Coralee just smiled, Joss’s puzzlement gave way to a grin. “You know.”
Raney looked from one to the other. “Knows what?”
“Why Joss wasn’t drinking tonight,” Len answered.
“Joss wasn’t drinking?”
“How did you know?” Joss asked Coralee.
“She always knows,” Len said. “She knew about both of mine before I did.”
Raney gaped at her little sister. “You’re pregnant?”
“Almost four and a half months! I’m surprised you couldn’t tell!”
“I thought you were a little curvier,” KD said. “Not surprising, considering the amount of food you put away at dinner.”
“I’m eating for two,” Joss said defensively.
“And doing a damn good job of it.”
Questions flew across the room—“Who’s the father?” “Are you getting married?” “What about your music?”
“It doesn’t matter who the father is, it’s my baby. So no, I’m not getting married. And I can work on my music here while I wait for the baby to arrive.”
“Here?” Raney almost choked on the word.
“Yes! It’ll be fun! Just like when we were growing up!”
Coralee understood Raney’s panic. No doubt she was remembering all the broken rules, missed curfews, forgotten promises, and general chaos that followed her little sister like a trail of dust.
“And after?” Raney asked Joss. “If you go back to touring with Crystal, do you plan on leaving the baby here?”
“Of course not! I know it won’t be easy, but I won’t leave my baby behind. And I don’t want to go through this alone. Mama, promise me you’ll come back.”
“Yes, promise!” Raney insisted with a steely-eyed look.
Coralee smiled. “I promise I’ll try.”
“Wonderful! Mark it down, everyone! We’ll all meet here in September to welcome the new baby and hear all about Mama’s grand adventure! It’ll be such fun!”
* * *
* * *
His mother came out onto the porch as Dalton came up the weed-choked gravel walk. “Sonny,” she said.
“Hi, Mom.” Dalton climbed the stairs and gave her a hug. She felt so small and fragile in his arms he was afraid if he squeezed too hard he might break something. “It’s good to see you.”
Always uncomfortable with displays of affection, even with her own family, his mother pulled back first. “Sorry we didn’t come get you.”
“That’s okay. It’s a long drive. Where’s Dad?”
“Inside.”
Something in her face alerted him. “Is he sick?”
She shook her head, sending wisps of gray hair fanning her wrinkled cheeks. “Tired, mostly. And ashamed.”
She looked tired, too, Dalton thought. And a lot older than when he left. Was his absence allowing him to see changes that had been coming a long time? Or had something happened while he was gone?
“Ashamed, why?” he asked. Surely not about what happened a year and a half ago? Dalton thought they’d gotten past all that.
“For selling the place. And for not talking to you before he did.”
“Why didn’t he?” Dalton tried to keep an edge from his voice.
She shrugged her thin shoulders. Looked past him into the distance. “He had no choice, sonny. Selling was the right thing to do.”
Dalton thought of the smirk on Langers’s face when he said this might not be his home for long. “You weren’t being pressured, were you?” He hoped the county commissioner’s fury at him hadn’t spilled over onto his parents.
“Commissioner Adkins has been a bother, but that’s not the main reason for selling. Dad will explain it all.” There was a pause, then she said, “You heard Karla moved to Fort Worth?”
“I know.” Surely that wasn’t the biggest news in his absence. “She wrote me.”
“Never figured she’d stay in Rough Creek.”
“I didn’t, either.” And he was tired of talking about it.
“All right, then.” She motioned toward the sagging structure behind the house. “Timmy’s in the barn, unloading bales off the harrow bed. Give him your hellos while I fix some iced tea. Then you and Dad can talk.”
His parents had been in their late thirties when Dalton was born. Mom had given up on having children and often called him her miracle baby. Then eleven years later, Timmy had come along. Another miracle, since it was a difficult birth with complications for both her and the baby. Timmy had a long recovery and seemed slow to flourish. By the time he was four and barely beginning to talk or walk, they knew he would remain childlike forever. The doctor said that sometimes happened with difficult, late-in-life pregnancies. Mom didn’t care. Even if Timmy’s intellect never rose above the early-elementary-school level, Mom still saw him as another miracle baby.
Dalton didn’t care, either. Timmy was easy to love, and the most joyful, playful, kindhearted person he had ever known. But his brother was over twenty now, and almost as big as Dalton at six-two and close to two hundred pounds. He might be too much for his aging parents to handle.
“Dalton!” Timmy shouted when he saw his big brother coming down the center aisle of the barn. “You came back!”
“I did.”
After a vigorous reunion that involved a lot of hugging, laughing, arm-punching, and more hugging, Dalton was able to hold his brother at bay long enough to take a full breath. “I missed you too, buddy. But no more hitting. Even between us. Remember, we talked about that.”
“Yeah. Okay. No more hitting. I remember. No hitting.”
“Good man.” Dalton gave his brother’s shoulder a gentle squeeze. “I see Dad’s letting you run the harrow bed.” He eyed the crooked alfalfa bales leaning at an angle against the log support posts that were intended to keep the stack from tipping over.
“But not on the road,” Timmy stated with firm emphasis as he shook his head. “Dad says not to go on the road. I have to stay in the pasture or the field. Not on the road.”
“He’s right. You listen to Dad.”
“Yeah.
Okay.”
Dalton reminded himself to check the tractor later to make sure the fuel and hydraulic levels were where they should be. “You like working the harrow bed?”
“Yeah.” More nodding. “Dad says I do good, maybe I can run the tractor again. But not on the road. I can’t go on the road.”
They talked for a few minutes longer, then Timmy said, “I have to go now, Dalton. I have work to do. Important work, Dad says. Maybe now you came home, you can work with me. Okay?”
“We’ll see.”
His parents were waiting for him in the front room they called the parlor, which served as both the den and living room in their small, century-old, wood-sided farmhouse. At Mom’s insistence, Dad had added on a laundry room and second bathroom a decade earlier, but when she pushed for a den and porch across the back, he said he had neither the time nor money to invest in “beautification projects” and that put an end to it. Now it didn’t matter anymore. The new owners would likely bulldoze the house and build something bigger and more modern. Rich city folks, probably. Looking to play at cattle ranching while earning a fat tax write-off on a fancy weekend home. Poor people couldn’t afford to work a place smaller than a half section anymore. The only way his folks had lasted so long was because they owned the land and everything on it free and clear.
“I see you made it through,” his father said from his recliner when Dalton settled into the chair next to Mom’s usual spot on the couch.
“I did.”
“Gained some weight.”
“Easy to do on prison food.”
“I’ll make up a big pot of chili tomorrow,” his mother promised.
“That’d be great.”
Silence.
His folks had never been talkers, but Dalton could see his father had something on his mind, and the best way to get Harold Cardwell talking was to sit tight and wait him out.
“I guess you saw we sold the place,” his father said after a while.
Dalton nodded.
“We had no choice,” Mom put in with a sidewise glance at Dad.
“How come?” Dalton asked.
“It’s Timmy.” His father sighed and shook his head. “The boy needs schooling. We won’t be around to take care of him forever.”
That feeling of alarm returned. Was his father sick? Was there something they weren’t telling him?
“We found a place for him,” his mother assured Dalton, misreading his alarm. “A group home in Plainview, close by a little house we’re thinking to buy. A place where he can learn to be more self-sufficient.”
The idea was so alien to Dalton he couldn’t respond.
Years ago, his folks had talked about finding a school for Timmy. But the closest was eighty miles away and required he live there. They wouldn’t do that.
“Timmy is family,” Dad had said. “And we take care of our own. He’ll be happier here with us, and Mom can teach him. She’s already talked to the social services folks and they’re sending out books to help.” And that put an end to it.
Now they were talking about putting Timmy in a home and moving over a hundred miles away? Was he to lose his family as well as the ranch?
“Truth is, the boy’s getting too much for us,” his father went on. “He’s restless. Wants to do things we can’t teach him.”
“I could have helped out.”
His mother shook her head. “You got to make your own way, sonny. Besides, Timmy needs similar folks around him. Friends who understand him and don’t look at him funny. I’ve taught him all I can. But there are teachers at this home who can show him how to care for himself. Maybe teach him a trade. Selling the ranch will pay for that. And we’ll be close by if he needs us.” She looked at Dad for confirmation. He nodded.
Another long silence while Dalton tried to digest all these plans that had been formed and set in motion without him. Good, reasonable plans, maybe. But they were coming so fast he could hardly keep up.
His father said, “You’re probably thinking we should have talked all this over with you first.”
Dalton was thinking exactly that. But he doubted talking it over would have changed anything. The cattle market being as erratic as it usually was, it was getting harder and harder to keep a small ranch going. Dad did look worn out. Mom, too. They deserved some ease, and Timmy did need specialized training.
Dalton understood all that. Still, the idea of giving up the ranch that had been home to the Cardwells for three generations left an empty place inside. And the thought of putting Timmy in a home made it feel even emptier.
And yet . . .
As Dalton pondered the loss of the home place and the breakup of his family, a sense of release gradually spread where that emptiness had been. It would be good to get out from under the burdens the ranch brought. If they sold, he could plot his own path, rather than following in the footsteps of his father and grandfather. And if Timmy could be happily situated in a safe place where he could learn to be independent, that would be good, too, and might allow Dalton to do something different. Something he’d had on the back burner for a long time.
“Well,” his father said. “The final papers haven’t been signed yet. I suppose if it’s important to you, we could take some time to talk it over.”
Dalton shook his head. “The ranch belongs to you and Mom. You need to do what’s right for yourselves and Timmy. If selling is the right thing, then I’ll back you all the way.”
Saying the words aloud brought a finality that wasn’t as troubling as Dalton thought it’d be. A place of his own. A job more to his liking. A new start. That feeling of hope built again as possibilities raced through his mind.
Dad let go a long, deep breath. He glanced over at his wife of nearly sixty years, whose eyes were shimmering with unshed tears. Yet they both looked relieved. And maybe a little happy, despite the changes to come.
Mom smoothed her apron and stiffened her back. “All right, then. Now that that’s decided, alls we have left to figure out is what you’re going to do, sonny.”
Dad nodded. “After everything’s taken care of and we get Timmy settled, we might be able to help out if you wanted to start up something on your own.”
“Thanks, but I’ll be okay. All I need is a strong back, an even temperament, a lot of time, and a little luck.” Seeing his parents’ quizzical look, Dalton gave a big smile. “Who knows? Maybe I’ll hook up with a rich heiress or win the lottery. Or if that doesn’t pan out, I know I’d make a hell of a horse trainer.”
CHAPTER 3
After the sale of the ranch was finalized and the papers signed, the hard work of disposing of a hundred years of accumulated crap began. But first, in case Deputy Langers decided to make an issue of it, Dalton renewed his driver’s license and checked in with the parole board. He also got a haircut and threw out his prison shoes and all his too-small clothes and got some shirts and jeans that fit.
Then he set to work.
He spent the next few weeks helping his parents prepare for their move to Plainview, packing up his and Timmy’s stuff and dealing with ranch issues. They donated the older horses and extra tack to the local 4-H, found deserving homes for the working horses, and auctioned off the cattle to the local slaughterhouse. After dumping the usable ranch equipment at fire-sale prices, they called in the scrap metal dealer to cart off what was left.
Timmy took the sale of the tractor harder than the loss of his home, but after Dalton let him drive it around the north pasture for what seemed like half a day, he climbed off, gave the oversized rear tire a pat, whispered a tearful good-bye, and waved it out the gate.
Luckily, his parents had already started packing up their personal and household belongings, so Dalton focused on the tools and equipment. After a month of culling and sorting, they were down to items they would keep, those they would sell, and a dozen trips to the dump. Dalton wa
s amazed at the stuff a family could accumulate and resolved to keep his own life unburdened by things he didn’t use or need.
On a bright Thursday morning in late April, he polished his boots, put on a set of new clothes, knocked the dust off his summer Stetson, then drove through the gate in search of a job. Since there were several fine quarter horse breeding and training outfits nearby, he decided to try locally first. With that in mind, he drove east out of Rough Creek toward the top ranch in the county, Whitcomb Four Star. If he couldn’t sign on there, he’d head on toward Fort Worth, or if necessary, up into Oklahoma.
The Whitcomb place wasn’t the largest ranch in the area, but it had a reputation for breeding fine stock that made decent showings on the Texas and Oklahoma reining and roping circuit. Since he’d returned, Dalton had heard they were expanding to include cutting horses. If so, they might be looking for trainers.
He had ridden in a couple of shows several years ago and had great admiration for the cutting horse. But his real talent lay in understanding the animal and knowing how to bring out the best the horse had to offer. He didn’t follow a set training formula, but relied more on feel and instinct, working each animal according to its temperament, ability, and trainability. He’d been told he had the touch. He wasn’t sure what that was, but he had a fair understanding of how the minds of horses worked, and they always seemed to respond well to him.
He’d never been to Whitcomb Four Star, and as he drove down the long drive, he was impressed by what he saw. He knew that in addition to being a rancher and lawyer, Charlie Whitcomb had been on the board of Texas Gulf Explorations and had strong ties to the TRC—Texas Railroad Commission—the agency that oversaw the oil and gas industry throughout the state. Lots of money there, and before his death a few years back, Whitcomb had apparently made a bundle of it, judging by the investments he’d made in the ranch. It was as fine a place as Dalton had ever seen, even though it was only a medium-sized outfit.
The drive split, the right fork leading to a rambling two-story stone house backing up to Rough Creek, the left continuing on to a series of farm structures.
