Читать книгу Home To Texas - Bethany Campbell - Страница 8

TIME AND WEATHER HAD CARVED the country around Crystal Creek into an uneven land of great hills and valleys. Some of these hills were massive enough to be called mountains, but most were low and rolling.

In some places, great sweeps of rock covered the earth, like a flow of pale, hardened lava. Soil was thin. Only what was strong could survive here.

Yet the landscape had stark beauty. Even in mid-November, the scattered oaks and elms fluttered golden leaves, and the sumac and soapwood bushes flared up from the ground like scarlet torches.

But most of the trees were the scraggly, twisted ones that Lynn said were mesquite and their branches were nearly bare. They looked tough enough to suck nourishment straight from stone.

Ahead, the flashing red of Lynn’s taillights signaled that she was turning from the highway to a dirt road. Tara followed. The road led up and was so badly rutted that her truck rattled and swayed. The way grew steeper and rougher, jolting her bones.

Then, suddenly, the road leveled off, and the two trucks were halfway up a hill big enough, to Tara’s mind, to qualify as a mountain.

And there it was—their house.

She had seen pictures, but she was not prepared for the impact of the real thing. It was, she thought, magnificent. Magnificent yet sad, because it had been both neglected and abused. But she had come to change all that.

The house was a long one-story sweep of limestone that glimmered so brightly in the sun it seemed almost white. It angled into a wide V shape so it could command views of the valley beneath it and the tall hills rambling into the distance in the west.

It had once had decks and sun porches, but they’d been torn off, leaving bare patches of concrete and raw slashes on the face of the stones. Concrete blocks, stacked unevenly, formed three jerry-built steps to the back door.

An enclosed walkway attached the house to a triple garage. A vandal with a can of red spray paint had scrawled graffiti on both stone and wood. Tara bit her lip in resentment, already feeling protective toward the house.

“What do those words say?” Del ask, squinting at them in curiosity.

“Nothing,” she said. “Foolishness.”

Among the obscenities and insults, one message stood out: Fabian Go Home!!! Brian Fabian was the man who’d recently owned the property. It was he who’d had the porches torn down and most of the outbuildings razed. Gavin had told her the outline of the story, but not the details.

Lynn parked in the graveled driveway, and Tara pulled in behind her, pebbles rattling under her tires. Both women got out, and Tara unfastened Del from his seat. “Is this our new house?” he asked in a small voice.

“Yes,” Tara said. “And it’s going to be a very nice house.”

He stared uncertainly at the ruined porches. “It’s broke.”

“Yes. But we’ll fix it.”

She went to the back of the truck and unlocked the door of the kennel box. Lono bounded out, sniffed the ground with enthusiasm and lifted his leg at a cactus. He was clearly pleased with the surroundings.

Del was not. He frowned in worry. “Why’d somebody write on our garage?”

“Sometimes people do bad things. I’ll paint over it.”

He didn’t seem reassured. He put his thumb into his mouth, something he did when he was tired or anxious, and she could tell he was both. For once she didn’t tell him not to suck his thumb. Instead she picked him up, and he leaned on her shoulder, yawning in exhaustion.

Lynn nodded ruefully at the defaced garage doors. “Sorry about the graffiti. Sam was going to paint over it last Sunday, but we had an emergency. All three dogs met a skunk. Yuck.”

“It’s all right,” Tara said. “I’ll take care of it. You’ve done more than enough for us.”

“You may not feel so charitable when you see your decor.” Lynn rolled her eyes. “It’s only a mix of cast-offs and garage-sale bargains.”

Tara patted Del’s back and smiled. “It’ll be fine.”

She’d sold most of the furniture she’d had in California. She didn’t want the memories.

But the few good pieces she’d kept were coming, and their books, kitchen things, odds and ends. The man at the moving company said it was such a small lot, he’d have to squeeze it onto a truck headed that way with other loads, other stops. In the meantime, their possessions were in storage and might not arrive for weeks.

Tara didn’t mind. She’d lived in nearly bare houses before. She’d told Del it would be like camping out. He’d thought it sounded like fun—then.

Her horse and Del’s pony, their saddles and tack, would be brought by a man who moved horses for his living, Garth Gardner. Tara had known him for years and trusted him implicitly. But he, too, had a full schedule, and the horses were not due to arrive for almost a month.

When Lynn learned all this, she’d insisted on furnishing the house temporarily, even if the furnishings were few and haphazard.

“You’re going to feel like you’re living in a thrift store.” She gave a sigh. “Not even a good thrift store.”

She tunneled into the back pocket of her jeans and brought out a jingling brass ring. “Well, are you ready? Here they are, the keys to the castle.”

“I’m ready.” Tara took them, and they felt as weighty as her responsibility to her son. And to her brother.

AT THE DOUBLE C, Grady half limped up the stairs of the back porch.

He’d walked a long way and had picked up a stone bruise.

But he forgot the pain as he reached the top stair and his eyes caught the familiar vista of his uncle’s rolling land. J.T.’s spread looked good to him, mighty good.

The hills loosed a throng of memories that tried to force themselves into Grady’s mind. He blocked them expertly, as if they were gate crashers trying to storm an inner place he’d long fought to keep private.

Grady didn’t like to think much about either the distant past or the far future. He’d tried to live like a bird in flight, soaring in the present moment—but it had been harder to do of late. And he had to admit this particular present moment wasn’t so good, pride-wise.

Suck it up, he told himself. His father wouldn’t be happy to see him, but he’d take him in. Somebody had said that, right? Home is where they have to take you in.

So he raised his fist and knocked at the door. He gazed at the countryside from the top of the porch. And he remembered in spite of himself.

How many years since he’d chased Lynn McKinney up these very stairs, brandishing a garter snake at her? And she’d stopped on the top step, wheeled around and bloodied his nose—for scaring the snake. God, he’d been fond of J.T. and his wife and three kids. He’d thought the Hill Country would be home forever.

Don’t think of that. Don’t think of those days.

He started to knock again, but the door swung open. His father stood there, staring at him like he was a freshly delivered bad surprise. He supposed he was.

“Hi, Dad,” he said. A smile sprang to his lips because in his heart he was glad to see the old man, even if the feeling wasn’t mutual.

He hadn’t set eyes on his father for two years, not since the funeral. They’d had words then. They’d had few since. Grady phoned once in a while, but the old man never had much to say. Well, two years was a long time, and Grady had never been one to hold a grudge.

As for the old man, although he looked perplexed and displeased, he didn’t actually look old. He looked a lot better than he had at the funeral, where he’d been worn and ashen as a zombie. He looked strong again, like his old self.

So Grady nodded in approval and said, “You’re looking good.” He meant it.

His father’s dark eyes looked him up and down. They had a spark of their old fire. “To what do we owe this honor?”

Grady cocked his hat back. “I heard you were in Crystal Creek. I was passing through. I was going to stop and see you.” He grinned. “But my truck stopped about eight miles before I did.”

“Oh, hell,” his father said and swung the screen door open with a sort of stoic resignation. “Come on in.”

Grady entered the kitchen, lugging his duffel bag. The scent of spicy beef hit him like a whiff from heaven. “Lord, that smells fine,” he said. “Am I invited for supper?”

“I suppose,” Bret said in the same weary tone.

“Good to see you again,” Grady said and offered his hand. Bret took it and initiated a contest of who could squeeze the hardest. Grady let him win, dropped his duffel bag to the floor and turned to Jonah, who stood by the window.

For a second Grady’s heart took a strange, flying vault. Looking into Jonah’s eyes was like plunging backward in time and staring into their mother’s eyes. Nostalgia pierced him like an arrow through the chest.

“Little brother,” he said with genuine affection and embraced Jonah. Good Lord, the kid didn’t look like a kid anymore; his even features had lost their last trace of boyishness.

Jonah accepted the embrace awkwardly. Like their father, he was embarrassed by emotional displays. But unlike their father, he was not judgmental. Once you were in the circle of Jonah’s affection, the devil himself couldn’t pry you loose.

Jonah mumbled, “Good to see you.”

Grady disengaged himself and punched his brother’s shoulder affably. He faced his father again. “Okay if I spend a couple nights? I don’t know how long my truck’s gonna be out of commission.”

“I suppose.” Bret’s mouth was grim. “Where you heading this time?”

“A spread down in Florida,” Grady said. “Via New Orleans.”

“What’s in New Orleans?”

“That’s what I aim to see,” Grady said, keeping his real reason to himself. He gave his brother’s shoulder another punch. “You want to come, kid? Those French Quarter gals would love you.”

Jonah’s handsome face darkened in a blush, but he smiled.

“Jonah’s got a job here,” Bret said emphatically. “A steady job. And his dissertation to finish.”

“Dissertation.” Grady eyed Jonah with playful pride. “A doctor in the family. How’s it goin’?”

“Okay.” The same little smile stayed, playing at the corner of Jonah’s mouth. He seemed truly pleased to see Grady.

Bret wished he could feel the same easy pleasure. But his emotions were rent in two as he studied his two sons, the youngest and the eldest.

He wondered how he had gone so right with one, so wrong with the other. There was Jonah, as dependable as gravity, marked for certain success. And there, on the other hand, was Grady.

Grady wasn’t as tall as Jonah, and his good looks were more rugged. His hair was almost black, his skin was tawny, and his eyes, like Bret’s own, were as dark as strong coffee. When he flashed that killer smile of his, weak women melted. Hell, even strong ones melted.

And Grady liked to melt them. He was used to it. He had charm, and Bret believed it was his undoing. Everything had always come easy to him, so he had never had to apply himself to anything.

Grady was in his prime—thirty-five years old—and he had not accomplished one blasted thing in his life. The fates had given him every gift. He was smart—his test scores in school had proved it. But he’d dropped out of school when he was seventeen and hit the road.

Look at him, Bret thought, fighting down his disappointment. His son’s jeans were faded and dusty. His boots needed a shine. His shirt had a black smear down one sleeve. But the hat, as usual, was tipped to a cocky angle. That hat told the world, I don’t give a damn. I never have. I never will.

Bret stared at his firstborn, thinking, so much potential; so little accomplished. It had broken Maggie’s heart, though she would never admit it. “He’ll settle down someday,” she’d always say as if she could believe it.

Grady had not even made it home in time to see Maggie before she died. Oh, he had his excuses, of course, like always, but not being at Maggie’s deathbed was a lapse Bret could not forgive.

After the funeral, Bret had rebuked him bitterly, but his son wouldn’t bow and accept the blame he so justly deserved. When he’d left, Bret had been secretly glad to see him go.

Now he was back. Acting—and this was Grady’s special gift—as if nothing had happened. Oh, he could charm the pants off a duck if he tried. He was even making Jonah talkative.

“Yeah. Lang’s coming home. He should be here by tomorrow night,” Jonah said.

“No kidding?” Grady grinned. “I’ll be danged. Perfect timing. It’ll be old home week. Is he bringing Susie?”

“Just h-himself,” Jonah stammered.

“Susie left him,” Bret said, more sharply than he meant to. “Now she wants half of everything. He’d just put the earnest money down on that little horse spread. He’ll lose it.”

Grady’s dark eyes flashed. He snatched off his hat and slapped it against his thigh. “Hellfire and monkey turds! How much bad luck can one man have?”

“Plenty,” said Bret.

Millie Gilligan came walking into the kitchen. She stopped in the doorway, eyeing Grady as if he were something strange and out of place, like a green grizzly bear.

“You’re not the one,” she said to him.

Grady, his face still flushed with anger, stared at her without comprehension.

“He’s not the one what?” Bret demanded of the woman.

“He’s not the one you said was coming,” she replied, something akin to censure in her voice. “He’s not the one you expected.”

Now how in the hell did she know that? Bret wondered, but he didn’t have time to think about it. “You’re right. Tomorrow my middle son comes. This is an unscheduled visit. Mrs. Gilligan, this is my oldest son, Grady. We’ll need a place to put him up tonight. Grady, this is Mrs. Gilligan, the housekeeper.”

“Pleased to meet you, ma’am.” Grady all but bowed to her. “Are you the little lady responsible for the savory brew I smell?”

She peered at him, uncharmed. “You were swearing in my kitchen.”

Grady blinked. “Beg pardon, ma’am. I’d just heard some bad news.”

“Ahh. You’ll soon hear more,” said Mrs. Gilligan, not taking her glass-green eyes off him. “But for every yang, there’s a yin. Many an accident happens, and many an accident will, or maybe it’s fate in a fright wig—who’s to say? I’ll go fix you a room. Don’t swear in my kitchen. Nobody swears in this kitchen but me.”

She turned and left, and the three men stared after her. “I’ll get more?” Grady asked, dumbfounded. “More bad news? Accidents? What’d she mean by all that?”

As if in answer, the kitchen phone rang.

THE INSIDE OF THE HOUSE YAWNED immense and nearly bare. It smelled of dust and mildew. Yet Tara’s heart sprang up in love for it, in spite of the must and shadows.

A cathedral ceiling, beamed with oak, soared over the front rooms. No wall divided the living and dining areas. Instead they flowed into each other, separated only by a free-standing fireplace of gray-white stone.

Still carrying Del, Tara followed Lynn through the rest of the house. The west wing contained a guest room, a sitting room, an enormous master bedroom and a bath fit for an emperor. A large office came with a modestly sized library room and its own half bath. Except for its dusty fixtures and shelves, this part of the house was empty.

Lynn’s and Tara’s footsteps echoed eerily on the slate floors, and Lono’s toenails went tap-tap-tap. He happily sniffed the strange new scents. Del, breathing heavily, was falling asleep, his head on Tara’s shoulder.

This wing would be Gavin’s private living quarters when he came, and Tara was already having visions of how she could make it rich and full of comforts for him.

The east wing, which would be hers and Del’s, held three good-size bedrooms, each with its own bath. The rest of the space had been engineered into a boggling series of spacious storage closets.

True to her word, Lynn must have hit every yard sale in Claro County. She’d pulled together enough used furniture and appliances to provide bare essentials for Tara and Del—and then some—even a washer and drier. She’d had all the utilities turned on and a phone installed.

Two of the east wing bedrooms each had a single bed with faded but clean bedclothes. Each had a somewhat battered dresser. Del was growing heavy in Tara’s arms, so she lay him down on the bed in the room that was his. Next to the bed stood a scuffed toybox spilling toys.

“Stay,” she told Lono quietly. The dog wagged his tail and leaped on the bed, turned around twice, then curled up snuggling against Del’s side. The look on his face said, “Don’t worry. I’m here.”

Tara gazed down at her son. “I won’t shut the door. He has—dreams sometimes,” she whispered to Lynn. “If he wakes, I want to hear him.”

Lynn nodded. She went to the dresser and switched on a chipped little lamp shaped like Donald Duck. “This used to be Cal’s,” she said with a smile. “I think he’d like knowing it’s here.”

The two women moved softly down the hall. “I’m surprised he can sleep,” Tara said, looking back over her shoulder.

“He and Jamie played hard.” Lynn turned right from the hall, heading for the kitchen. “Come on. I put a couple of wine coolers in the fridge. Let’s drink a toast to your new house.”

The kitchen’s original appliances were gone. Next to the sink squatted an old three-burner stove. Beside it, an equally ancient refrigerator hummed and gargled, as if to prove by its noise that it was on the job.

Lynn swung open the creaking door, withdrew two bottles and uncapped them. From the cupboard she took a pair of mismatched jelly glasses and, with a flourish, filled them. She handed one to Tara, and they clinked the glasses together in mock solemnity.

“To your new house,” Lynn proposed. Each took a sip.

Then Lynn tilted her head and regarded Tara over the rim of her glass. “What do you think of the place? Are you depressed beyond words?”

“It’s wonderful,” Tara said sincerely. “And a thousand thanks for all you’ve done.”

Lynn tossed a dubious glance at the card table and wobbly chairs she’d set up in the kitchen for mealtimes. “Cal said you’ve done this before? Lived with nothing but the basics?”

Tara nodded. “My parents did it almost a dozen times. Believe me, we really roughed it a few times. This is luxury in comparison.”

“This was a beautiful house once, and it can be again. I have the feeling you’re the one to make it happen. Want to look at the main living space again?”

Tara nodded. Together they drifted through the door and back to the central living area. Lynn had created a makeshift office near the fireplace and facing the western bank of windows. She’d used a sturdy wooden table for a desk and had found a handsome old-fashioned oak swivel chair to complement it.

Nearby, she’d put a pair of cushioned lawn chaises and a cuddly looking beanbag chair in front of the small television. She’d even hooked up a VCR and placed a basket of videos beside it.

She’d put another box of toys by the television: cars and action figures and Thomas the Tank Engine characters that her own son had outgrown.

Of all Lynn’s acts of kindness, her kindness to Del touched Tara most. She was so grateful that she could not find words, and her throat knotted.

But Lynn acted nonchalant, as if readying a house for a stranger was all in a day’s work. She looked up at the oak-beamed ceiling. “This place was well-built, that’s an advantage. And another is that it wasn’t empty long. Only since June.”

But her expression changed when she moved to one of the big windows overlooking the valley. Her calm brow furrowed, the corners of her mouth tugged downward and she shook her head. “Fabian. He nearly ruined it all—damn him.”

Tara, moving to her side, followed her gaze. Gavin had sketched out Fabian’s story with professional detachment.

But Lynn simmered with emotion, and Tara saw why. Beneath them, the landscape was different from the rest of the Hill Country. The valley was as desolate as a wasteland. A huge hole gaped in the earth as if a meteor had smashed into the ground, destroying everything around it.

“This used to be a gorgeous vista.” Bitterness tinged Lynn’s soft drawl. “That’s why the Harrises built their house here—they owned the dude ranch. They were going to build out on the edge of the property, but they couldn’t resist this view…now it looks like very hell.”

The valley stretched out bare, bulldozed and eerily lifeless. Lynn’s tone changed to sadness. “In spring there used to be a carpet of bluebonnets down there—acres and acres, so beautiful you couldn’t believe it. And other wildflowers. Seas of them.”

Tara studied the dead and barren land. “Will the flowers come back?”

“It’ll take years. Unless our brothers reseed it.” The thought smoothed her brow, made her smile. “If I know Cal, he’ll want to.”

Tara nodded. So would Gavin.

Lynn pointed to the huge raw-looking pit. “That’s where that fool Fabian tried to put his lake. He never should have picked that spot, but he had to exploit the flowers. Bluebonnet Meadows he was going to call it.” She squared her jaw in resentment. “Well, the bluebonnets are gone. And so are his cheesy model homes.”

“Gavin told me,” Tara said softly. Fabian, set on his grandiose development, had tried to create an enormous artificial lake. But autumn rains had drenched the county, breaking his dam, and a wall of water had swept the valley, devastating it.

Lynn pointed to a featureless bulldozed area. “The first thing Three Amigos did was route the water back the way God intended. They had to bring in people from Dallas to do it. They’ll fill in that lake bed when they can get enough equipment here. And good riddance.”

A chill prickled Tara’s bones at the sight of so much folly. “Gavin said that’s why it’ll be hard for me to get labor for a while. That the flood destroyed so much downstream that everybody’s working there.”

“I’ve found a few people to tide you over,” Lynn said. “But yes, Fabian caused damage, especially down at Baswell. Thank God the land’s not in his hands anymore.”

“If people resented Fabian developing this land, won’t they resent Three Amigos doing it?” Tara asked. It was a dark thought, one that had nagged her.

“But this is different,” Lynn said, raising her chin. “Fabian wanted to put over a thousand houses on this land. They only want a few hundred. And to keep the land as natural as possible.”

“If they can pull it off. It’s going to take time, work—and money.” Tara was still worried over Gavin’s money, although he assured her the Hawaiian property was starting to bring in money—a lot of it.

“They’ll make it work.” Lynn clearly refused to doubt her brother. She changed the subject.

“You’re going to be isolated out here. I’m glad you have a dog. Is he a good watchdog?”

Lono wasn’t a big dog, but he had a terrier’s protective and fearless heart. He’d fling himself into the midst of a pack of jackals for loved ones. “He’s the best.”

“Good.” But Lynn looked thoughtful, almost haunted. “But eventually you’re going to have a lot of men out here on construction. And you’ll be the only woman. You can’t be too careful. Once I was…”

Her voice trailed off, as if once more she had wandered into a topic she’d rather not speak of. Tara examined the emotions fleeting across Lynn’s mobile face. “Once you were what?”

“Nothing. There was some—trouble. This roughneck—never mind. Sam’ll loan you a rifle if you don’t have one of your own.”

Tara had spent time in wild country when she was growing up. She knew guns were sometimes necessary, but she also had an instinctive hatred of them. “No, thanks. But if I change my mind I’ll let you know.”

Lynn looked Tara up and down as if she liked what she saw. “Do that. And call me for any reason. I mean that. Most of my family’s gone, and I’m not used to it. I’d love to be needed.”

Then Lynn glanced at her watch. “Oops, Hank’s going to be home from school soon. I need to get cracking.”

Tara walked her to the back door. She touched the other woman’s shoulder. “Again, I can’t thank you enough. You’ve made me feel I’m very lucky.”

Lynn grinned. “No. Hole in the Wall seems back in good hands at last. I think we’re the lucky ones.”

Tara hoped so. But as she watched Lynn drive off, the word repeated itself ironically in her mind. She was alone with her son in a strange house in a strange region.

She wondered what Burleigh Hastings would say to see his grandson in such a run-down house overlooking such a desolate view. He would claim she was insane to bring him here.

I can’t worry about him. Not now. There’s too much else to do now.

She rolled up her sleeves so that she could get to work.

GRADY FELT LIKE FORTUNE’S FOOL.

The weird little housekeeper had been right. More bad news came, and it came by phone. Accidents, she’d said.

Please understand that accidents happen, Jervis Jensen had pleaded with Grady. Please, please understand that.

Jervis owned Jervis’s Towing and Auto Repair. When Grady’s truck had broken down, he’d hiked into town and asked Jervis to haul it in. Though Jervis was a rugged man in his fifties, on the phone he’d sounded as if he was going to cry.

An accident had indeed happened. Jervis’s assistant had been towing Grady’s pickup into Crystal Creek. Jervis swore that he had been doing this task safely, gently and with all possible tender, loving care. Then something occurred that no one could have foreseen.

Both the tow truck and pickup were sideswiped by a tanker carrying yellow grease to a rendering plant in Waco. All three trucks went into a ditch, and the seams of the tanker ruptured. All three were deluged with used canola oil.

“I know how you feel—I really do.” Jervis’s voice was dangerously near breaking. “Thank God nobody was badly hurt. But my truck’s ruined, too. Do you know how much a tow truck costs? The woman at the insurance company is boggled. She’s just boggled. She never heard of such a thing. You do have insurance, don’t you? Please say yes.”

Numbly Grady said he had only minimal insurance. He hadn’t meant to keep the truck, but to sell it in New Orleans. It was an investment, a vintage 1956 Chevy.

“The tanker company’s saying it’s my driver’s fault. It’s not. I’ll have to sue, and so will you.” Jervis said in a choked voice. “I vow there will be justice done for this.”

Grady hung up, stunned. He’d sunk most of his money into buying and restoring the truck. But he’d had an offer for it and would have made a sweet profit on the sale, enough to have kept him in tall clover for the next year or more. Now what?

JONAH DROVE GRADY AND BRET to the scene of the accident. Grady felt a numbing sense of surrealism. The Crystal Creek Fire Department had sent two dump trucks filled with sand to soak up the oil in the ditch. Grady’s pickup had yet to be pried from under the glistening, dripping tanker. The whole countryside stank of old French-fry grease.

Grady truly didn’t know whether to weep or to storm up and down the highway, raging and shaking his fists at the sky. Since he couldn’t decide, he simply stared. The truck had been beautifully restored. Now probably only parts could be salvaged, if that.

“You know, I think this could only happen to you.” Bret shook his head in disbelief. “Why were you driving such an old junker?”

Grady said nothing of the truck’s true worth. He had long ago tired of trying to explain or justify things to his father. Now the truck looked only like what it was, a congealing wreck.

Jonah’s face was pained with sympathy. But then, all of a sudden, he began to laugh. And laugh. And laugh. Grady couldn’t help it. Although he was filled with something close to despair, he laughed, too. Until tears came to his eyes.

“IT’S REALLY NOT FUNNY,” Jonah said that night. They were in a pink bedroom full of ruffles and teddy bears. It was where Mrs. Gilligan had quartered Grady, his bed a pink canopy with side curtains.

As he lay stretched out on this innocent confection of a bed, Grady wished he was back in the sleaze and tinsel of Las Vegas.

Jonah sat by a dressing table with a skirt on a white wrought-iron chair with a pink velvet cushion. He had his leg crossed over his knee and a somber look on his face.

“I mean,” Jonah said, “that cooking oil’s bad news. When it spills, it’s worse than fuel oil. A guy at the university said it was actually harder to get off a seabird’s feathers.”

Grady put his hands behind his head and stared gloomily up at the pink canopy. The buyer in New Orleans had cussed him out over the phone, calling him a stupid son of a bitch for not taking out more insurance. Grady had counted on his skills as a driver and a mechanic to get him safely to the Big Easy. He’d counted on his luck, too, but it seemed to have run out.

His insurance wouldn’t cover the oil damage to his truck, nobody was admitting liability and it looked like he was going to have to join Jervis Jensen in suing the tanker company. A lawsuit could drag on forever. Grady was marooned. Thirty-five years old, nearly broke and back living with his father. His depression felt bone-deep.

“Change the subject, will you? Whose room is this? It looks like something out of a damned fairy tale. I keep expecting the Seven Dwarfs to troop in.”

“It’s Jennifer’s. J.T.’s daughter by his second wife. They’re in Paris.”

“I never met them.” Grady remembered only J.T.’s first wife, Pauline, and their two sons and daughter. He supposed J.T.’s sons had done better by their father than Grady had by Bret.

“Where’s Tyler?” he asked moodily.

“California. His father-in-law died. He and his wife have to decide if they’re going to run the winery he owned out there or come back to the one they started here.”

Either choice sounded plenty cushy to Grady, but he didn’t have an envious nature. He let the thought pass. “What about Cal? Still doing fine?”

Jonah nodded. “He and his two partners just bought the old Kendell place. The one that got turned into a dude ranch. Sank a lot of money in it. Taking a big chance.”

Grady turned his head and frowned at his brother. “Sank money in that spread? It wasn’t anything special. What do they want with it?”

Jonah gave an indifferent shrug. “Couple of different things. Part of it’ll be a development. Try to pump new life into the town.”

“It needs it.” Grady stared at the pink canopy again. After Vegas, Crystal Creek looked like Podunk, U.S.A. Once he’d thought it the finest spot on earth. He’d learned a lot since then.

Jonah said, “They’re fixing it all up. They sent some woman here to be in charge of fixing up the house and lodge.”

A woman. Grady’s spirits rose slightly. “What’s she like?”

“Don’t know,” Jonah said. “She’s got a kid. She must have money. She’s sister to one of the partners. Lynn knows her.”

A rich woman with a child? Scratch that possibility. Grady had had his fill of rich women. And kids were always a complicating factor. He’d trained himself to avoid complications. He sighed in resignation. “And how’s little cousin Lynn?”

“She’s good,” Jonah said. “Married. Family. Keeps her horses here. She’s the only one of ’em around right now. Cal’s down in Mexico selling assets or something.” He paused. “Seems funny being in their house.”

Grady cast a gaze around the pink room. “You’re telling me.”

Both men were silent for a moment. Grady said, “And it seems weird, J.T. having a different wife. How long was he single?”

“Five years.”

Grady mused on this. “Mom’s been gone two.”

Jonah said nothing. Sometimes he could talk about their mother, and sometimes he couldn’t. It was like he was still sorting out his feelings about her death. So, in truth, was Grady. She’d always believed in him.

Grady asked, “You think Dad’ll ever get married again?”

Jonah stared at the carpet and shook his head. “I don’t think he even considers it.”

Grady wondered. His father must have had a sex drive once, or he and Lang and Jonah wouldn’t be here. Yet he couldn’t imagine it. No, Bret would spend the rest of his life being true to his wife’s memory. Once Bret got a notion, he hung onto it like a bulldog.

Grady settled more heavily against the ruffled, rosy pillow. “Too bad about Lang and Susie.”

“Yeah.”

“Why’s he coming here?”

“No place else to go, I guess.”

“What’s he going to do?”

“Work for Dad.”

Grady set his jaw. “I’m going to have to find a job, too. I’m not going anywhere without wheels, but I’ve only got five hundred bucks and a lawyer to pay.”

Jonah’s expression became uneasy. “I don’t know that Dad can hire all three of us. I mean, the ranch needs fewer hands in the winter, and he felt funny about giving Lang a job.”

“Oh, hell.” Grady squared his jaw defensively, “I won’t even ask him. It’d give him too much satisfaction. I can find a job on my own.”

“Not much doing around here. Except over where Cal and his buddies bought. There’ll be some construction and stuff soon.”

Grady tossed him a mild look. “Hey, Professor. I’ve done construction. I’m not too proud to do it again.”

“I don’t look down on it,” Jonah countered. “I’ve done my share of grunt work.”

“Yeah, kid, I know.” Grady yawned. He’d already made up his mind. Tomorrow he’d go over and talk to the rich boss lady from California.

He didn’t know what he’d say to her, but inspiration would come to him. It always did around women. She wouldn’t know what hit her.