Читать книгу Big Sky Wedding - Linda Miller Lael - Страница 9
ОглавлениеCHAPTER TWO
ALONE IN HER apartment, except for Snidely, of course, Brylee did weekend things. She washed and dried her hair, gave herself a pedicure as well as a manicure, and then a facial to round out the routine. She chose a red-and-white polka dot sundress to wear to church in the morning, gave it a few quick licks with the iron and hung it carefully from the hook on the inside of her closet door. She selected white sandals and a red handbag to complete the ensemble, setting those on the cushioned window seat in her bedroom, where they would be in plain sight.
Brylee liked to make her preparations well in advance, wherever preparation was humanly possible, which was most of the time. In her considered opinion, there were enough surprises in life, careening out of nowhere, blindsiding her just when she thought she had everything covered, so she preferred not to leave herself open to the unexpected, if given the smallest option.
She would have described herself as “organized,” but she knew there were other definitions that might apply, like “obsessive” or even “anal.”
Okay, so she was something of a control freak, she thought, leaving her shabby-chic bedroom, with its distinctly female decor, for the living room.
Here, she’d chosen pegged wood floors instead of carpeting, and the fireplace was a wonder of blue and white, burgundy and gold, pale green and soft pink tiles, each one hand-painted. She’d colored and fired them all herself, using the kiln at her friend Doreen’s ceramics studio in Three Trees, and just looking at them made her feel good. Some had tiny stars, swirls or checks, while others were plain, at least to Brylee, and the result was a kind of quasi-Moroccan magic.
She’d hooked the big scatter rugs, too, mostly on lonely winter nights, while a blaze flickered on the hearth, managing to pick up many of the colors from the tiles. The couch, love seat and two big armchairs were clad for spring and summer in beige cotton slipcovers with just the faintest impression of a small floral print; when fall rolled around, she’d switch them out, for either chocolate-brown or burgundy corduroy. Most everything else in the room rotated with the seasons, too—the art on the walls, the vases and the few figurines, even the picture frames on the mantelpiece, though the photos inside remained the same: Casey and Walker, beaming on their wedding day, Clare and Shane goofing off up at the lake, Snidely sporting a stars-and-stripes bandana in honor of Independence Day. Now, of course, she’d added a few prized shots of little Preston, as well.
Brylee believed change was a good thing—as long as it was carefully planned and coordinated, of course.
She was aware of the irony of this viewpoint, naturally, but she’d built a thriving business on the concept of fresh decor, geared to the seasons, to the prevailing mood or to some favorite period in history. Hadn’t Marie Antoinette had her spectacular bedroom at Versailles redecorated from floor to ceiling in honor of spring, summer, fall and winter?
Yeah, but look how she ended up, Brylee thought, making a rueful face.
Snidely stood in the kitchen doorway, looking back at her, tail wagging, his mouth stretched into a doggy grin. Fluent in Snidelyese, Brylee understood that he wanted his food bowl filled, or a treat, or both, if all his lucky stars were in the right places.
Brylee chuckled and slipped past him, executing a slight bow in the process. “Your wish is my command,” she said, her royal mood, no doubt spawned by the brief reflection on the French court, lingering.
The kitchen, like the living room, was big, especially for an apartment. The appliances were state of the art and there was an island in the center of the space, complete with marble top and two stainless-steel sinks. She’d picked up the dining set cheap, at one of those unfinished furniture places, stained the wood dark maple and tiled the surface of the round table in much the same style as she had the fireplace.
A bouquet of perfect pink peonies, cut from the garden her great-grandmother had planted years ago and placed in an old green-glass canning jar, made a lovely centerpiece. Brylee paused to lean over and draw in their vague, peppery scent. They would be gone soon, these favorites, and she meant to enjoy them while she could. The lilacs, which grew in profusion all over the ranch house’s huge yard, had already reached their full, fragrant purple-and-white glory and quietly vanished, along with the daffodils and tulips of early spring. There were still roses aplenty, rollicking beds of zinnias, clouds of colorful gerbera daisies, too, but Brylee missed the ones that had gone before, even as she enjoyed every new wave of color.
She needed flowers, the way she needed air and water; to her, they were sacred, a form of visual prayer.
A knock sounded at her back door just as she was setting Snidely’s bowl of kibble on the floor. Glancing up, she saw her teenage niece, Clare, grinning in at her through the oval glass window.
“In!” Brylee called, grinning back.
Sixteen-year-old Clare, a younger version of her mother, Casey, was blessed with copper-bright hair that tumbled to her shoulders in carefully casual curls, bright green eyes and a quick mind, inclined toward kindness but with a mischievous bent. If she looked closely enough, Brylee could see Walker in the girl, too, and even a few hints of herself.
Not for the first time, she marveled that Walker and Casey had been able to keep their secret—that Walker had fathered both Clare and Shane—for so long.
“I think I’ve got a date,” Clare confided, in a conspiratorial whisper, tossing a bottle-green glance in the direction of the inside door that led into the main part of the ranch house. Maybe she thought Casey was on the other side, with a glass pressed to her ear, eavesdropping.
If anyone was listening in, Brylee reflected, amused, it was more likely to be Clare’s brother, fifteen-year-old Shane, with whom the child shared a sort of testy alliance—with an emphasis on the testy part. She and Walker had been that way, too, growing up, though they’d had each other’s backs when necessary.
Brylee lifted her eyebrows and quirked her mouth up at the corners, in a way that said, “Go on, I’m listening,” and opened the refrigerator door to take out a diet cola for each of them. As she understood prevailing parental policy, Clare wasn’t allowed to go on one-couple car dates or to go out with the same boy more than three times in a row, and her parents practically ran background checks on anybody new to her circle of friends. Now, her twinkly air of secrecy indicated that something was up and, at the same time, belied any possibility that an executive exception had been made.
Clad in jeans, boots and a long-sleeved yellow T-shirt that made her hair flame beautifully around her deceptively angelic face, Clare hauled back a chair at the table and said a quiet thank-you when Brylee set the can of soda in front of her, along with a glass nearly filled with ice.
Brylee sat down opposite Clare and poured cola into her own glass of ice. And she waited.
“It’s not even an actual date,” Clare confided, blushing a little, shifting her gaze in Snidely’s direction and smiling at his exuberant kibble-crunching.
“How is a date ‘not actually’ a date?” Brylee ventured, but only after she’d taken a few leisurely sips of soda.
Clare gave a comical little wince. She’d basically grown up on the road, accompanying her famous mother and an extensive entourage on concert tours, and, though sheltered, overly so in Walker’s opinion, she was bound to be more sophisticated than the average kid. She’d been all over the world, after all, and met kings, queens, presidents and potentates. In Parable County—which had its share of troubled teens, like any other community—it was a good bet that Clare was considerably more savvy than most of her contemporaries.
“I guess a date isn’t really a date when it’s part of a youth group field trip,” the girl said sweetly, showing her dimples. “Mrs. Beaumont—Opal—and the reverend are chartering a bus and taking a whole bunch of us to Helena. We get to tour the capital buildings and stay overnight.”
Brylee smiled. She knew Opal and her husband, the Reverend Walter Beaumont, quite well, even though their church was in Parable and she attended one in Three Trees. They were beyond responsible, and both of them took a keen interest in the teen members of their congregation or any other.
“I see,” she said. “And this nondate is a date—how?”
Suddenly, Clare looked shy, and her lovely eyes turned dreamy.
Uh-oh, Brylee thought. Up to that moment, she’d been ready to dismiss a nagging sense that something was off. Now, she guessed she’d been right to worry, if only a little.
“Luke and I are going to sit together on the bus, that’s all,” Clare said. “And just sort of, well, hang out while we’re in Helena. You know, hold hands and stuff, when nobody’s looking. Spend a little time alone together, if we get the chance.”
“You don’t know Opal Beaumont very well if you think she won’t be keeping an eagle eye on every last one of you the whole time,” Brylee pointed out, with a little smile. She’d had a lecture or two from Opal herself—mostly on the subject of finding herself a good man and settling down—and she knew the woman didn’t miss much, if anything at all. A matchmaker extraordinaire, she was credited, sometimes indirectly, with jump-starting at least four relationships, all of which had led to marriage.
By the same token, though, Opal was devout, with the corresponding firm morals, and she’d guard her younger charges, girls and boys, with the ferocity of a tigress on the prowl.
Clare moved her slender shoulders in a semblance of a shrug. “Mom and Dad already said I could go,” she said, cheeks pink.
“And they know it’s an overnighter?” Brylee pressed, but gently.
Clare nodded. Then, guiltily, she added, “It’s the sitting together and the holding hands and the alone-time part I didn’t tell them about.”
Holding her palms up and opening and closing the fingers of both hands, Brylee imitated the sound the refrigerator made when she hadn’t shut the door all the way. “Danger,” she said, smiling again. “If you had a clear conscience about this, my girl, you wouldn’t feel any need to keep secrets from your folks. There’s something you’re not telling me.”
Clare sighed and looked at Brylee through lowered eyelashes, thick ones, like her mother’s. Like her father’s, for that matter. “Honestly, Aunt Brylee, Luke and I aren’t planning to do anything.”
“Then why sneak around?” Brylee challenged, though carefully. She’d been a teenager herself once, after all, and she knew coming on too strong would only cause more problems.
Clare answered with an uncomfortable question. “Are you going to tell Mom and Dad?”
Until several months after her parents’ long overdue marriage, Clare had persisted in referring to Walker by his first name, angry that he and Casey had kept the truth about their parentage from her and her brother, and, for that matter, the rest of the world. Both Clare and Shane were indeed Walker’s biological children, but calling him “Dad” was a relatively recent development, at least for Clare. Shane, already full of admiration for the man he’d always believed was a close family friend but wished was his father instead, had been thrilled when Casey and Walker broke the news.
Not so Clare.
“No,” Brylee said, after due consideration. “I’m not going to tell your mom and dad anything. You are.”
“They’ll just make a big deal out of it—maybe they’ll even say I can’t go on the trip at all,” Clare protested, temper rising. “Especially if they find out Luke’s a little older than I am.”
“How much older?” Brylee asked. Clare tended to be adventurous and impulsive, and she’d been in trouble for shoplifting at one point, too, so if Walker and Casey kept a closer watch on her than they might have otherwise, Brylee couldn’t blame them.
“Nineteen,” Clare replied in a small voice.
Oh, Lordy, Brylee thought, but she wouldn’t allow herself to overreact. After all, she didn’t want her niece to stop running things like this by her older and, presumably, wiser aunt.
“You like this Luke person a lot?” Brylee ventured.
“He’s awesome,” Clare said, softening visibly.
“And you met him at youth group?” Tread carefully here, Aunt Brylee. This is treacherous ground.
“I met him at a basketball game last fall,” Clare replied. “He was a senior then, and now he’s got a full-time job at the pulp mill. He joined the youth group just last week.”
“Isn’t nineteen a little old for youth group?”
“They let him in, didn’t they?” Clare reasoned, developing an edge. “It’s not as though he’s a pervert or something.”
Silently, Brylee counted to ten before asking, “What’s he like? Who are his parents?”
Clare looked fitful now, squirming in her chair, her glass of cola forgotten on the table in front of her. “Now you sound like them,” she complained. “It’s not like we’re going to a drive-in movie in his car, or anything like that.”
“Luke’s out of school, and he’s too old for you,” Brylee stated reasonably. Then she arched one eyebrow and added, “He has a car?”
“He has a driver’s license,” Clare said, defensive now.
Brylee sighed wearily. Nineteen, a job at the pulp mill and a driver’s license but, five will get you ten, no car. And what was this Luke yahoo doing in youth group? If he wanted to be part of the church community, there were certainly other options....
She paused, remembering how it felt to be very young, like Clare. Brylee’s own mother hadn’t been around much when she was growing up, but her dad had paid close attention to her activities, along with Walker’s. He’d been a real drag at times, wanting all the whys and wherefores, insisting on knowing all her friends, and she’d been rebellious, resentful—and very, very safe.
Now, she was getting a glimmer of what she must have put the poor man through, all because he wanted to protect her. She’d gone on to college, built a business and a good life for herself, while some of her friends, notably those whose parents were less vigilant, had fallen into all sorts of traps—unwanted pregnancies resulting in early and ill-fated marriages, lost scholarships, dead-end jobs.
In that moment, Brylee missed Barclay Parrish with a keen sharpness radiating from behind her breastbone, wished she’d thought to thank him for caring so much about her and Walker both before he’d died, over a decade before, of a heart attack, instead of now.
“What’s the hurry, Clare?” she asked softly. “You’re only sixteen, remember?”
Seeing a protest forming in Clare’s stormy eyes, Brylee held up both hands in a bid for silence so she could go on.
“I know you think you’re mature for your age, and you probably are, actually, but trust me, you don’t know as much about the world as you think you do.” Who does?
“You don’t trust me,” Clare accused quietly. “Or Luke, either.”
“I do trust you,” Brylee said. “You’re a very smart young lady with a good heart. But this Luke person? Maybe he’s nice and maybe he isn’t—I don’t claim to know.”
“He goes to youth group,” Clare reminded Brylee, her tone indicating that that one fact made him a saint. “At church.”
“Then why not tell your folks about him?” Brylee argued. She had to say what she thought here, but she was worried about alienating Clare. The girl had come to her in confidence, after all—would she clam up after this? Start keeping secrets that might be a lot more dangerous than plans to sit together on a bus and hold hands “and stuff” with a nineteen-year-old, whenever they weren’t being watched? Which, admittedly, with Opal on the job, would be never.
On the other hand, though, somebody had dropped the ball at some point. Was it possible that Opal and Walter didn’t know Luke’s age?
“Are you going to tell them?” Clare countered. “Mom and Dad, I mean?”
Brylee sighed. “No,” she said, wanting to strike a balance of some kind, keep the door of communication open between her and her brother’s child and do the right thing, too. What if something bad happened? She’d never be able to forget that she could have prevented whatever it was just by speaking up.
“You promise?” Clare was wheedling now. No doubt about it, the kid was a charmer and, besides, Brylee loved her.
She gave another sigh, this one heavier than the last. “I promise.”
“Good. Then I’m not telling Mom and Dad, either,” Clare said, pushing back her chair and standing up.
Snidely, finished with his kibble ration, sat nearby, watching the girl with concern.
Brylee felt a headache coming on. All her adult life she’d dreamed about being a mother, but she was learning pretty quickly that it was no job for wimps.
She remained at the table, stomach churning, for several minutes after Clare left by the back door without saying another word—not even goodbye.
Finally, Brylee left her chair, rummaged through her purse for her cell phone and scrolled through her contact list. Coming to a certain name, she thumbed the connect button and waited.
She’d given her word that she wouldn’t mention Clare and Luke’s plans for the youth group trip—which might be entirely innocent, on Clare’s side, but probably weren’t on the guy’s end—not to Walker and Casey, that is.
But she hadn’t promised not to tell Opal.
* * *
THE ELECTRICITY WAS ON—cause for celebration from Zane’s point of view. He and Slim made a quick trip to town in the truck, loaded up on grub and sundries, along with an inflatable mattress and some sheets, blankets and pillows, and promptly headed home again.
After doing some scrubbing, mostly focused on the kitchen, Zane boiled up half a package of hot dogs on the temperamental flat-top stove, and shared the meal with Slim. No sense in dirtying up a plate—he used a paper towel instead.
Easy cleanup, that was Zane’s modus operandi. He wasn’t an untidy person, especially when it came to personal grooming, but he’d depended on his California housekeeper, Cleopatra, for so long that he was spoiled.
Thinking of Cleo, Zane felt a pang of guilt. He’d given her a nice severance package—meaning he’d left her a hefty check and a note before he and Slim headed north—but otherwise, he’d basically left her high and dry. A cranky black woman with a gift for cooking that was positively cosmic in scope, she normally didn’t get along with “Hollywood types” to use her term. She’d made an exception for Zane, and now he’d gone off and left her to fend for herself in a crappy economy, in a place where integrity, like beauty, was often skin-deep.
Even in Glitzville, folks were feeling the pinch of tough times, cutting back on the luxuries. What would happen to Cleo, once she’d used up that last check, sizable though it had been?
Engaged in grim reflection, Zane was startled when his cell phone rang in the pocket of his shirt. Frowning—he was not a phone man—he checked the caller ID screen, saw his brother’s name there and grimaced even as he answered. “Hello, Landry.”
Landry, a year younger than Zane, gave credence to the changeling theory, since the two of them were so different that it was hard to believe they shared the same genetic makeup.
“We have a problem,” Landry announced.
Zane closed his eyes briefly, recovered enough to open them again and retort, “‘We’? It just so happens things are going pretty well at the moment, out here.”
“Congratulations,” Landry all but growled. “But we still have a problem, and his name is Nash.”
Nash. Their twelve-year-old half brother, the one neither of them really knew. Nash was the product of one of their feckless father’s many romantic liaisons—the boy’s mother, if Zane recalled correctly, was a former flight attendant named Barbara, who had a penchant for belly dancing, an overactive libido and a running start on a serious drinking problem. A creative baby-namer—“Zane,” for instance, and “Landry”—Jess Sutton had never been much for hands-on parenting. He liked to make kids, give them names and then move on, leaving their moms to raise them however they saw fit.
“I’m listening,” Zane said, after suppressing a sigh that seemed deeper than the well outside, the one rumbling up sluggish but clean supplies of water, now that the electricity was turned on and the pump actually worked.
“Dad just dropped him off here,” Landry said, in an exaggerated whisper that led Zane to believe the boy was within earshot and, therefore, might overhear. “I can’t take care of a kid, Zane. I’ve got a business meeting in Berlin tomorrow—get that? tomorrow—and Susan and I are on the outs. In fact, she’s leaving.” A pause. “Not that she’d be willing to help out, anyhow.”
Landry’s love life was only slightly less of a train wreck than Zane’s own had been, an uncomfortable indication that they’d inherited more from their old daddy than good teeth, fast reflexes and a passion for risk-taking. “Again?” he asked, letting a note of sarcasm slip into his voice. Susan and Landry had been married—and divorced—twice, at last count. Their marriage reminded Zane of a dizzying carnival ride; somebody was always getting on, or off.
Landry drew in a breath and let it out in a huff. Even though he was the younger of the two, he regarded himself as the responsible, reliable brother, considered Zane a loose cannon with more luck than sense. “I didn’t call so we could discuss my personal life,” Landry bit out. “The kid—Nash—needs somewhere to stay. Pronto. I was about to put him on the next flight to L.A. when it occurred to me that you might be on location someplace, pulling down ludicrous amounts of money for doing nothing special. Where are you?”
“I’m not in L.A.,” Zane said evenly. “I’m on the ranch in Montana—you know, the one we bought together a few years back, pretty much just for the hell of it?”
“What the devil are you doing there?” Landry demanded. It didn’t seem to bother him that he was pushing the envelope, given that he obviously planned on asking a favor.
A greenhorn through and through, Landry wore custom-made three-piece suits, lived in a massive penthouse condo in Chicago, employed a chauffeur and even a butler, which was just plain embarrassing, if you asked Zane, which, of course, nobody had. A complete stranger to horses and every other aspect of country life, Landry ponied up the money to pay for his half of the ranch as some kind of tax maneuver.
“I got tired of, well, just about everything,” Zane admitted, suddenly weary. The inflatable bed hadn’t held out much appeal earlier, especially since it was womanless, but by then, he’d started to think he could sleep for days, if not decades. “So I left.”
“Whatever.” Landry sighed. Dealing with Zane was an ordeal for him, what with his blatant superiority and all. “You have to take Nash,” he said. “Dad dumped him on me—evidently our dear father has to lay low for a few months until his poker buddies calm down enough to change their minds about having his knees broken. It’s you or foster care, and I think the poor kid’s had his fill of that already.”
“What about Barbara?” Zane asked moderately. “You remember her? Nash’s mother?”
“She’s out of the picture,” Landry said. His tone was flat, matter-of-fact.
Their own mother, an early casualty of Jess Sutton’s incomprehensible charm, had died a few years before of a lingering illness. Disagreements about how to care for Maddie Rose at the end remained a major sore spot between the two brothers.
“How so? Is Barbara sick? Dead?”
“She’s somewhere in India or Pakistan—one of those third-world countries—on some kind of spiritual quest,” Landry replied with disdain. “That’s Dad’s story, anyway. Suffice it to say, Barbara isn’t exactly a contender for Mother of the Year.”
“And this is my problem because...?” Zane asked, stalling. He couldn’t turn his back on his own flesh and blood and Landry knew that, damn him. Still, it was an imposition, a responsibility he wasn’t prepared to take on at this juncture, when his whole life was in transition.
“Because Nash is your brother,” Landry said, with extreme patience.
“He’s also yours,” Zane pointed out. He was already wondering what a person said to a twelve-year-old kid who’d probably been shuffled between the homes of strangers, their dad’s distant relations, the girlfriend du jour and then back through the whole cycle again. Repeatedly.
“If I don’t make this meeting in Berlin,” Landry replied, “I could lose one of my most important accounts.”
“Sucks to be you,” Zane responded mildly. “Who’s been raising this child all this time, anyway?”
“My understanding,” Landry supplied stiffly, “is that he’s been knocking around the country with Dad. Recently, that is.” His voice softened a little. “He’s not a bad kid, Zane. And he didn’t have the kind of mom who would go to bat for him, like ours did for us.”
In that moment, Zane could see his late mother—an inveterate optimist, their Maddie Rose—in such vivid detail that she might as well have been standing right there in his kitchen. She’d waited tables for a living, and the three of them had lived out of her beat-up old station wagon more than once, when she was between waitressing gigs, but life had been good with her, despite all the Salvation Army Christmases and secondhand school clothes and food-bank vittles. She’d had a way of “reframing” a situation—her word—so that moving on, when a job ended or a romance went sour, always seemed like an exciting adventure instead of the grinding hardship it usually was. Even when it involved considerable sacrifice on her part, Maddie Rose always made sure they stayed put when school was in session, come hell or high water, and she’d checked their homework and encouraged them to read library books and made them say grace, too.
As always, he wished Maddie Rose had lived to see her elder son become something more than a rodeo bum, wished he could have set her up in a good house and made sure she never lacked for anything again, but, too often, life didn’t work that way.
She’d died in a hospital somewhere in rural South Dakota, a charity case, suffering from an advanced case of leukemia, before Zane could so much as cash his first Hollywood paycheck, let alone provide for her the way he would have done, given the chance.
Although he and Landry usually avoided the whole topic of Maddie Rose’s death, it lay raw between them, all right, like a wound deep enough to rub the skin away, and, even now, it hurt.
“Send Nash to Missoula,” Zane heard himself say. “Let me know when he’s getting in, and I’ll be there to pick him up.”
“Good.” Landry almost murmured the word. “Good.”
It wasn’t a thank-you, but it would have to do.
Zane didn’t ring off with a goodbye. He simply hit the end call button and sent his phone skittering across the tabletop, causing Slim to perk up his mismatched ears and straighten his knobby spine.
Zane grinned, then ruffled the hide on the dog’s back to reassure him. “You’re not in any kind of trouble, boy,” he told Slim. Then, with a philosophical sigh, he added, “And that makes one of us.”
* * *
THE NEXT AFTERNOON, Zane was late getting to the airport in Missoula, and it was easy to spot Nash, since the kid was standing all by himself, next to the luggage carousel, a battered green duffel bag at his feet. Earbuds piped music into his head, and his blondish-brown hair stood up in spikes, as though he’d been accidentally electrified. Seeing Zane, he scowled in recognition and dispensed with whatever tunes he’d been listening to while he waited.
“Montana sucks,” Nash said sullenly, and without preamble. “I thought I was going to Hollywood, and now I find out I’m stuck here.”
“Life is hard,” Zane replied, smoothly casual, “and then you die.”
Nash rolled cornflower-blue eyes. His clothes were a sorry collection of too-big jeans, cut off at the knees and showing a good bit of his boxers, sneakers with no laces, a ragged T-shirt of indeterminate color and a pilled hoodie enlivened by a skull-and-crossbones pattern in neon green. “Thanks for the 411,” he drawled, making it plain he’d already mastered contempt, even before hitting his teens. “I probably couldn’t have figured that out on my own.”
Zane sighed inwardly and reminded himself to be patient. Maddie Rose had seen that he and Landry had it good, in comparison with most poor kids, but Nash had been through the proverbial wringer.
“You hungry?” he asked the boy, stooping to pick up the duffel bag by its frayed and grubby handle.
“I’m always hungry,” Nash replied, without a shred of humor. “Just ask Dad. I’m a royal pain in the ass, wanting to eat at least once a day, no matter what. Too bad the kind of motels he could afford didn’t have room service.” A beat passed. “I was lucky to get a bed.”
Zane felt a clenching sensation—sympathy—but he didn’t let it show. He remembered all too well how poverty ground away at a person’s pride, how he’d hated it when people felt sorry for him and Landry. “Let’s get out of here,” he said. “We’ll find you some food once we’ve left the airport.”
Nash said nothing. He simply put his earbuds back in and rocked to some private serenade, ambling alongside Zane as they left the terminal and made their way to the outdoor parking area, where the truck waited.
Slim was there, pressing his nose against a partially lowered window as they approached. He gave a happy yelp of welcome and scrabbled to and fro across the backseat, unable to contain his excitement.
“You have a dog?” Nash asked, opening up his ears again and almost, but not quite, smiling.
“His name is Slim.” Zane confirmed the obvious with a nod, as he opened the truck’s tailgate and tossed the duffel bag inside. “Knows a thing or two about hard luck, I guess.”
“Then we ought to get along,” Nash replied, sounding far too world-weary for a twelve-year-old. “The dog and me, that is.”
