Linda Goodnight - Lone Star Dad

He smiled a little, the curve of lips feeling unnatural. Mom said he didn’t smile enough anymore. Maybe so. He couldn’t think of much to smile about, but Gena Satterfield had both irritated and amused him.

She was a doctor or nurse or something medical. Unlike the rest of his family, he didn’t pay much attention to Gabriel’s Crossing society, but when she’d first moved back to Gabriel’s Crossing, the newspaper had carried an article about her, the former resident come back as a primary care practitioner. Nurse practitioner—that was it. He remembered now. She worked with Dr. Ramos.

What he hadn’t known was that she’d moved into the old Satterfield place. He didn’t notice much of anything anymore. But last night he’d noticed her.

He jabbed the poker at the recalcitrant embers, stirring to get a fire going. Recalcitrant, like the boy.

He’d put the fear in the kid during the ride home. Or he’d tried to. Derrick was a tough nut to crack, a city boy, who looked down his nose at small towns and country people. But he’d been fascinated by the gun. How he’d known about weaponry worried Quinn. City boys had no use for a hunting rifle, but Derrick had some basic knowledge. Enough to fire a lethal weapon. Not good. If the kid was going to handle a gun, he needed to learn to do it properly, to respect the seriousness and responsibility that came with the knowledge. Even then, accidents happened.

He rubbed at his arm, then tossed a log onto the embers and left the fireplace to do its thing while he rummaged up some breakfast.

Derrick Satterfield was not his problem. Not unless the surly kid stepped foot on his three hundred acres again.

When he reached inside the refrigerator, his hand trembled. He folded his fingers into his palms and tried to think of anything except the one thing that eased the gnawing in his gut and the hand shakes.

Maybe a run along the river. He grabbed the milk and poured a glass, then remembered the cat locked in his shed.

With a sigh, he poured a bowl of milk, warmed it in the nuker, donned his coat and hustled across the cedar-stabbed yard. As his arm had predicted, a very thin sheet of ice coated the world, glistening in the intense morning sun. Like back-lit crystals, the ice was beautiful, though damaging to the trees.

“Okay, lady, rise and shine. Today’s the day you hit the road. Drink your milk and g—” He stopped in the doorway. He should have expected this. “I told you no kittens.”

The tuxedo face glared up at him as her body heaved. Two damp babies, half-naked, lay on the towels. More, apparently, were to come.

He set the milk down on the floor. “Guess you’re not interested in this right now.”

A third kitten slipped onto the towels. The first two had begun to squirm and make small mewing noises, their eyes tight and faces squinched. The mother gave each a nudge and then went back to tending the newest in her brood.

“Cool. She’s having kittens.”

At the unexpected voice, Quinn startled and bumped his head on the low doorway as he backed out of the shed. As soon as he saw the speaker, he frowned his meanest scowl.

“What are you doing over here? I told you—”

“I don’t have to do what you say. Her, either.” Derrick shoved his hands deeper into the pockets of a blue unzipped parka. Beneath, he wore a black sweatshirt with the hood pulled over his forehead. He looked like an inner-city gangster, which was probably his intent.

“I could call the sheriff and have you charged with trespassing.”

The threat had no effect on the dark-haired boy. “I know who you are.”

Quinn tensed. “Yeah?”

“Yeah. Some hotshot quarterback who got himself shot and ruined his chances at the NFL.”

The cold morning air chilled Quinn’s breath and set the pain into motion. He squeezed his upper arm. “Where’d you hear that?”

“Dude.” Derrick slouched his shoulders and gave off his best you’re-so-stupid attitude. “Don’t you know about the internet?”

“You looked me up?”

“So? I was bored.”

“You got a smart mouth, you know that?”

“I hate this place. She never should have brought me here.”

“Why did she?”

The kid went silent, his mouth broody.

Trouble. Derrick must have been in trouble. “Where did you live before?”

“Houston. It’s way better than this...” pale blue eyes gazed around at the vast woods and emptiness “...this squirrel-infested backwoods dump.”

Quinn arched an eyebrow, shooting back as much venom as Derrick had aimed at him. “Afraid of the woods? Scared of the dark? Nervous when a coyote howls?”

“I’m not afraid of anything.”

No, he was terrified. Of life, of the new, unfamiliar environment, of looking soft. So many fears swam around in the kid’s head it was a wonder his ears didn’t flood. Quinn suffered an unwanted twinge of compassion. “We’re all scared of something.”

Derrick huddled deeper inside his hoodie. His ears and nose were red, his breath gray.

“Does she know you’re over here?”

“What do you think?”

“I think you should go home. Get off my land and quit giving her such a hard time.”

From inside the shed came a chorus of plaintive mews. Derrick straightened, his attention riveted on the dim interior. “She had another one.”

“You like cats?”

“Not much.”

“Me, either.”

“Look at ’em.” Derrick leaned inside. “They’re so little.”

Quinn sighed. “Yeah.”

“It’s cold out here.”

He wasn’t asking the kid inside. No way. He didn’t want people here. No one. Certainly not seventy-five pounds of trouble. “Get in the truck. I’ll drive you home.”

“Nah. I can walk. Nothing else to do out here.” But he made no motion to leave. With his eyes still on the kittens, he kicked his toe against the side of the shed. Ice chipped off. “Were you as good as they say you were?”

Quinn snorted and avoided the kid’s probing gaze. “Too long ago to remember.”

“A guy doesn’t forget stuff like that.”

He was right about that. Some things hurt forever. “Doesn’t matter now. I got work to do. Go home.”

Quinn spun away from the shed, the cats, the kid and the memories and stomped back to the house, ice cracking underfoot. His boots sounded like thunder on the hollow porch.

To his relief, Derrick didn’t follow. He didn’t even turn around. Instead he stepped inside the shed and shut the door.

Quinn blew out a hard sigh. The kid needed to learn two things: obedience and respect.

He went inside the house, warm now that the logs had caught and burned brightly, and tried to remember where he’d put his phone. After a five-minute search, he found it, battery dead, under a stack of blueprints. Most of the time, he left it turned off. Service was spotty anyway. If he wanted to speak to someone, he’d call them—a rare event.

The practice drove his family crazy.

He plugged in the charger and called Information for Gena Satterfield’s number and wasn’t surprised to discover she had a landline. Cell phones worked when they wanted to and in her profession, effective communication was probably requisite.

He punched in the number, and when she answered in her smooth-as-silk, professional voice, he ignored the quiver in his belly to say, “Derrick’s at my house again. Come get him before I call the sheriff.”

* * *

Gena fumed all the way down the twisty, bumpy trail that passed for sections of road between her house and the old hunting cabin on the river. She couldn’t decide who irritated her most, Derrick or Quinn.

Derrick had been curled up under his covers when she’d looked in earlier. At least, she’d thought he had been. She’d let him sleep late this Sunday morning, not in the mood to fight with him about going to church. She didn’t like to miss services but she had paperwork and dictation to catch up on anyway. The Lord knew and understood her schedule. She couldn’t always attend services, but she never forgot her faith.