Linda Goodnight - Lone Star Dad

Alone was the only way to be until he got the monster off his back.

With the four tiny bottles of warmed milk replacer in his coat, Quinn stepped out into the cold night. Frost lay like a young snow over the grass and bushes, while the moon cast a white, ghostly hue over the shadowy trees and well house.

Winter was not a friend to scar tissue and damaged bone.

The surgical scars started their steady thrum of hot pain, and he whispered a thank-you to the heavens that the kittens would keep him occupied for a while. Anything to block the hunger for another painkiller.

A thin beam of yellow light slanted through the crack in the well-house door.

Quinn blew out a cloudy breath and shook his head.

Was the kid here?

Sure enough, Derrick sat on the floor inside, holding a kitten that sucked greedily at a milk bottle while the other three still in the box yowled in high-pitched desperation.

Quinn ignored the kindness of a boy traipsing through dark woods at midnight to feed motherless kittens. He scowled. “I told you to stay home. I got this one.”

“I was awake.”

Quinn grunted. So was he.

No point in asking if Gena had given permission. She hadn’t. But the kid was her problem, not his. If she let him get away with that kind of disobedience, she’d have to live with the consequences. He had his own problems.

Managing to squeeze his big body into the narrow space opposite Derrick, Quinn scooped two squirming, squalling babies into his left hand while balancing the pair of bottles between the fingers of his right one. Awkward but efficient.

Derrick watched for a second and then looked at his much smaller palm cradling a single baby. Quinn could tell he wanted to say something but the chip on his shoulder weighed him down.

“Big hands,” Quinn muttered, remembering the way a football fit perfectly and wondering why he bothered to make conversation with a pain-in-the-neck boy who should be home in bed.

Derrick’s defensive pose softened as curiosity got the better of him. “Can you palm a basketball?”

Quinn jerked a nod. “Haven’t in a while, but yeah.”

“I wish I could.”

“You’re still growing.” He was a good-sized boy for eleven, tall and lanky and on the verge of adolescence, when his jeans would be shorter every time he put them on. In the next couple of years, he’d grow even taller.

“I like football better anyway.”

“Me, too.”

The kid snorted. “Obviously.” And then surprisingly, “Do you miss playing?”

“Sometimes.” All the time.

“You still work out.” When Quinn’s glance questioned, he pretended to be cool. “I saw your weight set inside.”

Except for his arm, Quinn was in the best shape of his life. Rehab and running miles and miles with an addiction chasing you would do that. He punished his body because it had let him down.

When the kitten emptied the bottle, Derrick pressed the now-calm baby against his cheek and stroked its tiny belly with one gentle fingertip. Quinn watched, mesmerized by the boy’s tenderness with animals, a tenderness he hid from humans.

Derrick punished humans because they’d let him down. Or maybe he was punishing himself.

Quinn pondered the thought, not wanting this quiet, warm mood of empathetic companionship springing up in the well house over a box of cats nobody wanted.

But he had to admit a grudging admiration for a kid who would drag himself out of bed in the dark and cold to care for an animal. The action showed something caring and decent about the inner person.

The boy placed his now-fed runt of the litter, a tuxedo like her mother, into the box and gently lifted the final crying baby, a solid black. Quinn’s pair, one tuxedo and the other white, nursed contentedly, their tiny paws massaging the nipple as they would their mother.

He and the boy didn’t say anything more for a while. From the corner of his eye, Quinn watched the tired face across from him. Derrick was trying so hard to remain tough and aloof, he was about to implode.

“Why are you so mad at her?” he asked softly.

His face, smoothed by the kittens, went sullen again. “What do you care?”

“Just making conversation. She doesn’t seem so bad.”

A shoulder jerked. “You don’t know anything.”

“She beat on you?”

Surprised, Derrick’s eyes lit in an almost smile but he caught himself in time to scoff. “No.”

“Starve you?”

“She’s like a doctor or something, man. She wouldn’t do that.”

“So what’s your beef?”

Derrick stared down at the kitten and mumbled, “She shoulda told me.”

“Told you what?”

One beat passed. “Nothing.”

That’s what he got for asking. Nothing.

Quinn removed the bottles from the sated kittens and placed them on the heating pad. Derrick did the same. Neither spoke until they exited the building.

“Get in the truck. I’ll drive you home.”

“I walked here, didn’t I?”

“Suit yourself.” Quinn spun and started toward the house. As his foot thudded on the loose porch boards, Derrick said, “Uh, hey, uh.”

Quinn stopped but didn’t turn. “The name’s Quinn.”

“Uh, yeah, Quinn. I guess you can drive me home.”

A grin wiggled against Quinn’s lips. He headed for his Ram. Derrick hopped inside, slammed the door and slumped down in the seat, hood up and hands in his pockets.

They drove in silence down the bumpy trail to the gravel road, shivering deep in their coats until the heater grabbed hold.

The dash clock showed two o’clock. He’d made it, thanks to the cats and the kid. One small victory. One night without regrets.

“You have school tomorrow?”

“Like I can avoid it.”

“GC is a pretty good school.”

“Nobody likes new kids.”

Quinn flicked a glance at him. “Maybe because you have a mountain-sized chip on your shoulder.”

“So?” His glare said it all.

So? So plenty of guys could snap you like a number-two pencil, you little twerp.

All he said was, “Be careful or someone will knock it off.”

Derrick huffed. “Let ’em try.”

“You play sports?”

“Used to. I quit after—” He slid farther down in the seat. Pity welled in Quinn. The dash glow showed a sad kid, not a bad one.

He knew a little about being so sad that you wanted to disappear and the only emotion you could muster was anger.

The words pressed at the back of Quinn’s throat until they fell out in the dark silence. “Lousy, about your mother.”

Derrick didn’t answer. He turned toward the window and stared out at the black night.

Not your business, Buchanon. You don’t need this.

So he shut up. Making conversation with Derrick was like trying to pet a rabid porcupine anyway. What was the point?

At the corner leading to the rear of the Satterfield farm, the kid suddenly came to life. “You can let me out here.”

Quinn tapped the brake. “You think she won’t find out?”

“You gonna tattle?”

“I’ll think about it.”

The kid slid to the ground. “Thanks for the ride.”

Quinn jerked a nod. “Sleep in. I’ll feed them at six.”

“I’ll be there.” Derrick slammed the door and took off in a jog down the road.

Quinn watched the penlight bob across the field and into the backyard and finally disappear into the house before he turned the truck around and drove back to the cabin.

* * *

The next day, the Family Medical Clinic was jammed with sick people, and Gena’s brain vacillated between medical mode and stressing over Derrick and the untenable situation with her cranky neighbor.

Her sister had been right. Quinn was a player, a user. He didn’t even remember.