Darlene Graham - Lone Star Rising

Virgil Parson loved nothing so much as being prepared and making money. And he made buckets full off the regulars at the Hungry Aggie, not to mention the seasonal tourists who wandered from town to town in the Hill Country, looking for that perfect piece of chess pie. At the Hungry Aggie they found the chess pie and much more. Barbecued chicken, baked ham, sweet potato pudding, red beans and rice, hot rolls with peach peel jelly.

Robbie tied on one of the clean white aprons that the efficient old cook had already hung on hooks next to the walk-in refrigerator. Her wet shirt felt clammy against her tummy, but she was relieved that the moisture didn’t soak through the starched apron.

“You’re getting better at this, girl. You even beat old Nattie Rose in here this morning,” Parson informed her.

Robbie gave Parson a grimace. Nattie Rose was not old. She went to high school with Robbie’s younger sister, Markie. And Nattie Rose was never late. “Hope she’s not trapped out on some low water bridge,” Robbie said. Nattie Rose and her husband Earl lived on Earl’s family’s ranch, way out on a remote ranch road. Without Nattie Rose as a rudder, Robbie’s job would be hell today.

She and Parson fell into the rhythm of work in the brightly lit kitchen. He cut biscuits. She filled the two big coffeemakers. Together, they laid out bacon strips onto large jelly-roll pans. Parson always slow-baked the bacon in the kitchen’s huge cast-iron ovens because he claimed that was the aroma that brought in “The Boys,” as he called the customers.

When they’d gotten things organized, Parson pulled up a stool for Robbie to perch upon. “You and Hootcheecoo better take a load off while you all can.”

Parson, who made up a nickname for everybody, had taken to calling the baby Hootcheecoo, which amused Robbie, since she hadn’t been able to come up with a proper name for the baby yet. In the same way that Frances, Roberta and Margaret McBride were named after their aunts, Robbie’s three sons had been named the masculine versions of the McBride sisters. Frank after Frankie, Rob after Robbie, and Mark after Markie. Robbie supposed she would be breaking up the family rhythm with this fourth surprise baby.

Their routine had been for Parson to scramble Robbie some eggs as soon as the grill was hot. He set a pat of butter to sizzling, tossed on peppers, onions and tomatoes, poured the whipped eggs over the pile and added a handful of chopped cilantro and a dash of picante sauce. Robbie’s mouth started to water. Parson cooked a finer omelet than any four-star chef.

“Did you get that window fixed?” He wiped his hands on his apron while the eggs started to bubble.

“Yes,” Robbie said glumly. Not because she was thinking about the window, but because of the man who had fixed it. Thinking about how he was too gorgeous, and she was too frumpy. She was starting to wish Zack Trueblood had never come around to further complicate her life.

“What’s wrong?” Parson eyed her, then poked a spatula at the edge of the omelet. “You needin’ a little cash money for that window, child?”

“No.” Well, actually she did, but that was not Parson’s problem, bless his generous old heart. “Zack Trueblood fixed it for free.”

“Zack Trueblood? The one that comes in here and eats up everything but the sink? That big firefighter boy that looks about half Indian?”

Robbie winced. Nobody would dare hazard the mention of race to Parson, but such matters weren’t sacrosanct to the old man. His were the old ways, plain-spoken, uncomplicated by worries about such matters as political correctness.

“What’s ailing you? You look like you just bit a sour pickle.” The spatula halted in midair as if a thought hit him. “You ain’t having pains already, are you?”

“No.” Robbie smoothed the crisp white apron over her tummy then squirmed up onto the stool. “It’s just…oh, it’s nothing.”

“It is too something.” Parson plunked a heavy plate with the steaming omelet before her. “And you ought not to hold it in, lest you pop or somethin’.”

Robbie took up the fork and slid in a mouthful of omelet. It was absolutely perfect. Parson eyed her while she chewed, so after she took a sip of the milk he’d poured for her, she conceded, “It’s Zack Trueblood. He…I don’t know. He makes me…uncomfortable.” Robbie couldn’t admit, even to herself much less to Parson, that the word she was really searching for was more like bothered. Hot and bothered, actually.

“Uncomfortable? He ain’t pressing himself on you or something?” Plainspoken for sure, that’s what Parson was.

“No! Zack would never press himself on anybody!” Robbie wasn’t sure why she defended the man so strongly. The heroic way he’d tried to save Danny, she supposed. She took another bite of omelet.

“Then how come your cheeks is redder’n a hot chili pepper? Listen, little sister, if he’s coming around all nice like, doing favors and all, you’d best watch yourself. Ain’t no woman as defenseless as a widow with—”

“Woo! Lordy!” Nattie Rose’s cheery voice cut off Parson’s rant as the diner’s other waitress burst through the back door. “It is raining pitchforks out there! Bet we’ll be swamped today!” Nattie Rose Neuberger—always called by both nicknames and never by her given one, Natalie—bustled into the kitchen, perfectly groomed in tight-fitting jeans and a starched Western shirt, raring to go, as always. She was carrying a pair of immaculate white athletic shoes with fire-red laces. She plopped onto a stool and tugged off battered, rain-soaked cowgirl boots.

Robbie shoveled in the last of her eggs, grateful to be delivered from Parson’s meddling lecture. From out in the restaurant came male voices, the sounds of the first customers trickling in. Robbie peeked out of the swinging door to see Zack Trueblood and his friends sliding into their usual booth.

“Can you take care of those guys?” Nattie Rose said. She was still tying her red laces.

“Somebody needs to take care of those guys,” Robbie mumbled as she squeezed past Nattie Rose’s perch on her way out with the coffee. All three of the single firefighters were well-known about town as the most eligible of the eligible bachelors in Five Points. Nobody knew, except Parson of course, that the most handsome of them had been to Robbie’s house twice now. And nobody needed to know. Robbie adopted a carefully neutral expression as she approached the booth.

“I saw her in there hanging out with some guy with a popped collar,” the one named Mason was saying. “I swear the dude had a manicure.”

Zack and his two friends chuckled. Then the firefighters all turned to Robbie, mumbling, “Hey, Robbie,” like they did every morning.

“Hi, fellas.” Robbie angled her washtub of a belly away from the table as she poured the first mug of coffee and the men resumed their chatter. They were all good-looking guys. Not pretty boys, but handsome in a rough-cut way with easy smiles and square jaws. And Zack Trueblood was by far the best-looking of them.

“So. What’s she doing with some weirdo at the bookstore,” the third guy was saying. “I thought you two had a thing going.”

“Nah.” The resonance of Zack Trueblood’s voice so near to her body sent a tiny thrill through Robbie, but she wouldn’t let herself look at him, bad as she wanted to. Not in front of these men. “I don’t have any claim on Lynette. She can hang out with whoever she wants.”

Robbie felt a rush of heat to her cheeks as she realized they were talking about some woman Zack must be seeing. She found she had to steady her hand as she proceeded to pour the last two mugs full.

“It doesn’t bother you, even if the guy’s some kind of metrosexual pinko?” Mason pressed.