Bethany Campbell - Home To Texas

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.