Home To Texas

Then, suddenly, the road leveled off, and the two trucks were halfway up a hill big enough, to Tara’s mind, to qualify as a mountain.

And there it was—their house.

She had seen pictures, but she was not prepared for the impact of the real thing. It was, she thought, magnificent. Magnificent yet sad, because it had been both neglected and abused. But she had come to change all that.

The house was a long one-story sweep of limestone that glimmered so brightly in the sun it seemed almost white. It angled into a wide V shape so it could command views of the valley beneath it and the tall hills rambling into the distance in the west.

It had once had decks and sun porches, but they’d been torn off, leaving bare patches of concrete and raw slashes on the face of the stones. Concrete blocks, stacked unevenly, formed three jerry-built steps to the back door.

An enclosed walkway attached the house to a triple garage. A vandal with a can of red spray paint had scrawled graffiti on both stone and wood. Tara bit her lip in resentment, already feeling protective toward the house.

“What do those words say?” Del ask, squinting at them in curiosity.

“Nothing,” she said. “Foolishness.”

Among the obscenities and insults, one message stood out: Fabian Go Home!!! Brian Fabian was the man who’d recently owned the property. It was he who’d had the porches torn down and most of the outbuildings razed. Gavin had told her the outline of the story, but not the details.

Lynn parked in the graveled driveway, and Tara pulled in behind her, pebbles rattling under her tires. Both women got out, and Tara unfastened Del from his seat. “Is this our new house?” he asked in a small voice.

“Yes,” Tara said. “And it’s going to be a very nice house.”

He stared uncertainly at the ruined porches. “It’s broke.”

“Yes. But we’ll fix it.”

She went to the back of the truck and unlocked the door of the kennel box. Lono bounded out, sniffed the ground with enthusiasm and lifted his leg at a cactus. He was clearly pleased with the surroundings.

Del was not. He frowned in worry. “Why’d somebody write on our garage?”

“Sometimes people do bad things. I’ll paint over it.”

He didn’t seem reassured. He put his thumb into his mouth, something he did when he was tired or anxious, and she could tell he was both. For once she didn’t tell him not to suck his thumb. Instead she picked him up, and he leaned on her shoulder, yawning in exhaustion.

Lynn nodded ruefully at the defaced garage doors. “Sorry about the graffiti. Sam was going to paint over it last Sunday, but we had an emergency. All three dogs met a skunk. Yuck.”

“It’s all right,” Tara said. “I’ll take care of it. You’ve done more than enough for us.”

“You may not feel so charitable when you see your decor.” Lynn rolled her eyes. “It’s only a mix of cast-offs and garage-sale bargains.”

Tara patted Del’s back and smiled. “It’ll be fine.”

She’d sold most of the furniture she’d had in California. She didn’t want the memories.

But the few good pieces she’d kept were coming, and their books, kitchen things, odds and ends. The man at the moving company said it was such a small lot, he’d have to squeeze it onto a truck headed that way with other loads, other stops. In the meantime, their possessions were in storage and might not arrive for weeks.

Tara didn’t mind. She’d lived in nearly bare houses before. She’d told Del it would be like camping out. He’d thought it sounded like fun—then.

Her horse and Del’s pony, their saddles and tack, would be brought by a man who moved horses for his living, Garth Gardner. Tara had known him for years and trusted him implicitly. But he, too, had a full schedule, and the horses were not due to arrive for almost a month.

When Lynn learned all this, she’d insisted on furnishing the house temporarily, even if the furnishings were few and haphazard.

“You’re going to feel like you’re living in a thrift store.” She gave a sigh. “Not even a good thrift store.”

She tunneled into the back pocket of her jeans and brought out a jingling brass ring. “Well, are you ready? Here they are, the keys to the castle.”

“I’m ready.” Tara took them, and they felt as weighty as her responsibility to her son. And to her brother.

AT THE DOUBLE C, Grady half limped up the stairs of the back porch.

He’d walked a long way and had picked up a stone bruise.

But he forgot the pain as he reached the top stair and his eyes caught the familiar vista of his uncle’s rolling land. J.T.’s spread looked good to him, mighty good.

The hills loosed a throng of memories that tried to force themselves into Grady’s mind. He blocked them expertly, as if they were gate crashers trying to storm an inner place he’d long fought to keep private.

Grady didn’t like to think much about either the distant past or the far future. He’d tried to live like a bird in flight, soaring in the present moment—but it had been harder to do of late. And he had to admit this particular present moment wasn’t so good, pride-wise.

Suck it up, he told himself. His father wouldn’t be happy to see him, but he’d take him in. Somebody had said that, right? Home is where they have to take you in.

So he raised his fist and knocked at the door. He gazed at the countryside from the top of the porch. And he remembered in spite of himself.

How many years since he’d chased Lynn McKinney up these very stairs, brandishing a garter snake at her? And she’d stopped on the top step, wheeled around and bloodied his nose—for scaring the snake. God, he’d been fond of J.T. and his wife and three kids. He’d thought the Hill Country would be home forever.

Don’t think of that. Don’t think of those days.

He started to knock again, but the door swung open. His father stood there, staring at him like he was a freshly delivered bad surprise. He supposed he was.

“Hi, Dad,” he said. A smile sprang to his lips because in his heart he was glad to see the old man, even if the feeling wasn’t mutual.

He hadn’t set eyes on his father for two years, not since the funeral. They’d had words then. They’d had few since. Grady phoned once in a while, but the old man never had much to say. Well, two years was a long time, and Grady had never been one to hold a grudge.

As for the old man, although he looked perplexed and displeased, he didn’t actually look old. He looked a lot better than he had at the funeral, where he’d been worn and ashen as a zombie. He looked strong again, like his old self.

So Grady nodded in approval and said, “You’re looking good.” He meant it.

His father’s dark eyes looked him up and down. They had a spark of their old fire. “To what do we owe this honor?”

Grady cocked his hat back. “I heard you were in Crystal Creek. I was passing through. I was going to stop and see you.” He grinned. “But my truck stopped about eight miles before I did.”

“Oh, hell,” his father said and swung the screen door open with a sort of stoic resignation. “Come on in.”

Grady entered the kitchen, lugging his duffel bag. The scent of spicy beef hit him like a whiff from heaven. “Lord, that smells fine,” he said. “Am I invited for supper?”

“I suppose,” Bret said in the same weary tone.

“Good to see you again,” Grady said and offered his hand. Bret took it and initiated a contest of who could squeeze the hardest. Grady let him win, dropped his duffel bag to the floor and turned to Jonah, who stood by the window.

For a second Grady’s heart took a strange, flying vault. Looking into Jonah’s eyes was like plunging backward in time and staring into their mother’s eyes. Nostalgia pierced him like an arrow through the chest.