A Rugged Ranchin' Dad

“It’s natural for a son to want to be like his dad,” she continued.

“Then I wish I’d been a lawyer or something like that,” Stone snapped, his pain and frustration close to the surface.

Dahlia drew in a fast, agonized breath and said nothing. What was the use? Everything she said to him came out wrong. Everything she did only made him feel worse.

“Dahlia...honey, I’m sorry.” He turned to her and tried to smile. “I didn’t mean to take your head off. I just wish I hadn’t told Field all those wild and wonderful stories about my rodeo days. It put ideas in his head.”

She laughed soft and low. “It’ll be years before he’s old enough to compete. Field’s exploring his options, that’s all. He’ll go through weeks of wanting to be a rodeo champion and then a concert pianist or a great painter—”

Stone hooted with laughter. “A concert pianist? Field? A rock musician, maybe, but give me a break. Field’s about as likely to play classical music as I am to sprout wings and fly.”

Dahlia grinned happily. Somehow she’d gotten him to laugh and that was a good feeling. And a good start.

She glanced out the window at the passing countryside, with its bluestem and buffalo grass. They were in the hill country now, driving along the Medina River, so they were almost at the ranch.

Stone turned onto a dirt road, lined with mountain cedar trees, and she breathed in the characteristic fragrance of the hill country. Stone took the bridge across the river and moments later they drove under the large sign, proclaiming: Tyler Ranch. Established 1900.

Field was the fourth generation of Tylers to live on the 750-acre spread. Dahlia knew it would break his heart not to grow up here like his father and uncles.

And it would break Stone’s heart, too, even if he was too stubborn to admit it.

She propped her elbow in the open window, her chin in her hand, and gazed out at the miles of whitewashed fencing crisscrossing the range. She stared longingly out at the herds of sheep grazing in the foothills, the young lambs frolicking after their mothers. She sighed heavily.

A big, white three-story Victorian house, nestled in a grove of very old oak and pecan trees, came into view. An enormous red barn stood behind it, off to one side. As always, she felt a flash of pride when she saw the place where she had come to live as a bride of twenty-one.

That had been nine years ago, she thought, as Stone parked in the circular driveway.

A lifetime ago.

The car door on her side was yanked open. Stone’s youngest brother, Rocky, escorted her gently across the driveway and up the porch steps. “We’re glad you’re home,” he said with a grin. “Gives us an excuse to throw you a welcome-home barbecue tonight.”

Dahlia smiled up at him, wondering where Field was hiding. “You Texas boys certainly do love to eat, don’t you?” she teased back.

“How did you ever guess that?” Rocky’s grin widened as he settled her on the porch swing. Rocky had a huge appetite for barbecued ribs and hot Texas chili, but he was cowboy-lean, and had women chasing him from three counties. “Field made you a pitcher of lemonade, all by himself,” her brother-in-law said, his voice low for her ears alone. “So pretend you like it.”

Rocky never changed, Dahlia thought gratefully, her gaze following Stone as he came up the front steps, carrying her suitcase. Just then the screen door flew open and Dahlia’s ten-year-old stepson rushed out onto the porch, carrying a glass of lemonade. He headed straight for the porch swing and thrust it toward Dahlia. “I made it myself. All by myself,” he added with a sidelong look at his father.

Dahlia took a sip, announced it was perfect and drank up as the little boy she’d raised almost from birth watched with anticipation. He was slender and dark like his dad, with Stone’s gunmetal gray eyes.

“Don’t I get a hug?” she asked the child she loved with all that was left of her heart.

Field hesitated. “Uncle Rocky said to be careful and let you hug me.”

Dahlia smiled and reached out with one hand to draw the little boy closer. “Thank you for being so thoughtful, sweetie,” she said, kissing his cheek. “And thank you for the lemonade. It’s delicious.”

Rocky returned to the porch, carrying a tray with the pitcher of lemonade and three glasses. There were also three different kinds of cookies. “Field went with me to the store this morning,” Rocky said with a wink.

“Don’t you like your lemonade, Dad?” Field asked, staring up at his father. Stone leaned against the porch railing, absently rubbing his fingertip along the rim of the glass he held. “I made it,” the little boy announced, a slight trace of defiance in his voice. “All by myself.”

“It’s good,” Stone said after taking a hasty sip. “Excellent.”

“I cut the lemons in half with a knife.” Field was eyeing Stone carefully. “And, boy, was it sharp!”

Dahlia’s breath caught in her throat. She saw Stone dart a swift glance in his brother’s direction.

“I was in there watching him,” Rocky said hurriedly, shifting uneasily on the porch railing where he was perched.

“But even if he wasn’t,” Field chimed in, “I could’ve done it. Because I’m not a baby.” That last statement came out as if he dared someone, anyone—especially Stone—to disagree with him.

Stone must have realized it, too, because he stated quietly, “No, you’re not a baby. And knives aren’t dangerous as long as you know how to use them.”

“I know how. Uncle Rocky taught me,” Field added helpfully, his gray eyes brightening.

Nearby, Dahlia heard Rocky’s low, rueful groan. Her gaze darted to her husband. Stone had practically raised his youngest brother, and now he fixed him with a long, level look of reproach.

“Uncle Rocky said you gave him a knife when he was my age,” Field piped up, making matters worse.

Dahlia saw the startled look in Stone’s gray eyes. He slowly set his glass of lemonade down on the porch railing. “Did Uncle Rocky give you a knife?” he asked gently.

Field hesitated, then darted a sudden sheepish look at Rocky. The little boy looked back at his father and slowly nodded. Pulling a small leather pouch out of the back pocket of his jeans, Field said, “He gave me the one that you gave to him.”

Instead of taking the knife away from his son, Stone merely asked, “And Rocky taught you how to use it?”

Field nodded. “This morning while we waited for the lemonade to get done.”

“After you finish drinking your lemonade, why don’t you ask your uncle Rocky to give you some more lessons?” Stone surprised everyone by saying.

Dahlia’s heart surged with hope as she saw the look of pure joy enter Field’s eyes.

Field and Rocky finished their cookies and lemonade in record time, and headed toward the barn. If she turned around, Dahlia would be able to see them. And she could certainly hear them as Rocky patiently taught the little boy how to handle the pearl-handled knife. She smiled at the laughter that drifted up to the porch.

“That was a wonderful thing you did, letting Field keep the knife,” Dahlia said, smiling cheerfully.

Stone shrugged. “A boy needs to learn how to handle himself. That includes weapons.”

“It means more than learning how to handle himself, Stone,” she said earnestly. “Letting him have the knife means you trust him.”

Stone drained the last of his lemonade and set the glass down on the tray. “It means I think he’s old enough to go away to school.” His voice was carefully low and even. “He’s right. He isn’t a baby. And he’ll do just fine at boarding school.”

“But, Stone—”

His gray eyes leveled on her. “He leaves two weeks from today.” Then he scooped up her suitcase and headed for the screen door. “I’ll put this in your room.”

Stone entered the house and shut the screen door behind him. It was more gentle than a slam, but much harder than merely closing the door, Dahlia noticed wryly.

Two weeks. In two weeks Field would be sent away.

Dahlia turned around in the swing, fixing her gaze on Field, out by the barn. Basil said if she didn’t return within three weeks, then she couldn’t return. One week had already passed. In the hospital.