Her Texas Rebel

She rolled over in bed, listening for the crowing of the rooster that had been her alarm clock growing up. Nothing. What else had changed in the ten years she’d been gone?

Since a yelling match with her father had escalated into her storming off to live with her Aunt Patty and Uncle Troy in Houston.

At the time she’d thought her relationship with her father was beyond repair. Amazing what ten years and the love of a grandchild could do. It had been so late when she’d arrived at her father’s the night before that she’d fallen into bed without even turning on the light. She propped herself up on her elbows and examined the room she’d grown up in. Her breath caught. Everything was exactly the same. So much for change.

Her rose-colored bedspread, now faded to such a light pink it was almost white, lay clean and crisp on her double bed. The dresser across the room showcased her trophies and ribbons. Pictures of her high school activities and friends were still pinned on the corkboard next to the dresser.

Her bare feet didn’t make a sound on the threadbare carpet as she padded across the room to the closet. She steeled herself and opened the door. The clothes she hadn’t taken with her all those years ago were still on their hangers. Shoes lay scattered across the closet floor. With shaking hands, she reached up to the top shelf and her fingers brushed a small wooden box. She didn’t need to lift the lid to know what was inside. As happy as she was to be home, some memories were just too painful. She left the box in its place and went to the kitchen to make coffee.

“Already made.” Her father saw where she was headed and handed her a full mug.

“You should’ve woken me up. I don’t normally sleep this late.” She added sugar to her coffee.

“Figured you needed the rest.” Dad took a sip from his own cup. He nodded toward the alcove that had been added to the end of the large country kitchen. “What do you think of the addition?”

“It was so late when we got here, I didn’t get a chance to see it. I still can’t believe you finished it.” The gesture had been the final straw in convincing her to come back to Salt Creek.

Her parents had dreamed of a big family, so her father had started building onto the small two-bedroom farmhouse when Sabrina was two years old. Four years and three miscarriages later, the cement foundation and wooden frame only served to remind Sabrina’s mother of the family that would never be. When she hadn’t been able to bear looking at the wood-framed walls another minute, Dad had taken a sledgehammer and torn it down, piece by piece.

“When did you start on it again?” It must have taken months for him to finish the addition all by himself, and goodness knew how much money. How long had he been hoping she would come home?

“I started working on it right after Patty decided to move to Florida.”

Sabrina choked on her coffee. “That was seven years ago.”

“Yeah, well, I thought maybe you’d want to move back home when she left.”

Her heart leaped in her chest. “You never said anything.”

“I was waiting for the right time.”

She pushed down the butterflies swarming in her stomach. Her father cared much more than he ever said out loud. What was it her mother used to say? Actions spoke louder than words.

“I’ll be out by the pond if you need me. Water pump broke again.” He sat his cup in the sink. “We’ll finish unloading your furniture as soon as I get done.”

“Okay.” She suppressed a smile. The farm came first. It always did. The 160-acre homestead had been granted to her great-grandfather over 150 years ago. Not large enough to be considered a ranch, it was just enough to sustain a family. How had he managed by himself for the past ten years?

“No rush. The only furniture I brought was Levi’s bed and dresser. The rest of it is just boxes, and Levi and I can unload those.”

She tiptoed across the kitchen and paused outside the finished addition. She swung the door open silently and looked for her son. Levi was curled up inside the sleeping bag her father had left out for him. He looked so peaceful, his curly brown hair framing his cherub face. She doubted his teachers would use the word cherub to describe Levi.

His less-than-angelic behavior had been what finally drove her to return home. Levi shared more than physical looks with his father. They had the same quick temper and nose for trouble. Despite her best efforts, he was becoming more like Tony every day. Levi tended to get bored quickly, and boredom led to trouble. For the second time in her life, she was putting college on hold for the good of her child.

Country life was ingrained in her bones, but even so, moving back to Salt Creek was hard. Almost like admitting that she was a failure—the valedictorian, National Honor Society president and Best All-Around Student returning home a single mother with no education and no job.

Two things gave her the courage to face her conservative hometown. The first was the knowledge that Levi needed a change of environment to keep him out of trouble and possibly out of juvie. Her son was way more important than her pride. The second was knowing that no one, not even her father, knew who Levi’s father really was.

She topped up her coffee and carried it into the sparsely decorated living room. It was just large enough for a sofa and reclining chair, and her mother’s throw pillows still adorned the leather furniture. The Lampasas Dispatch lay folded neatly on the coffee table and she picked it up. The small newspaper was delivered only on Sundays and Wednesdays. Did Salt Creek still have a small section on Wednesdays?

She flicked the newspaper open to the middle and settled back to read. A local high school girl was competing in the Miss Texas pageant. An engagement picture of a young couple. She frowned at the names. Was that the same little boy she used to babysit? Another break-in at a construction yard. It didn’t take long to read the one-page section. She closed the paper to read from the beginning and her blood turned to ice.

The headline read “Hero Cop Has Roots in Lampasas County.” One name jumped out at her and sent her heart into overdrive. Tony Montoya. It couldn’t be. She scanned the article again.

Her hands shook and she laid the paper on the sofa. All the town had ever seen in Tony was a rebellious teenager looking for trouble. He’d certainly proven them wrong. A decorated police officer who put his life on the line by jumping in front of a bullet to save a young man’s life in the middle of an attempted robbery?

According to the paper, he was at home with his grandparents, where he was recovering from a fractured rib and a bruised lung. He was expected to return to work by the end of June. How was she going to avoid running into him in a town of fewer than seven hundred people?

* * *

TONY RUBBED HIS EYES. There was someone standing next to his bed. His gaze finally focused as an imposing figure with gray hair hovered over him, making him jump. A sharp pain shot through his shoulder, jolting him back to reality. He wasn’t at his apartment in San Antonio. He wasn’t at the hospital. He was in the one place he’d sworn he’d never return to. Salt Creek.

“Papa. What are you doing? It’s two in the morning.” He rubbed a hand across his face.

“You were moaning in your sleep,” his grandfather said. “Your grandmother was worried.”

Abuela wasn’t the only one. Tony rolled his shoulder and winced. The nurses at the hospital had warned him that the pain would get worse. Still, he’d rather suffer a little than risk relying on medicine. He’d have to do a better job of masking the pain. The thought of his grandmother losing sleep over him pierced his heart.

Papa fumbled through Tony’s things on the dresser. “Where are your pain pills? Didn’t you take them before you went to bed?”

“I don’t need them.” Tony stood up, fighting a wave of lightheadedness.

Papa pulled the empty prescription bottle from the top drawer of the dresser. “Where are they?”

Guilt pricked him. Did his grandfather think he’d already taken them all? Was Papa worried he’d end up like his mother? Pain medication was the first of many drugs his mother had been hooked on.

“I flushed them down the toilet after Abuela brought them home from the pharmacy.” Tony didn’t voluntarily take narcotics of any kind. Not even the helpful ones. Ever. The ones given to him immediately after his surgery didn’t count.

“Why?”

Tony noticed the lines around Papa’s eyes. He looked tired. He looked...old. “I’ve read that children of addicts are much more likely to become addicts themselves. I’m not willing to take that chance.”

Papa stiffened. “So you didn’t take the pain medicine?”

“No, Papa. I’ll take some ibuprofen when it bothers me too much, but I won’t take anything stronger than that. Please don’t ask me to.”

“You’re not like your mother, mijo.” Papa placed his hands on Tony’s shoulders. “Abuela will make an icepack for that shoulder. Perhaps that’ll help.”

Papa walked out of the room and Tony sank back onto the edge of the bed. Where would he be today if social services hadn’t discovered the grandparents he hadn’t known existed? Would he have been holding up convenience stores and pushing drugs like Adolfo? No. Not drugs. Never that.

Before his mother died, he’d joined a small street gang in his neighborhood. Until he’d found out they were the ones pushing drugs at his school and his own mother was one of their best customers. Getting out had meant risking his life. The beating he’d taken would’ve been more than worth it if he could’ve saved his mom.

At the soft knock on the door, he gritted his teeth, determined not to let any pain show on his face. “Come in.”

“I brought you some ice for that shoulder.” Abuela placed the pack on the nightstand and sat next to him. “You will tell me if you need anything?”

“Of course,” he lied. He’d been here one night and already he was interrupting their lives. “I’m sorry I woke you.”

Abuela took one of his hands in hers, her calloused fingers running over his knuckles. “You try to get some sleep.”