Always A Cowboy

Luce trailed in then, looking a little shy.

Slater, Mace and Drake stood up again, and she blushed slightly and glanced down at her jeans and shirt—blue this time—as though she thought there might be a dress code.

Drake drew back the chair next to his, since there was a place setting there and his mother always sat at the head of the table.

Luce hesitated, then seated herself.

Harry bustled in, carrying a salad bowl brimming with greens.

“Go ahead and eat,” she ordered good-naturedly. “Your mother’s having supper in her office again. She’ll see all of you later, she said.”

Having delivered the salad, the housekeeper deftly cleared away the dishes and silverware at Blythe’s place and vanished into the kitchen.

For a while, nobody said anything, which was fine with Drake. He was hungry, fresh out of conversation and so aware of the woman sitting beside him that his ears felt hot.

He helped himself to stew and salad and three biscuits when his turn came and hoped Luce wouldn’t whip out a notebook and a pen and make a record of what he ate and the way he ate it.

There was some chitchat, Grace and Slater and Mace all trying to put Luce at ease and make her feel welcome.

Relieved, Drake ate his supper and kept his thoughts to himself.

Then, from across the table, his younger brother dragged him into the discussion.

“So,” Mace began, “have you warned Luce here that she ought to be careful because you like to swim naked in the creek some mornings?” He paused, ignoring Drake’s scowl. “I’m just saying, if she’s going to follow you around and all, certain precautions ought to be taken.”

Drake narrowed his eyes and glared at his brother, before stealing a sidelong look at Luce to gauge her reaction.

There wasn’t one, nothing visible, anyway. Luce seemed intent on enjoying Harry’s beef stew, but something in the way she held herself told Drake she was listening, all right. She’d have had to be deaf not to hear, of course.

Drake summoned up a smile, strictly for Luce’s benefit, and said, “Don’t pay any attention to my brother. He’s challenged when it comes to table manners, and he’s been known to dip into his own wine vats a little too often. Must have pickled his brain.”

“Now, boys,” Grace said with a pleasant sigh. “Let’s give Luce a little time to get used to your warped senses of humor, shall we?”

Slater met Drake’s gaze, saying nothing, but there was a twinkle in his eyes.

Mace pretended to be aggrieved, not by Grace’s attempt to change the course of the conversation, but by Drake’s earlier remark. “My wine,” he said, “is the finest available. It won’t pickle anything.”

“That so?” Drake asked. In the Carson household, bickering was a tradition, like touch football was with the Kennedys. He was beginning to enjoy himself, and not be so worried about the impression all this might make on Luce. “I seem to remember a science project—the one that almost got Ryder kicked out of school last term? Something about dissolving a tenpenny nail in a jar of your best Cabernet.”

“Stop,” Grace said, closing her eyes for a moment.

Luce giggled, although the sound was nearly inaudible.

“Why?” Mace asked reasonably. Like Drake, he loved Grace.

“Because it wasn’t a tenpenny nail,” Grace replied, looking to Slater for help, which wasn’t forthcoming. Her husband was buttering his second biscuit and grinning to himself.

“Your problem,” Mace told Drake, “is that you are totally unsophisticated. To you, warm generic beer from a can is the height of elegance.”

Let the games begin.

“I’m unsophisticated?” Drake raised his brows. “This from a man who wore different colored socks just the other day? That was sophisticated, all right.”

Mace looked and sounded pained. “Hey, it was dark when I got dressed, and I was in a hurry.”

“I bet you were,” Drake shot back. “Come to think of it, little brother, those might not have been your socks in the first place. Guess it all depends on whose bedroom floor you found them on.”

“Oh, for heaven’s sake,” Grace said, tossing a sympathetic glance Luce’s way.

“Are they always like this?” Luce asked.

“Unfortunately,” Grace answered, “yes.”

Just then, Blythe Carson breezed in, carrying a place setting and closely followed by Ryder.

“We’ve decided to join you,” Blythe announced cheerfully.

“Thank God,” Grace murmured.

Ryder, holding a bowl and silverware of his own, sat down next to his mother. “Basketball practice got out early,” he said. He nodded a greeting to Luce and reached for the stew.

Blythe Carson, more commonly known as “Mom,” sat down with a flourish and beamed a smile at Luce. “How nice to see you again,” she said. “I hope my sons have been behaving themselves.”

“Not so much,” Grace said.

“Hey,” Slater objected, elbowing his wife lightly. “I have been a complete gentleman.”

“You’ve been a spectator,” Grace countered, hiding a smile.

“All I did,” Mace said, “was warn Luce about Drake’s tendency to skinny-dip at every opportunity. Seemed like the least I could do, considering that she’s a stranger here, and a guest.”

“Hush,” said Blythe.

Harry reappeared with a coffeepot in one hand and a freshly baked pie in the other.

Once she’d set them down, she started whisking stew bowls out from under spoons. When she decided a course was over, and that folks had had enough, she took it away and served the next one.

Blythe sparkled.

The coffee was poured and the pie was served.

Ryder excused himself, saying he had homework to do, and left, taking his slice of apple pie with him.

The others lingered.

Grace, yawning, said she thought she’d make it an early night and promptly left the table, carrying her cup and saucer and her barely touched pie to the kitchen before heading upstairs.

Blythe remained, watching her sons thoughtfully, each in turn, before focusing on Mace. “Seriously?” she said. “You brought up skinny-dipping?”