The Prodigal Texan

“Dance, later?”

“Shoo,” she said, without committing herself.

As she looked along the length of the table, she caught Rae Jean Barker’s eye. Rae Jean operated the beauty shop in downtown Homestead and considered herself the source for local news. As Nan watched, she turned and whispered something to Millicent Niebauer, who had stepped up to take her turn in the food line. Millie ran the local newspaper, the Homestead Herald, with her husband Hiram.

“I do like that young man you have working for you,” Millie commented as she moved in front of Nan. “He’s trustworthy and competent. And so attractive.” She sighed. “I bet girls all over the county are dreaming about him.”

“I expect so,” Nan said warily.

“I imagine he’ll set his sights on one of them soon, decide it’s time for him to get married, have some kids, find his own land to manage.”

“No doubt.”

“And all those females who thought he was so handsome will be left sad and lonely. Maybe feeling a little foolish, even.”

Nan met Millie’s gaze. “Maybe.”

The reporter shrugged. “That’s the way life works.” She moved on, no doubt fully aware of the knife she’d stuck between her victim’s ribs.

When Cruz came back, Nan was prepared. “No, I can’t dance.”

“Why not?”

“I’ve got to get the table cleaned up.”

“Later?”

“I don’t think so. Why don’t you dance with…” She saw the warning flares in his eyes. “Why don’t you go talk to Wade? Callie’s busy, and he’s all by himself.”

Cruz started to say something, then shut his mouth, turned on his heel and walked away.

Nan spent the rest of the reception hanging around the mothers and grandmothers. Maybe, without realizing it, she’d already gotten that old.

SINCE HE HADN’T BEEN invited to the reception, Jud decided to keep a low profile. He headed for the traditional party post for unattached males—the precinct around the keg.

With a tall plastic cup full of ice-cold beer in his hand, he leaned back against a tree, grateful for the chance to ease his barely healed leg and get his bearings before he actually tried to mingle.

Closest to him were the young studs, as he was sure they thought of themselves—he certainly had at nineteen and twenty. Like many of their kind, they spent the evening chugging their beer and making lewd comments about the girls preening for them on the other side of the dance floor. Jud didn’t know most of the boys’ names, but two of them he could identify by the fact that they were identical twins. Allen and Abel Enfield had the misfortune to take after their mother, with her frizzy red hair, freckled complexion and tendency to put on weight. The boys were big, beefy, and more than a little drunk.

“Mary Louise sure looks hot today.” Jud wasn’t sure which twin made the comment. “I bet I could get her to give me some, if I got her away from this stupid party.”

The other boys greeted the suggestion with hoots and laughter. “Yeah, right,” his brother said. “Just like last weekend. You were talking so big. And what’d you walk away with—a kiss on the cheek?”

That question started a scuffle, and Jud thought he was going to be called upon to prevent bloodshed. But when a silver-haired man with a drooping mustache and wire-rimmed glasses approached the keg, the knot of grappling boys instantly fell apart.

“This,” he said in an old-fashioned drawl, “is a wedding reception, not a tavern. If y’all can’t behave, leave immediately and I’ll deal with your bad manners myself later.” He stared down the Enfield boys, then looked around at their cohorts. Something about the way he held his silver-topped cane constituted a threat. “Any part of that order y’all don’t understand?”

A chorus of shamefaced “No, sirs” answered him.

The gentleman smiled. “Good. Now go ask those nice young ladies to dance. And keep your hands where everybody can see them.”

The motley crew dispersed, and the man turned to Jud. “Boys will be boys, as I’m sure you remember. How are you, Jud? Good to see you back home.”

“Thanks, Mr. Enfield.” He disengaged as quickly as possible from the former mayor’s handshake. “Looks like Homestead is getting to be a pretty lively place.”

“Yes.” Enfield’s smile held no warmth. “Yes, Mayor Miranda’s grand plan has certainly stirred things up, as I expect you’ll find out. Are you staying in town very long? You and Ethan must have a lot of catching up to do. Last time you were home was your daddy’s funeral…no, that’s not right, is it? You didn’t get here for that one. Your mother’s funeral, must’ve been. Quite a while ago.”

“Yes, sir.” Jud deliberately relaxed his hands. He couldn’t punch out a guest at a wedding reception, no matter how much he deserved it. “I was in the hospital when my dad…died.”

“Suicide is always such a tragic business.” Arlen clicked his tongue. “But I know you don’t want to talk of this right now. Give my best to your brother— I’m sure I’ll be seeing y’all around. That’s the thing about small towns, isn’t it? Everybody always knows what everybody else is doing.”

He turned to watch the crowd for a minute and Jud stood still, wishing the man would go away.

“I remember a time,” Enfield said with a sigh, “when farm laborers knew their place and stayed there.”

Jud followed his line of sight and saw the bride and groom laughing with a man who displayed his Hispanic heritage in his tanned skin and sleek black hair.

“Ah, well.” He turned back to Jud. “Enjoy the party.” When Enfield gripped his shoulder, Jud fought a strong urge to grab hold of the man’s wrist and twist. Hard. The former mayor’s sly digs had been one of the most unbearable aspects of living in Homestead. Something else that hadn’t changed.

Enfield ambled away. With his teeth still gritted, Jud freshened his beer and went back to surveying the crowd. His attention lighted immediately on Miranda Wright, maybe because she was taller than the rest of the women, maybe because he hadn’t expected her to look so beautiful.

That had been the problem four years ago, too. In the middle of his mother’s funeral, he’d looked up to see Miranda straight across from him…warm, lovely, concerned.

He’d remembered a scrawny girl, all arms and legs, with tightly braided pigtails, an overbite and a learning disability that caused the teachers to keep her back in several grades. Miserable Miranda had been her nickname, often called out in a singsong voice. As Jud recalled, the moniker fit more often than not. He recalled, too, how she challenged the boys to races, to arm wrestling, to any kind of physical contest that she thought she could win. More often than not, she was right.

Somewhere, sometime, the pigtails had given way to a thick chestnut mane flowing around her shoulders. The dentist who’d corrected that overbite should get a medal, because now what a man noticed about Miranda’s mouth was those full, kissable lips. Scrawny no longer applied, either—she had a figure perfectly proportioned for her height, with generous curves and long, shapely legs.

Jud had retained enough good sense to avoid her at the service, and afterward at his dad’s house. But when she’d shown up just outside his truck window while he tried to drown himself in whiskey, he’d lost the last of his pickled brains.

He didn’t recall every detail of their encounter, but he remembered enough. And so did Miranda— the fact that she still held it against him had been obvious in her face a few minutes ago.

So he would put her on his list of apologies to be made, along with most of Homestead’s population. Not in front of friends, though, and especially not in front of Brother Ethan, the man with a permanent stick up his butt.

Looking over the crowd, Jud found his brother slow-dancing with a cute redhead who must be his new wife, judging by the lack of space between their bodies. Good ol’ Ethan would never seduce a woman and then drop her like a hot brick. Faithful, loyal, honest…if Homestead had ever sponsored a scout troop, little Ethan would have been the poster boy.

Jud visualized a poster of himself with a big red X across the picture and the message Warning! Headed Straight for Hell! Do Not Follow! The glances he was getting from the guests at the party, the whispers he could see winnowing through the crowd, assured him his reputation remained intact.

On the dance floor, couples broke apart and then rejoined as the band commenced a two-step. Jud straightened up away from the tree as he saw Wade Montgomery coming toward him, accompanied by the man who didn’t “know his place,” according to Arlen Enfield.

“Join me,” he told the sheriff, holding up his beer. “I don’t like drinking alone.” Usually.

“Don’t mind if I do.” Wade drew a cup for himself and one for the other guy. “Jud Ritter, this is Cruz Martinez, the foreman on Nan Wright’s farm. Cruz, Jud is Ethan’s brother.”

Martinez offered a firm handshake. “Pleasure to meet you.”

“Same here.”

“I knew you’d need a place to stay,” Wade said, “and I didn’t think you’d…uh…want to crowd in at Ethan’s house, with the kids and all.”