A Taste of Texas. Liz Talley

It was already such a chore to get him to sit still and focus on the homework he’d been assigned that afternoon. “That’s true, but he can’t play.”

      Henry roared into the kitchen, cleats dangling in his hand. “Hey, Mr. Hamilton, where’s practice?”

      The boy hopped onto the stool and started trying to untie the cleats. He ignored the bits of red clay that fell from the bottoms of the shoes and confettied the floor beneath him.

      “Um, sport, I can’t really add you to the team without your mom’s permission.” Brent slapped her son on the back and cast a furtive look at Meg. Like he thought she would help him.

      “Let’s leave Rayne and Henry to sort this out,” Meg said, jerking her head toward the dining room. Rayne wanted to kick her for helping the enemy. But was Brent really her enemy? Or was being a mom simply too tough sometimes? Either way, she wanted to blame someone for the heart she was about to break. Henry hated school and hated reading. Not a good combination for a kid in second grade. He still had a long row to hoe where academics were concerned even if he were passing at grade level.

      Brent moved faster than Meg. He beat her out the door by a good yard.

      Henry turned sweet brown eyes on her. “I can’t play?”

      Rayne sighed before slipping onto the stool next to her son. His cowlick stuck straight up and she wanted to kiss the freckles that sprinkled his little upturned nose, but she didn’t. She caught his hands, stilling them. “Honey, we’ve already talked about sports. School comes first, and you’re a little behind the kids in your class. Once you show me you’re doing better then you can play baseball or football.”

      “But—”

      “No buts.”

      “But—”

      “Henry!” Rayne crossed her arms and prepared for battle. “I said no.”

      His eyes filled with tears. “You’re so mean. You don’t care about me. You took me off my team and brought me here. I thought it would be okay, but I don’t like the stupid school here, either. School sucks.”

      “All right, where did you hear that language?”

      His lips pressed together and he glared at her even as big tears spilled down his cheeks. He rubbed his eyes but said nothing.

      “Henry? I asked you a question.”

      “Nowhere,” he muttered, propping his arms on the granite counter. His elbows had dirt on them and his shirt had barbecue stains from the sloppy joe he’d had for lunch. Rayne would have to start packing his lunch. No telling what had been in that meat in the school cafeteria.

      Rayne set her elbows on the counter next to her son’s and settled her chin onto her hands. She blew out her breath. “I don’t want you using that language again. It doesn’t sound nice.”

      Henry rubbed at his eyes again. “Please, Mom. Please say I can play. Let me at least go to practice with them. I’ll read that book. I promise. And I’ll make good grades, too. You’ll see. I can do it.”

      Her heart squeezed in her chest. She wanted to say yes. She wanted nothing more than for her baby to be happy. He’d gone through so much. He’d lost his father, had to move and suffered from separation anxiety and nightmares so severe that she cried herself to sleep for him. She wanted to watch him hit that ball and run those bases, but that was not what he needed. Sometimes it sucked being a mom. “I’ll make you a deal. You bring home signed papers that show me you are improving, and I’ll consider letting you play.”

      “But I won’t get signed papers till next week. Can I just read the book? Come on, Mom, let’s make a deal. Please. I promise I will do better.”

      Rayne felt the tears prick the back of her eyes. She thought about his face as he’d entered the classroom on Monday. About the way he’d fisted one hand in the fabric of her skirt. And she felt herself waver. Didn’t Henry deserve something to make him happy? God, she was such a sucker. “Okay, you can practice with them. But no game until papers come home. And you have to read, starting now. One chapter before you even look at a baseball.”

      Henry wrapped his arms around her arm and hugged it. “Thank you, Mom, thank you. I love you.”

      She turned and wrapped her arms around him and pulled him to her, inhaling his little-boy scent, dropping a kiss on the back of his sweaty neck. “I love you, Hank.”

      He jerked back. “You called me Hank.”

      “I don’t think it’s such a bad nickname, but I’ll still call you Henry most days.”

      “Like when I’m in trouble? Like when you call me Henry David?” His eyes laughed and he grinned like a deranged cartoon character. Something inside her bloomed at making him so happy, even as a little voice niggled, telling her she should have stuck to her guns.

      Rayne clunked that annoying told-you-so voice over the head with an imaginary mallet. Then she drank in the sight of her son from his cowlick to his knotted cleats. He was all boy. Never in a million years would she have expected her and Phillip to create something like Henry. When she’d been pregnant with him, she’d dream of a cerebral child with blond hair and a preference for violin rather than baseball. She saw herself popping in videotapes that taught foreign languages and music. She saw herself reading books and demonstrating how to paint with watercolors.

      Funny how life had played a joke on her with a rough, rowdy ball of fire. A sweet, silly Brent-like child. Well, except for the cerebral part. Rayne knew what many did not. Brent was highly intelligent. And Brent loved to read. And write. And create. And so did Henry. He simply just didn’t know it yet.

      “Okay, so off you go. I’ve got to finish my soup, and you’ve got a book to start on.”

      Henry’s shoulders slumped slightly. “Okay, but can I toss the ball with Mr. Hamilton before I start on the book?”

      At her look, he muttered, “Nevermind,” and hopped off the stool.

      She smiled and cast a glance toward the bubbling soup. She didn’t want to overcook it.

      “Hey, sport. I got you something.”

      Brent’s deep voice came from behind her. She spun on the stool to see him standing before Henry holding a book aloft.

      “A book?” Henry sounded a bit disappointed, but wasn’t rude enough to let it show too much.

      “Yeah,” Brent said, squatting down and thumping the book. She could make out a boy holding a bat on the front. “This one is about a boy named Charlie who finds out he’s really good at pitching, and, get this, he only has one arm.”

      Henry took the book and studied the cover. “How’s he do that with one arm?”

      “Guess you’ll have to read and find out,” Brent said, standing and looking at her. “All right with you, Mom? Maybe a sports book might be better than, what was the one you were reading? A talking mouse?”

      Henry’s eyes never left the book. “Yeah, a dumb talking mouse.”

      Rayne shook her head and smiled. “Well, what do you say, Henry?”

      “Hank,” Henry said before grinning up at Brent. “Thank you, Mr. Hamilton. I mean, Coach.”

      “You’re welcome,” Brent said, tousling her son’s hair.

      Seeing Brent touch her son in such a warm, almost fatherly manner did funny things to Rayne’s heart. She wished Henry still had a father to play ball with, to receive books from, to grin up at. She missed that for him. “Now, get to reading. You’ve got practice in an hour. Can he catch a ride with you, Brent? I’ve got to finish a few things here.”

      Henry waited for Brent’s nod before hauling out of the room like the devil was on his heels, clutching the book and tripping over his untied shoelace.

      Rayne looked