Texas Miracle. Gwen Ford Faulkenberry

volunteered to help the brothers with breakfast, pulled up about the same time as Mac and Joiner. Mac inwardly cringed. As if reading his mind, Joiner chuckled and punched Mac’s arm. The well-meaning Douglas, with his perpetual sneezing, was the ultimate challenge to Mac’s germophobic tendencies.

      “Brotha chothas!” Hunt called from the kitchen as Mac stepped through the fellowship hall door. Hunt, ever the Cowboy Chef, waved a spatula high in the air to greet them.

      “The king with his scepter is already ruling the kitchen.” Cullen grasped Mac’s arm and then Joiner’s. Patting Douglas on the back, he offered them all rubber gloves.

      Douglas took his, wiping his nose with his hand before putting them on. A cold sweat broke out across Mac’s forehead. He wiped it with a handkerchief and then headed to the sink to wash his hands.

      “What’s that mean? Chothas?” Douglas asked.

      “It’s a corruption of the language,” Joiner explained, washing his hands, as well. “A twin thing.”

      Cullen interjected, “When Hunt and I were two, or so the story goes, Alma tried to get us to sleep in separate beds, but we both cried. Hunt told Alma, ‘But we can’t sleep apart. We need we’s chother.’”

      “Oh!” Douglas exclaimed. “Like each other. I get it.” He laughed from deep in his belly. “That’s cute.”

      “I’ve always been cute.” Hunt winked. The rest of the brothers groaned, rolling their eyes.

      Each one took up his usual station in the church breakfast assembly line: Cullen cooked the bacon and sausage, Joiner made pancakes, and Mac rolled out homemade biscuits. While Hunt used his considerable skills on maple-cinnamon rolls, they all worked to keep Douglas contained to the fruit cutting. By seven thirty, when church members began to filter in, the coffee was on and the table spread. It was a delicious-smelling feast.

      The brothers ate last, at a table with Sarah and her girls, as well as Gillian, Hunt’s wife. Both women were dressed in work clothes. As there was no call from Stella, they took that as a sign she was resting peacefully and decided not to bother her. Pastor Craig assigned the Temples to painting the youth wing, since Sarah’s girls were both in Youth, and the family worked through the morning making white Sunday school classes a more hip red, yellow and green.

      When it was time to leave, about noon, Mac offered to treat everyone to pizza. The girls clapped their hands. Joiner said, “Could we pick it up and take it out to the house?”

      “Great idea,” said Gillian. “I wanted to check on Stella myself.”

      Sarah nodded. “Why don’t you guys pick up the pizza and we’ll go get fruit drinks for everyone?”

      “Good deal.” Mac motioned for Cullen to jump in with him and Joiner while the women all piled into the station wagon with Sarah. “See you at Joiner’s in a few minutes.” He had a flickering thought of what it would be like to have Jacqueline there with him—like the others had their wives. But that was jumping the gun.

      When everyone arrived, they found Stella on the couch in flannel pajamas and wrapped in a white terry-cloth robe. Propped on a pile of pillows, she looked tired, her swollen feet spilling out of her slippers. “I feel much better,” she declared. “That doctor’s instructions were the ticket. I’ve had a good rest.”

      “Want some pizza?” Joiner smoothed her hair back from her head. “We got the kind you like just in case.”

      Mac shared a look with Cullen and Hunt—a look that was somewhere between admiration for Joiner and a desire to make fun of him. For now, admiration won out.

      Sarah and Gillian distributed pieces of pizza on paper plates while the girls passed out napkins along with everyone’s respective drink. They scattered around Joiner and Stella’s giant great room, sitting as near Stella as they could, some on the floor, some on the hearth of the fireplace, and some in chairs and the love seat nearby.

      “Call Buster,” Mac said. “We’ve got plenty.”

      “I already did,” Joiner said between bites. “He’s on his way.”

      “So, exactly how many weeks along are you, Aunt Stella?” Meg asked, pulling out her phone.

      “Thirty-two.” Stella patted her bulging belly.

      “Baby weighs around four pounds,” Meg read off her screen. “Lungs and digestive system will develop to full maturity in the next few weeks.”

      “We definitely need this little girl to stay in there awhile longer.” Stella rubbed her tummy. “I’ll admit I was getting worried in the wee hours of this morning.”

      “I’m so glad what the doctor suggested worked and the pains have stopped,” Sarah said.

      “What doctor? What pains?” Buster Scout burst through the door and wobbled on bowed legs to the couch where Stella lounged.

      Stella smiled at him with tired eyes. “Hey, Pops.” She patted one of his gnarled hands. “Nothing to worry about. I was having some pains earlier, but they’re gone now.”

      Buster scowled at Joiner with bushy salt-and-pepper eyebrows. “Why didn’t you call me?”

      “We didn’t want to worry you.”

      “‘We didn’t want to worry you!’’’ Buster mimicked Joiner in a high-pitched voice.

      “Really, Pops.” Joiner put his hand on Buster’s shoulder and walked with him into the kitchen, showing the older man the pizza. Mac followed them and poured Buster a drink of soda.

      “Thanks for taking care of Pistol for me this morning,” Joiner said.

      “You’re welcome. That why you were ridin’ hell for leather?”

      “Well, yes. I waited till she wasn’t having pains—or I wouldn’t have gone to the breakfast.”

      “And here I figured you two was just honeymoonin’ and lost track of time.” Buster winked at Mac. Mac cleared his throat while Joiner reddened. Buster, a retired bronc rider, could not be further from their real father in appearance and manner. And yet with his heart of gold, he’d become like another father to Joiner. Mac was grateful.

      As he stood in the doorway between kitchen and great room, observing the gathering of his people—his brothers’ easy banter, their wives’ concern and care for one another, how this closeness was already manifesting in the next generation—Jacqueline’s words from the night before came back to him. It was a big deal. This family network, the life he had with his brothers and the security it meant for all of them. Not everybody had that. Regardless of whom and what he had lost in his life, Jacqueline was right. Mac knew where he belonged. He resolved to play it safer—focus his efforts more on his family—rather than chasing whatever passing feelings he had for her. The Temple family was here to stay. And as bad as he might like it to be different, Jacqueline had made it clear she was just passing through.

CHAPTER SEVEN

      JACQUELINE WOKE UP to the sound of meowing. After finding her glasses on the bedside table, she checked the clock. Six thirty-five. Almost time to get up, anyway. The sun was just rising, and an orangey-pink light streamed through her window. Where was that meowing coming from?

      She followed the sound to the front room. Opening the door and stepping onto the front porch, she spotted a tiny calico kitten peering at her and howling as loud as its little lungs could muster. “Oh, you poor baby! Where did you come from?”

      Jacqueline picked up the kitten and stroked its soft fur. She looked around and saw no one else, and no other signs of another cat. An icy wind blew open her robe and she wrapped it more tightly around herself, cuddling the kitten. We can’t stay out here, she thought. She took the kitten inside and warmed up some milk.

      By the time Jacqueline