A Small Town Thanksgiving. Marie Ferrarella

gave no indication that his son’s tone annoyed him. “On how long it will take her to organize those journals and diaries in such a way that she can use them to create a memoir that does your great-great—that does G-4 justice,” Miguel amended.

      Mike didn’t bother stifling his sigh of displeasure this time. “In other words, she’s going to become a permanent member of the household.”

      “Only if you or Ramon marry her,” his father countered innocently. “The way Rafe married Valentine.”

      Or if you marry her, Mike thought, keeping the response, which he meant more than half-seriously, to himself. It had been a long time since his mother had died and there were times Mike worried that his father was ripe for the picking by some enterprising little gold digger.

      “Well, I certainly won’t,” Mike said out loud, “and Ray is still half pining after that starlet who was here while they were filming that movie in Forever. Although he does fall in and out of love like some people change socks,” Mike acknowledged, “so maybe you’d better warn this literary cleaning lady that she might just want to stay where she is instead of coming to the Casa de Rodriguez,” Mike concluded.

      His father surprised him by shaking his head sadly and asking, “When did it happen, mi hijo?”

      Mike looked at his father, confused. “When did what happen?”

      “When did you become this old man?” Miguel asked. “These are the years when you are supposed to be young and foolish, my son. Enjoy life. Make mistakes and pick yourself up and try again. That is how you grow,” the older man insisted. “Through experiences.”

      Sure there might have been times—few though they were, Mike silently maintained—when he thought that something might be missing from his life. But that had been part of the sacrifice he’d felt he had to make for the good of the family. “Sorry, Dad. Someone around here has to be the serious one.”

      The way Miguel saw it, it was a matter of definition. “There is serious and then there is inflexible.” Miguel patted his son’s face. “Do not miss out on being young, Miguel. You only get one chance at it.”

      He was who he was and for the most part, he’d made his peace with that. He was too old to change now, Mike thought. “You seem to be doing just fine for both of us, Dad.”

      Miguel shook his head. It was obvious by his expression that he was trying to understand just where he had gone wrong, where he had failed his first-born. All his other children were outgoing and had a zest for life, even Eli, while Miguel Jr. seemed to work hard at avoiding it, foregoing any personal dealings outside the family—sometimes even inside the family. That was no way to live, the older man thought sadly.

      But it wasn’t a problem that could be solved quickly, or even soon. And he had something more pressing that needed tending to.

      “We can discuss this at some other time,” Miguel told his son. “Right now I need you to go and pick the young lady up at the airport.”

      The closest airport to Forever was over fifty miles away. A trip of that nature would take a huge chunk out of his day.

      “When?” Mike asked, preparing to beg off whatever date his father gave him.

      “Leaving in the next twenty minutes would be nice.” Miguel watched his son’s jaw drop in amazement. “I know how you like to give yourself enough time in case something comes up like a traffic jam outside of Laredo.”

      “Today?” Mike asked in disbelief. “You want me to pick her up today?”

      Miguel nodded. “Her plane lands in a little less than two hours.”

      “And you’re just telling me this now?” Mike asked in disbelief.

      “I thought it was better that way. It gives you less time to be angry about it. You know how you get,” he pointed out sadly to his son.

      “Dad, I can’t just drop everything and—”

      “You have nothing to drop,” Miguel told him calmly. “I have already checked.”

      Mike didn’t like being thought of as predictable. “What if I had plans you didn’t know about?” he challenged.

      “When have you ever had plans no one knew about?” his father countered.

      “I could,” Mike maintained stubbornly.

      “Do you?” Miguel asked, his eyes meeting his son’s.

      With reluctance and no small measure of annoyance, Mike replied, “No, I don’t.”

      “Good, then I would hurry if I were you.”

      “How am I supposed to find this literary genius?” he wanted to know.

      It was more a matter of the young woman finding his son, Miguel thought. After he’d seen her picture, thanks to Olivia’s computer, he saw great potential—not just for his ancestor’s journals, but for his present-day son, as well.

      “I told her you would hold up a sign with her name on it and I described you to her.”

      Mike stared at his father. “You knew I was going to pick her up?” He’d just agreed to it this moment. He could have just as easily said no and refused, Mike thought.

      “Of course,” Miguel replied complacently. “I am your father. I know everything. I told her to look for a tall, dark, handsome man with a deep scowl on his face. Of course, if you have the sign with her name on it, it would not really confuse the young woman if you were, perhaps, smiling,” his father concluded hopefully.

      “Maybe not, but it might confuse me,” Mike quipped. And then he sighed. “What’s her name so I can write it on the sign?”

      “Her name is Samantha Monroe,” his father told him. Reaching behind the sofa, Miguel pulled out a large white poster board he’d prepared earlier. Both the woman’s name as well as his own was on it. And beneath that was the name of their ranch.

      The lettering was rather distinctive and very eye-catching. That did not look like his father’s handiwork, Mike couldn’t help thinking.

      “You did this?” Mike asked rather skeptically.

      Miguel laughed softly under his breath even as he shook his head. “I would like to take the credit for it, but it was Tina, Olivia’s sister, who is the artistic one.”

      “Tina,” Mike repeated. “Olivia’s sister,” he added for good measure. “Did everybody in town know about this woman coming but me?”

      “Not everybody,” his father replied evasively. “Just those who would not be upset by the news.”

      “In other words, everyone but me,” Mike repeated.

      He blew out a breath, annoyed because he knew he was on the losing end of a disagreement that he had been destined to lose before he was ever born. Mike freely acknowledged that he was different from his brothers and his sister in that by no stretch of the imagination could he be described as being sociable, ready to call any stranger “friend” after an exchange of only a few words. Pressing his lips together, he kept his comment to himself. Instead, he reached for the sign and muttered, “I’ll see you later.”

      His father followed him to the door. “Thank you, Miguel.”

      Mike made no answer. He didn’t trust himself to say anything at all. Instead, he merely nodded in response and kept on walking.

      * * *

      PACKING WAS EASY when you had very little to pack, and possessions had never been a big factor in Samantha Monroe’s life.

      So, picking up and physically being ready to travel was no problem.

      Acclimating was more difficult.

      Sam had butterflies in her stomach. The same butterflies that showed up each and every time she began a new project.