Home To Texas. Bethany Campbell

by a mere mortal.

      “Mrs. Gilligan,” Bret said gruffly, “I need your help when you’ve got a minute. My son will be using the back bedroom. There are some women’s…things…in the closet. Could you move them someplace else?”

      Mrs. Gilligan squinted at him wisely. She had eyes as green as bottle glass and wildly curling gray hair. “I’ll see to it,” she croaked. “We’ll make him comfortable. Even the finest phoenix needs its nest.”

      Whatever the hell that means, Bret thought. “Yes. Well. Thanks.”

      He paused. “Mrs. Gilligan, about my son—I don’t know how long he’ll stay. Looking after an extra person…you’re sure this is all right?”

      “The more the merrier, or so the wind blows. I’ll tend to the closet.” She left, her gait somewhere between a scuttle and a scamper.

      Bret sighed harshly and stared after her. How old was she? Fifty? Sixty? Eighty? He couldn’t tell. At least he doubted if anyone would gossip he was sleeping with his housekeeper. Wiry little Millie Gilligan seemed as sexless as a pipe cleaner.

      Jonah came in the back door, quietly, of course. More leanly built than his father, he also stood taller, nearly six foot three. He had dark-lashed blue eyes like Maggie’s, intelligent and sensitive. Sometimes looking into those eyes ripped Bret with pangs of loss. She’s still here, he’d think. In him.

      Jonah gave Bret his serious smile. “Hi.”

      “Where’ve you been all afternoon?” Bret asked.

      Jonah tipped his brown Stetson back to an incongruously rakish angle. “Riding fence,” he murmured.

      Bret nodded in approval. Riding fence was a common stockman’s job, but Jonah never minded humble work. No part of ranching was beneath his interest. He was going to make somebody a hell of a manager.

      “Anything new?” This was generally a useless question to put to Jonah, because he always muttered, “Not really.”

      But today a troubled look crept into Jonah’s eyes. “New neighbor’s moving in.”

      Bret frowned. As if he didn’t have enough to do. “The woman?”

      Jonah shifted uneasily. “Yeah. Slattery told me.” Slattery was the foreman.

      “Well,” Bret said impatiently, “what did he say?”

      “She’s here, that’s all,” Jonah said. He shrugged out of his denim jacket and hung it on a peg beside the door. He went to the refrigerator, took out the milk jug and poured himself a full glass.

      “We should pay her a call,” Bret muttered, not looking forward to it. “Cal asked us to look in on her, make her feel at home.”

      “You go,” Jonah said, then drank his milk the way some men chug beer.

      Bret gave a sigh of frustration. Jonah went out of his way to avoid women.

      Bret would go alone. He wanted to honor his nephew’s wishes. He knew the woman was the sister of one of the partners, but nothing more.

      The only clue he’d had was Cal’s request to be friendly to her. “Help her if you can. She’s had a tough time.”

      Bret had been too discreet to ask what kind of tough time, and Cal had been too discreet to say. Well, maybe Bret would saddle up, ride over and get the job out of the way. He was not by nature a sociable man, and with Lang boomeranging back on him, he felt less sociable than usual.

      “Might as well do it and be done with it. Maybe I’ll saddle up that big bay gelding—” Bret began.

      Jonah’s blue eyes narrowed. “Somebody’s coming up the drive.”

      “It can’t be Lang?” Bret said and shook his head dubiously. “Too soon.”

      Lang had said he couldn’t make it to Crystal Creek before tomorrow evening.

      “No sir,” Jonah said, still staring at the driveway. Something like real joy glimmered in his eyes. “It’s Grady.”

      Bret felt a stab of displeasure. It can’t be him. He wouldn’t have the guts…

      But hiking up the driveway came a man in faded jeans, a blue work shirt and an open denim vest, lined with sheepskin. He wore a black Stetson pulled down over his eyes. He carried a scuffed duffel bag and walked like somebody who’d hiked a long way. Yet he somehow still managed a swagger.

      Bret would know it anywhere, that air of lazy swash-buckling, that easy strut. His face went rigid as he watched the too-familiar figure approach the house.

      Wide across the chest and shoulders, the man was a solid six feet tall. Although the day was chill, he wore no outer covering but the vest. His shirt was grease-stained, his black hat was dusty and he needed a shave. Still, he sauntered up to the back porch like a prince.

      It’s him, all right. Grady.

      With a shriveling sensation in his stomach, Bret looked on his eldest son for the first time in two years. He forgot the new neighbor. He forgot any promise to Cal. He even forgot Lang. All he could see was Grady, mounting the stairs like trouble itself getting ready to cross the threshold.

      Lord in heaven, Bret thought with sorrow and bitterness, just what have I done to deserve this?

      He had come to Crystal Creek to be alone. But now, as if directed by malignant forces, all three of his sons were descending on him. He had welcomed Jonah. He was determined to be hospitable to Lang. But what ill wind had driven Grady to his door—the only one of his sons who was truly charming—and truly worthless?

      CHAPTER TWO

      TIME AND WEATHER HAD CARVED the country around Crystal Creek into an uneven land of great hills and valleys. Some of these hills were massive enough to be called mountains, but most were low and rolling.

      In some places, great sweeps of rock covered the earth, like a flow of pale, hardened lava. Soil was thin. Only what was strong could survive here.

      Yet the landscape had stark beauty. Even in mid-November, the scattered oaks and elms fluttered golden leaves, and the sumac and soapwood bushes flared up from the ground like scarlet torches.

      But most of the trees were the scraggly, twisted ones that Lynn said were mesquite and their branches were nearly bare. They looked tough enough to suck nourishment straight from stone.

      Ahead, the flashing red of Lynn’s taillights signaled that she was turning from the highway to a dirt road. Tara followed. The road led up and was so badly rutted that her truck rattled and swayed. The way grew steeper and rougher, jolting her bones.

      Then, suddenly, the road leveled off, and the two trucks were halfway up a hill big enough, to Tara’s mind, to qualify as a mountain.

      And there it was—their house.

      She had seen pictures, but she was not prepared for the impact of the real thing. It was, she thought, magnificent. Magnificent yet sad, because it had been both neglected and abused. But she had come to change all that.

      The house was a long one-story sweep of limestone that glimmered so brightly in the sun it seemed almost white. It angled into a wide V shape so it could command views of the valley beneath it and the tall hills rambling into the distance in the west.

      It had once had decks and sun porches, but they’d been torn off, leaving bare patches of concrete and raw slashes on the face of the stones. Concrete blocks, stacked unevenly, formed three jerry-built steps to the back door.

      An enclosed walkway attached the house to a triple garage. A vandal with a can of red spray paint had scrawled graffiti on both stone and wood. Tara bit her lip in resentment, already feeling protective toward the house.

      “What do those words say?” Del ask, squinting at them in curiosity.

      “Nothing,” she