The Cowboy's Return. Linda Warren

      “Tripp, where are you?”

      “I’m here, Mom,” he called. He closed the door and found his mother in the den. Leona Daniels had once been tall, regal and sophisticated. Now Tripp hardly recognized the stooped lady wearing thick wire-rimmed glasses. Her white hair was cut in a short style and she looked much older than her sixty-five years. Patrick’s untimely death had devastated his parents, and him, too. It had been years since that awful car crash and still the family hadn’t recovered.

      “What do you need, Mom?” he asked and gently clutched her elbow.

      “Oh, Tripp, there you are.” She stroked the hand on her arm. “I was looking for Morris and I can’t find him. I think he’s hiding from me.”

      Tripp smiled slightly. Morris probably was hiding. Tripp sometimes wondered about the man’s hearing problems. He could hear certain things, like the TV, just fine, but his parents’ constant orders, he could shut out completely.

      “Why do you need Morris?” He guided her toward the sofa.

      “I was wanting a cup of tea.”

      “You have a seat and I’ll fix it.”

      “Okay, dear. You’re such a sweet boy.” She slowly sat down.

      A sweet boy. He was thirty-eight years old and he didn’t think his mother realized it. His parents’ frailty tore at his heart.

      “Where’s Dad?”

      “In the bedroom watching sports. Sports, sports, sports, that’s all he watches. It gets on my nerves.”

      “There’s a TV in here. Why don’t you watch a movie?”

      “It’s all sex and violence and not fit to watch. I can’t see it anyway. No. I’ll just sit for a while.”

      Leona had once been an energetic woman involved in all sorts of activities with the town, but now she barely went out and Tripp knew she was bored to death. Death. An eerie feeling came over him. His parents were marking time, waiting to die.

      Filling the kettle, he thought how wonderful it would be if Camila’s daughter was Patrick’s. Life would return to this house again.

      What did she say her name was? Jilly. Yes, Jilly with the flashing brown eyes, just like Camila’s. Camila. Her dark Latin beauty flashed through his mind. Something about her sensuous, sad eyes always got to him even though he knew she was his brother’s girlfriend. He set the kettle on the stove with more force than necessary. Maybe he should have a heart-to-heart with Camila.

      The mere thought caused his pulse to accelerate.

      He could break a wild horse. Rope a calf in a split second. But speaking with Camila about her child’s paternity could prove a bit harder for a man whose main goal in life was never to see, speak or think about Camila again.

      “Tripp,” Leona called.

      “Coming, Mom.” He poured water into a cup. This might be one of those times he’d have to bite the bullet for the sake of his parents.

      And that meant talking with Camila Walker.

      CAMILA GLANCED AT THE CLOCK. It was after five so Jilly should be finished. She and Kerri were working on a school project at Kerri’s house and Camila thought she’d call and see if Jilly wanted a ride home. They could put her bike in back of the Suburban. This was the best part of her day—the time she spent with her daughter.

      She stuck her needle in the pincushion, rubbed the tight muscles in her neck and looked around. The sign on the door read Common Threads and below that was printed Camila’s Quilts, Soaps and Gifts. Every time she saw that sign, her chest swelled with pride. She owned her own business and was doing very well—better than she’d ever planned. She sold handmade quilts and homemade soaps on the Internet and people came from all around to buy them in the shop. Specialty shops in Houston, Dallas, Austin, College Station and Temple also stocked her soaps.

      She’d bought the store from Millie, who owned the adjoining bakery and coffee shop. Millie used to have a craft shop and Camila had worked for her as a teenager, trying to make a living for her and Jilly. At that time, Mrs. Ida Baker had made the soap that Millie sold, but the arthritis in her hands had become so bad she couldn’t do it anymore. People had come in regularly asking for it, so Camila had asked Mrs. Baker to teach her. And she had. Camila now used her own recipe, perfected over the last few years. She never dreamed it would sell so well—even younger people used it, young girls wanting something different.

      Her grandmother, Alta, was born in Puerto Rico and sewed for people. She’d taught Camila how to quilt. When Camila, a young single mother, had been searching for ways to make money, she’d brought a quilt she’d made to the store. It had sold immediately. She couldn’t seem to make them fast enough. Hand-stitched quilts were a dying art and people came to Bramble looking for antiques and rare goods. From then on, her store had been busy and profitable.

      Four years ago, she’d purchased the space next door and expanded. She now had an up-to-date kitchen for making soap and large tables for working space. She’d hired a couple of schoolgirls to help in the store and, of course, Millie was always in the coffee shop. The double doors that joined the two businesses were always open. Millie made homemade kolaches, cinnamon rolls and bread, and her place was a hive of activity in the mornings, with people stopping in to get a roll and coffee on the way to work.

      Dear Millie. What would she have done without her? Camila had been seventeen when she’d gotten pregnant. Being so young and raising a child alone had been frightening, but she’d wanted her baby. Back then, with Millie’s help, she’d made all the right choices for her daughter. Jilly was the bright spot in Camila’s life. She was her whole life. Everything she did, she did for Jilly.

      Her mother, Benita, appeared on her doorstep from time to time when she was in between men and needing a place to stay. Even though they were so different, they were still mother and daughter. And Camila never forgot that fact.

      Benita was known as the town slut, a tramp. Different people used different words, but even as a child Camila had known what they’d meant. Her mother worked in a bar and drank heavily, and when she did, she danced the Latin dances, and men loved to watch her. Benita had full breasts and long slim legs, and she didn’t mind showing them off. As Benita’s reputation had grown in the town, so had Camila’s embarrassment. It hadn’t taken her long to realize that everyone thought she was the same as her mother.

      Everyone, except Patrick.

      One night had changed her whole life. After Patrick’s death, she’d discovered she was pregnant and she hadn’t known what she was going to do. Her grandmother had raised her and had passed away six months before. Camila couldn’t stay in Bramble and face the rumors.

      She hadn’t seen her mother in three months. Benita was married to husband number four and Camila knew she’d get no support from her so she’d packed her things and sat at the bus stop waiting for the next bus—not caring where it was going. In tears, she felt desperate and afraid. Patrick was dead and no one else cared about her. She barely had a hundred dollars in her purse and she had no idea how long that would last.

      Millie found her sitting on the bench in the July heat with tears streaming down her face. She told her everything and Millie took her back to her house and they talked into the early hours of the morning. Camila confided her fears about raising a child alone.

      Millie was her lifeline. She gave her a job and helped her adjust to being a young mother. Millie took care of Jilly so Camila could attend Temple Junior College. When Benita finally surfaced, she didn’t like that Camila depended on Millie, but Benita didn’t stay around long enough to voice many complaints.

      Camila took business, marketing and computer courses, learning all she could. It was impossible to make a living working for minimum wage and she had to have some sort of skills to build a decent life for herself and Jilly. From there, her business savvy just evolved.

      Within a few