By the end of the practice session, Grace was exhausted from holding the Hank who? pose. But by damn, she had done it—not only roped well, but her very best. The burst of satisfaction gave her enough energy to haul her saddle into the tack room and heft it onto the rack that Tori had designated as hers.
How about that? Grace had her own saddle rack in a barn owned by a world-champion cowboy and a daughter of the Patterson family: the legendary Panhandle cattle barons whose reach extended around the world and deep into Washington, DC. And since Grace returned the favor by ranch-sitting whenever they were traveling—like now—she could just crawl the twenty yards to the living quarters of Tori’s trailer and go facedown on the couch, while variations of the same refrain played over and over in her head.
Hank was back. Hank was back. Lord save her, Hank was back.
Other than when her breakaway had nearly cold-cocked him, the two of them hadn’t exchanged a word. That look, though. Just the thought made awareness ripple through her. For that moment, at least, she’d had absolutely no doubt what Hank was thinking.
As the practice wore on, Shawnee had gone quiet too, but her eyes were sharp—on both Hank and Grace. When they’d finished, Shawnee had said nothing but “That’s it for today.”
Hank had hesitated as if he couldn’t believe he was getting off that easy. “So I’ll just, uh, head out?”
“Yep. But thanks for stopping by,” Shawnee said with a polite smile.
That’s when Grace realized she was furious. Shawnee strode out of the arena without another word and was waiting, arms folded and face tight, when Grace emerged from the tack room.
Oh, shit.
“So…that went pretty well,” Grace said brightly, edging toward the door.
Shawnee pinned her to the ground with a hard stare. “Don’t even try it. Somebody is gonna tell me what the hell has been going on. That boy has not just been taking a time-out.”
Whoo-boy. She was some kind of mad. But underneath the anger, there was hurt. It was obvious that Melanie had been seriously downplaying Hank’s situation…and that she’d chosen not to confide in her closest friends.
Shawnee braced her feet. Fighting stance. “We were all shocked about senseless when we saw him today, but I got the feeling you expected the worst. Why is that?”
“I, um…was there, in Oregon, when Melanie and Wyatt flew out to Montana to see him.”
“So she talked to you.” Shawnee’s tone verged on insulting. “Not Violet. Not me. You.”
And from where Shawnee stood, that was a major betrayal.
“No.” Which wasn’t a complete lie. Melanie hadn’t said a word until she realized that Grace had a vested interest in her brother’s mental state. Everything else Grace had pried out of Wyatt…and other sources. “Do you remember Philip? Wyatt’s student?”
Shawnee frowned. “The one with the braid?”
“Yeah. He’s Blackfeet, from the same general area as where Hank has been. And he knew”—she waved a vague hand toward where they’d last seen Hank—“about that.”
Shawnee didn’t look entirely convinced. “How did Melanie persuade Gil Sanchez to hire him?”
This, at least, Grace could answer honestly. “She didn’t.”
Shawnee’s brows pinched, skeptical. “Right. Hank just walked in, and Gil, being the soul of human kindness, handed him a set of keys.”
“I don’t know about that, but Melanie has no idea Hank is here. Otherwise she would have told y’all to expect him.” And she definitely would have told Grace.
Shawnee’s eyes took on a gleam disturbingly similar to the cat’s, which hunched at the edge of the hayloft sneering down at them. “So Mel is in for a shock of her own.”
And her good buddy was going to enjoy delivering it, as a small measure of payback for being kept in the dark.
Grace moved toward the hayloft ladder. “I’ll take care of the chores.”
“Go ahead.” Shawnee already had her phone in her hand. “Same time tomorrow?”
“Sounds good.” Grace climbed into the loft, made sure she was out of sight, then snatched her own phone out of her pocket and punched up Melanie’s number.
Brace yourself, she texted, thumbs flying. Hank showed up today, and Shawnee is not thrilled that you’ve been keeping secrets.
She hit Send and held her breath, praying Melanie would get the message before Shawnee’s call. As Grace started to slide her phone back into her pocket, it buzzed. The reply was a single four-letter word.
Grace didn’t bother to answer. Melanie had summed it up nicely.
* * *
It was only four o’clock when Hank rolled into downtown Earnest but dusk was already falling, setting the Christmas lights ablaze against the sulky, low-hanging clouds. He slowed to turn into the Kwicky Mart for that well-earned Coke…and was hit by the heavenly scent of mesquite-smoked meat. Hank’s stomach gurgled happily in recognition.
As if pulled in by a tractor beam, he drove on to the next street, made a left, and found himself at the Smoke Shack. He was in dire need of a friendly face, and Korby was the only person he knew who was incapable of holding a grudge.
Other than the icicle lights dripping from the eaves and a fall wreath stuck on the weathered front door, they hadn’t done a thing to spruce the place up. It was, literally, a wooden shack, barely big enough to house a kitchen in back and a tiny dining area out front. It must’ve been an actual color at some time, but the paint had faded in the relentless sun and wind. The wooden steps were still unpainted planks worn round on the edges, and the screen door creaked the same as it always had.
One more place he’d be leaving with an empty belly, because a brisket dinner would clean out his wallet. In that respect, at least, he had finally accomplished something his father wanted. Hank now knew what every penny that passed through his hands was worth.
It was too much to hope that Korby might be putting in a Saturday shift. His mother was there instead…par for this not-so-welcome home tour. She glanced up from her Sudoku puzzle book with a customer-friendly smile, which flat-lined as he stepped to the counter. “Hank Brookman…is that you?”
“Yes, ma’am.” He fought the urge to push his hair back, wishing once again he’d had a chance to get it cut.
When he’d mentioned it to Bing during a call from a rest stop south of Billings, Montana, she’d told him to leave it be. “It’s better if people can see right up front that you’re not the person they used to know.”
But where Bing came from, it was normal for men to wear their hair long, a sign of respect for tribal traditions. Folks in Earnest, Texas, drew a whole different set of conclusions. Korby’s mother looked to be painting a 3-D portrait, but to be truthful, the stink eye she was giving him now was only a slightly magnified version of her usual expression. Every time they got in trouble, Korby’s punishment had started with an order to stay away from Hank. As she’d been fond of saying, “The two you together have about half as much common sense as either one of you alone…and that ain’t sayin’ much.”
She hadn’t been wrong, which made it even harder to believe that Korby was a teacher, walking the same halls they’d once terrorized. Geezus. Talk about the blind leading the hormonally challenged.
“Is Korby around?” Hank asked before she could demand to know why he was darkening her door. “I lost his cell phone number.”
“I guess that explains why he hasn’t heard from you,” she replied tartly.
Hank bit his tongue. Just be quiet and respectful, Bing had told him. That’ll really mess with their heads. “Yes, ma’am,” he said again.
“Well…he’s chaperoning the FFA kids at a leadership conference in Abilene. He won’t be home until late tonight.”
Hank blinked at her.
“What?” she demanded.
“I’m having trouble making those words fit together. Korby? Leadership? Chaperone?”
Her mouth twitched, but she ironed out any hint of a smile. Her eyes were a sharper blue than her son’s and her hair bleached a few shades blonder, but it was easy to see where he’d gotten his long, narrow face and knobby elbows. She gave Hank another critical head-to-toe inspection. “You’re even scrawnier than when you hightailed it out of here,” she said finally. “You want a full platter?”
Didn’t he wish. A mountain of pulled pork, brisket, sausage, and two sides, plus a roll was three days’ worth of dinners by his current standards. He fleetingly wished he hadn’t spent so much of the money Gil had advanced him on new jeans—which now had to be washed, thanks to Grace and that devil horse—but damned if he’d let the church ladies crow about that poor boy, did you see his clothes?
“No thank you, I just ate.” That crappy burger, hours ago.
“You can take it to go, save it for later.”
The back of Hank’s neck went hot. “I didn’t bring my wallet,” he lied.
She snorted. “That’s never stopped you before.”
“I’m not on my daddy’s tab now,” he shot back before he could stop himself.
“That is a fact.” She jerked her head toward the logo on his jacket. “Does that coat mean you’re workin’ for Sanchez?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
She pursed her lips, then gave a nod. “Then I know how to hunt you down if you don’t stop back by and settle up.”
Before he could formulate another excuse, she had bustled off into the kitchen. Hell. He didn’t want to be a charity case. Then his appetite kicked his pride to the curb. He would pay the tab when he could, and he had literally been dreaming of this meal since he’d left Texas.
She plunked a to-go bag on the counter and set a large Coke beside it—forty-four ounces of sugary, carbonated bliss. She also slapped down the ticket. “I wrote Korby’s number on the back.” She paused, scowled, then added, “He’ll be happy to see you.”
That’d make one person. Hank pushed his mouth into something like a smile. “Thanks. I sure do appreciate it.”
“You’re welcome.”
He noticed she didn’t add how it was good to have him back in town. With an awkward nod, he hefted the bag and turned to leave just as the door opened…and Johnny Brookman stepped inside. They both came up short, face-to-face. Hank knew he should say something, but what? The only word that jumped onto his tongue had gotten his butt paddled when he was ten, and wasn’t likely to get a better reaction now.
His father seemed to be having similar problems, his jaw working as if he couldn’t quite build a sentence. Like the Smoke Shack, he hadn’t changed a bit. Same dark, short hair under an Earnest Feed and Seed cap. Same broad, straight shoulders and powerful build that had made him a Texas Circuit tie-down roping champion and always made Hank feel…yeah, scrawny was about right. When the much-hoped-for pounds didn’t pile on, no matter how much Hank ate and lifted weights, he’d concluded it was just more proof that he’d been born to disappoint his father.
“Hank,” Johnny said.
“Yessir.” He forced his eyes to remain level, his voice flat. At least he didn’t have to worry about what to do with his hands, full as they were of food and drink.
His father waited, then blinked when Hank left it at that. He would have to remember to thank Bing for the advice when he checked in tonight. Silence was the last thing his old man expected. Hank let it stretch as far as was remotely polite before stepping aside with a come on in tilt of his head.
His father hesitated, then jerked a nod and walked on past. Hank caught the door with his foot, shouldered outside, and strolled down the steps and over to his pickup as if he didn’t have a care in the whole damn world. He set his Coke in the cup holder—Gil would have his head if he spilled it in the cab—fumbled the keys into the ignition, and was halfway to Sanchez Trucking before he realized he was clutching the bag of hot food to his chest like a teddy bear…and shivering. It seemed like he was always cold these days, a chill that started in his bones and oozed out.
The last time he remembered being truly warm, he’d been in Grace’s bed. And now he was cuddling up to a barbecue dinner instead. But hey, at least Korby’s mom had thrown in a tub of macaroni salad, and at this point, Hank would take any hospitality he could get.