Sunlight spilled into the living room on Friday morning. No one else was stirring, so Hank reheated a cup of yesterday’s coffee, doused it with extra sugar, and grabbed the last caramel roll to take with him. Outside, it was one of those intensely clear fall mornings, when the air was cool and sweet as spring water.
They couldn’t ask for a better day for the Black Friday Buck Out at the Jacobs ranch.
Hank split the last quarter of his roll between the dogs, then set about his chores. Funny, how the routine made his situation seem less drastic. Last night, he’d felt like the earth was cracking down the middle. But the sun still came up, the horses still nickered for their morning grain, and the cattle still had to be fed. He let the dogs ride in the cab of the pickup, and they still squabbled like a pair of kids over who got the best seat—the way he and Melanie used to.
It would take a while to reframe his entire childhood based on the things his dad had said the night before, but he didn’t have to do it alone. He had Bing. He had his dad—and how weird was that?
And he also had Grace, if that call last night meant what he hoped it did.
Any trace of anger toward her had dissolved in a quiet whoosh of relief at the sound of her voice. She cared enough to worry, and to try to set things right between him and Gil, even after all Hank had done. Not just the scene at the Lone Steer, but the six weeks of deliberate silence and avoidance that had forced her to hunt him down at the damn bar.
Could he blame her for saying the hell with him and doing whatever was best for herself…and the baby?
And when she’d finally come clean, he’d proved her right by running away again. He should have stayed—last night and all those other nights. If her brothers hadn’t been with her, he would’ve gotten up and driven to her house after he’d heard her voice clog with tears.
Instead, he’d lain awake, sorting through his own emotions. When he pushed everything else aside and narrowed it down to only him and Grace…well, hell, he damn near broke out in a cold sweat just imagining her looking him in the eye and saying those words.
“Hank, I’m pregnant.”
He would have flipped out, and no doubt would’ve done and said a bunch of stupid shit. Ten times worse than last night. And now…there was no gut-wrenching sense of loss. No urge to rush to Oregon and reclaim his child. If Grace had cornered him, told him the truth and suggested putting the baby up for adoption, he would have snatched the pen out of her hand and asked where to sign.
And yeah, the things his dad had said out in the hay shed made that a whole lot easier to admit.
Hank would like to think he’d have stuck with Grace through the whole ordeal, but chances are he would’ve made a mess of that too. It was pretty much all he’d done back then. As it was, she’d fought through it without him. He could never make that up to her, but he could at least respect the decision he’d left her to face. And he could let his daughter have what he would’ve given anything for—two parents who actually wanted her.
But he could choose when and how he dealt with the baby and her parents. Those papers had waited this long, and it would be years before Maddie could comprehend why she should give a flying shit about him, so Hank had decided to focus on the other people involved. Especially Grace.
When he finished the chores, Bing was making French toast and scrambled eggs. Johnny was at the table, once again looking like fresh hell. His dad had never been a morning person, and with bedhead and five days’ stubble, he was like a big ol’ bear growling into his coffee cup.
Hank strolled over to hook an arm over Bing’s shoulders and peer into the frying pan. “Is any of that for me?”
“If Bigfoot over there doesn’t polish off the rest of the bread. We’re running low on groceries.” She studied Hank closely. “You’re awfully chipper this morning. Got plans for the day?”
He snagged a chunk of scrambled eggs and popped it in his mouth. “Can you drive me over to get my pickup?”
Her spatula paused. “Gil called.”
Figured. “And?”
“I yelled at him. And he let me, so he must really feel like shit.”
“Good. Anything else?”
“Your pickup is at Sanchez Trucking.” She flipped a piece of toast and nudged at it. “Are you sure you want to go right away?”
When he was still fuming, she meant. Except…he wasn’t, thanks to Grace. Plus, his mind kept skipping past last night’s argument to that strange moment in Gil’s office. The quiet, uncharacteristic apology.
Believe it or not, I was trying to help.
And he had. He’d spent hour after hour ruthlessly plucking at every festering sliver in Hank’s psyche with an accuracy that only someone who knew his entire history could, until they’d flushed most of the poison from his system.
The doubt demons hissed in Hank’s ear, trying to tell him that Gil didn’t really give a shit about him. Gil had done it for Grace, they whispered, or for himself, or maybe even for the baby. But Grace said he’d literally gone the extra mile—thousands of miles—for Hank, and Bing believed Gil had been right to keep him in the dark.
If there was one thing Hank had learned, it was to listen to the voices that were trying to build him up, not the ones tearing him down. Especially if they were his own.
* * *
As Hank walked into the reception area at Sanchez Trucking, Analise popped out of the dispatcher’s office. Today she was wearing super-skinny, bright-turquoise pants that stopped halfway to her ankles, a sweater set, and a long turquoise scarf tied around her head with the ends left loose.
“You actually make that look kinda hot,” he said.
“It’s a gift.” She patted her hair, then snagged his keys from one of a series of hooks and tossed them to him. “If you want Gil, he’s in the break room.”
Hank cocked an ear. The music he heard wasn’t coming from a radio, but that voice was too high and clear to be Gil’s. Hank sidled down the short hallway and peeked around the doorframe. Quint Sanchez was bent over a guitar, his forehead puckered in concentration as he strummed and sang. Sitting in a chair facing him, Gil tapped his fingers on his own guitar to keep the tempo, a half smile on his face. Quint finished the chorus, hit the final chord with a flourish, and broke into a triumphant grin.
Gil nodded approvingly. “That was great. You’ve been putting in some serious practice time.”
“I wrote a song,” Quint declared with that combination of bravado and defensiveness only a boy of a certain age could muster. “It probably sucks.”
“Probably,” Gil agreed. “I did on my first dozen tries—still do sometimes—but you’ve gotta work through the bad stuff to get to the good.”
Geezus. How many times had he said the exact same thing to Hank? And, more important, been a walking promise that there was still good stuff to get to.
“Come on,” Gil said. “Let’s hear it. As your father, I am honor bound not to make fun of you…much.”
Quint rolled his eyes. Gil laughed.
Yeah, sure, it was all about revenge.
“You are such a lying piece of shit,” Hank said.
Quint’s eyes went wide, but Gil only slouched back in his chair. “I prefer to call it selective truth.”
“Whatever.” Hank strode in and threw the torn jacket in his lap. “You owe me a new coat.”
Gil tossed the jacket back at him. “Tell Analise what size you want. Quint’s got a couple more songs to play for me, then we’re headed to the Buck Out.”
“Great. I’ll see you there.”
Gil’s eyebrows peaked. “You’re going?”
“Yeah.” Hank pushed a little bravado into his own voice. “They can always use chute help.”
He’d been to rodeos since that night in Toppenish, earning a few extra bucks by pushing calves and turning out broncs at the arena just down the river from Norma’s place. It would be hard to face all the curious eyes, but he reminded himself that Grace had moved halfway across the country to live with strangers, had gone through pregnancy and childbirth virtually alone, then picked herself up and gotten on with her life.
Hank could go to the damn Buck Out.
As he made for the door, he added, “By the way, I’m keeping your phone until I can afford a decent one.”
After he’d showered and dressed, he transferred his wallet, change, and pocketknife to his clean jeans…but he left his gear bag in the closet. They would already have bullfighters lined up for the day, and Hank wouldn’t take the chance of failing so publicly when he wasn’t the only one who might suffer the consequences.