Long Way Home. Gena Dalton

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СКАЧАТЬ Bobbie Ann didn’t see him right now, he was okay. Just as long as she and his sisters let him have a little peace, he might be able to figure out what he was going to do with the rest of his life.

      They did let him sleep until he woke up on his own.

      But they must’ve been peeping in at him every fifteen minutes because he had no more than pulled himself up and out of that last dream of being stomped by a bull and staggered out of bed to the bathroom than he heard the door to the bunkhouse bang open.

      It was Delia and LydaAnn, judging by the giggling voices.

      He did not feel one bit like giggling. Or listening to it, either.

      “Throw me my jeans,” he yelled through the closed door. “Looks like y’all could at least let a man get his pants on before invadin’ his privacy.”

      “Looks like you could at least be pleasant to the women who brought your breakfast,” LydaAnn yelled back.

      He heard the slap of the rivets against the door as they hung his jeans on the knob. He opened it and reached around to get them.

      “You didn’t used to be so modest,” Delia said. “I remember when you never would wear a shirt, even in the wintertime.”

      “When I was six years old!”

      Carefully, very slowly, he began to lift one foot and try to fit it into one leg of his jeans. He caught a glimpse of his face in the mirror and nearly scared himself with his scowl. This was insane. If he didn’t want to see his family, why had he come home?

      Because he’d wanted a place to heal, not a party.

      “Go on and wash up and try to pull yourself together,” Delia called. “We took a thermos cup for ’em to put your coffee in, so it’s still good and hot.”

      He heard rustling noises.

      “I think your main surprise is still warm, too,” LydaAnn said. “Can you smell what it is?”

      He couldn’t, but he realized then where they’d been. They were happy he was home and this was another welcome—they’d gone down the road to Hugo’s to get the cinnamon rolls he had always loved. He ought to be ashamed of himself for being such a sorehead.

      But the hard knot in his stomach only tightened and he took his time with his morning ablutions. He didn’t have a choice about how long it took, did he? He couldn’t move fast enough to catch a snail.

      Finally, he raked his hands through his hair, tried to contort his face into some semblance of pleasantness and went out to meet them.

      The sight did make him smile. There sat his sisters, each cross-legged on either end of his bed with a picnic of cinnamon rolls and coffee set out between them on a towel spread between the paper wrappings and the bare mattress. Bobbie Ann’s daughters. No, if they truly were, they’d have brought a tablecloth and the good silver from the house. Then he noticed that they had real mugs for the coffee.

      They’d dragged one of the old straight chairs out of the bunkhouse kitchen for him and set it on the floor halfway between them, facing the bed.

      “So,” he drawled, as he limped toward them, “I’m supposed to sit here in the hot seat?”

      “Relax,” Delia drawled back at him. “We won’t jump on you too hard yet—we’ll wait ’til you’re able to defend yourself.”

      “Well, that’s mighty good of you,” he said. “I appreciate it.”

      “Everybody at Hugo’s said to tell you ‘hey,’” LydaAnn said. “Bill Ed Traywick wants to talk to you about when you rode The Twister.”

      Monte’s scowl came back.

      “What about it?”

      “Bill Ed rode him, too, one time at the Mesquite Rodeo.”

      “Rode ’im or got on ’im?”

      Both girls laughed.

      “Got on him,” Delia said. “Bill Ed said he never knew a man could spin so fast and not have his head torn off his body.”

      That made Monte laugh, too. A little. But he wasn’t going to start hanging out at Hugo’s, jawing with the boys. The very thought made him want to crawl in a hole.

      Delia, who like Bobbie Ann was able to read a man’s mind, watched him as he carefully sat down.

      “Don’t worry, Mont,” she said, “we told them all that you aren’t receiving visitors at this time.”

      “I don’t know if Jennifer Taylor will exactly respect your wish for privacy, though,” LydaAnn said, grinning widely. “She was remembering you fondly to everyone there. Something about a nighttime swim in the Guadalupe River.”

      “Jennifer Taylor was married before I ever left here,” Monte growled.

      “Well, she’s not married anymore. And she told us twice to tell you ‘hey.’”

      Delia nodded.

      “Jennifer would love even just one date so everybody could be talking about it,” she said. “Her sister, Carrie, has gotten all the attention for so long.”

      “How’s that?” Monte asked, just to be halfway polite.

      But as long as his sisters were talking, he didn’t have to.

      “The money,” LydaAnn said. “Did you hear about that embezzlement scandal at the courthouse? A year ago. Lots of people think it was Carrie who got the money, but if she did, she let Larry Riley go to prison for it.”

      “Yeah, Monte, surely you heard about that,” Delia said. “The trial was on TV all over Texas. Remember—Carrie was married to Larry’s cousin, Steve. That’s how she got the job in the first place.”

      Monte got that swimming feeling in his head again. He reached for the coffee mug LydaAnn was filling.

      “Too much gossip,” he said. “Y’all’re makin’ me dizzy. Give me a break, okay?”

      They both frowned at him.

      “Don’t you even care?” LydaAnn said.

      “No! And how come you even told everybody I was here?”

      Delia shook her head and gazed at him with pity in her eyes.

      “I could’ve kept you undercover if you’d called me to come and get you,” she said. “But appearing out of nowhere at the Bandera sale and hitching a ride home for you and your horse did sorta put you in the public eye, brother dear.”

      He took a great gulp of the steaming strong coffee and immediately felt a little bit better.

      “My mistake,” he said, shaking his head. “What was I thinking?”

      “We’d love to know,” said LydaAnn.

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