The Cowboy's Return. Linda Warren

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СКАЧАТЬ They’re not riding a horse.” Morris picked up his knitting.

      Tripp didn’t respond. There was no need. He and Morris were seldom on the same page. Shoving to his feet, he laid his wrench on the counter. He grabbed a rag, wiped his hands and hurried to the door.

      Two young girls stood there, one dark, the other blond. The dark-haired girl held a small dog inside her jacket. Neither spoke.

      “May I help you? I’m Tripp Daniels.” He ran a hand through his tousled hair.

      They stared at him, mouths open.

      “Are you selling something?”

      The dark-haired girl shook her head.

      The dog grunted and shivered. “Did you find a lost dog?”

      She shook her head again and held the dog tighter against her chest.

      “Well, I’m running out of questions so you’d better tell me what you want.”

      There was no response—just wide-eyed silence.

      “I have to get back to work,” he said and stepped back to close the door.

      “I’m Jilly Walker,” the dark-haired girl blurted out.

      Tripp paused. Was this Camila Walker’s kid? Yeah, she had the same gorgeous hair, skin and eyes. That would mean…

      “I make straight A’s and I’m going to be a doctor.”

      “Very impressive.”

      “I’m a good kid, everyone says so, and your family missed a lot by not knowing me. You missed even more by not knowing my mama. That’s all I have to say.” She took a step backward and ran into her friend, who seemed to have turned to stone. The two of them locked hands and ran toward their bikes, then quickly rode away.

      TRIPP GAZED AFTER THEM. Camila’s daughter. The rumor mill in Bramble said Camila didn’t know who the father was. There were some who named Patrick as the father, but the Danielses didn’t believe that for a minute. Camila, a tramp like her mother, had slept around—that’s what his father had said and his mother had agreed. Tripp had had reason to believe them. But now…

      “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 СКАЧАТЬ