needles.
“He is definitely trouble looking for a place to set itself down,” Dove said about Wade. “But I couldn’t turn the boy away on Thanksgiving. You’d best stay away from him as much as possible.”
“Now what fun is that?” said my Aunt Ruby, Uncle Luke’s wife. He was the ex-rodeo clown and the craziest of my dad’s brothers. And even at forty-nine Ruby was as rabble-rousing as Uncle Luke. They were the ones we kids had loved tagging after because they were always cooking up some zany game or treasure hunt to keep us occupied.
Gabe kept his promise and maintained a watchful distance from Wade through the family Thanksgiving dinner the next day. Wade followed Gabe’s lead and stayed as far from him as possible.
Early Friday morning, when I was out in the backyard putting plastic tablecloths over the picnic tables in preparation for the barbecue that afternoon, Sam walked up. He was dressed in faded sweatpants and a tee shirt that showed a cowboy on horseback gripping a surfboard. The words read, “You Can Lead a Horse to Water but You Can’t Make Him Surf.”
“You’re looking more like the old Sam this morning,” I commented, smoothing out the blue-checkered tablecloth.
He took another tablecloth from the pile on a metal lawn chair and started unfolding it. “Yeah, I haven’t gone completely country. I like working on the ranch, and the guys are all right, but sometimes ...” He let his words drift off as he shook out the cloth over a weathered table.
“They’re just too red-necked and bigoted,” I finished for him.
He grinned at me as he ran his hand across the wrinkled cloth. “I made them shut up last night when they wouldn’t stop making stupid cracks about your cousin. They’re kinda pissed at me right now.”
My heart softened as I looked at my stepson’s flushed, handsome face. He was so much like his father, and though Gabe felt guilty about he and Lydia breaking up before Sam had turned twelve, they’d managed between the two of them to raise a fine boy. I hadn’t yet met Gabe’s ex-wife, a successful attorney down in Orange County, but I had to admit, when I observed snippets of Sam’s good and kind character, I was very curious about her.
“They’re going to start looking for calves in about an hour,” he said after we’d finished covering the last of the twelve picnic tables we’d hauled out from the barn a few days ago. “You gonna ride with us or are you staying in the kitchen with the womenfolk?”
“I’ll pretend I didn’t hear you use that western male condescending tone you’ve picked up so rapidly,” I said.
“I guess that means you’re riding,” he said, shooting me his drop-the-women-in-their-tracks smile.
“Save the smile, I’m immune. And by the way, Badger’s mine today.”
“Man, that’s tweeked. I’ll probably get stuck with Rebel. He’s so slow. The only time he hurries is when he’s heading back to the barn to eat.”
“There’s a Southerner for you,” Emory said, walking up. He was dressed in his loose definition of ranchwear—perfectly pressed two-hundred-dollar khakis, a Ralph Lauren chambray work shirt, and Lucchese deerskin boots. He looked like an ad in GQ magazine. “We do like our vittles.”
“Hey, Emory,” I said. “How’d you sleep?”
“Fine.” He nodded at Sam. “Your daddy’s awful proud of you, Sam. He has a right to be.”
Embarrassed, Sam ducked his head, murmuring some inaudible answer. “I’ll see you in a few minutes,” he said to me.
“If you saddle up Badger for me, I’ll hide you a piece of Dove’s devil’s food cake,” I called after him.
“Deal,” he said.
Emory and I watched him walk toward the barn. “He is a good kid,” I said. “There’s been a lot of changes in his life these last few months. He’s still trying to find out where he fits in and to sort out his relationship with his dad.”
“Speaking of his dad, I noticed a bit of tension between him and that
“He is definitely trouble looking for a place to set itself down,” Dove said about Wade. “But I couldn’t turn the boy away on Thanksgiving. You’d best stay away from him as much as possible.”
“Now what fun is that?” said my Aunt Ruby, Uncle Luke’s wife. He was the ex-rodeo clown and the craziest of my dad’s brothers. And even at forty-nine Ruby was as rabble-rousing as Uncle Luke. They were the ones we kids had loved tagging after because they were always cooking up some zany game or treasure hunt to keep us occupied.
Gabe kept his promise and maintained a watchful distance from Wade through the family Thanksgiving dinner the next day. Wade followed Gabe’s lead and stayed as far from him as possible.
Early Friday morning, when I was out in the backyard putting plastic tablecloths over the picnic tables in preparation for the barbecue that afternoon, Sam walked up. He was dressed in faded sweatpants and a tee shirt that showed a cowboy on horseback gripping a surfboard. The words read, “You Can Lead a Horse to Water but You Can’t Make Him Surf.”
“You’re looking more like the old Sam this morning,” I commented, smoothing out the blue-checkered tablecloth.
He took another tablecloth from the pile on a metal lawn chair and started unfolding it. “Yeah, I haven’t gone completely country. I like working on the ranch, and the guys are all right, but sometimes ...” He let his words drift off as he shook out the cloth over a weathered table.
“They’re just too red-necked and bigoted,” I finished for him.
He grinned at me as he ran his hand across the wrinkled cloth. “I made them shut up last night when they wouldn’t stop making stupid cracks about your cousin. They’re kinda pissed at me right now.”
My heart softened as I looked at my stepson’s flushed, handsome face. He was so much like his father, and though Gabe felt guilty about he and Lydia breaking up before Sam had turned twelve, they’d managed between the two of them to raise a fine boy. I hadn’t yet met Gabe’s ex-wife, a successful attorney down in Orange County, but I had to admit, when I observed snippets of Sam’s good and kind character, I was very curious about her.
“They’re going to start looking for calves in about an hour,” he said after we’d finished covering the last of the twelve picnic tables we’d hauled out from the barn a few days ago. “You gonna ride with us or are you staying in the kitchen with the womenfolk?”
“I’ll pretend I didn’t hear you use that western male condescending tone you’ve picked up so rapidly,” I said.
“I guess that means you’re riding,” he said, shooting me his drop-the-women-in-their-tracks smile.
“Save the smile, I’m immune. And by the way, Badger’s mine today.”
“Man, that’s tweeked. I’ll probably get stuck with Rebel. He’s so slow. The only time he hurries is when he’s heading back to the barn to eat.”
“There’s a Southerner for you,” Emory said, walking up. He was dressed in his loose definition of ranchwear—perfectly pressed two-hundred-dollar khakis, a Ralph Lauren chambray work shirt, and Lucchese deerskin boots. He looked like an ad in GQ magazine. “We do like our vittles.”
“Hey, Emory,” I said. “How’d you sleep?”
“Fine.” He nodded at Sam. “Your daddy’s awful proud of you, Sam. He has a right to be.”
Embarrassed, Sam ducked his head, murmuring some inaudible answer. “I’ll see you in a few minutes,” he said to me.
“If you saddle up Badger for me, I’ll hide you a piece of Dove’s devil’s food cake,” I called after him.
“Deal,” he said.
Emory and I watched him walk toward the barn. “He is a good kid,” I said. “There’s been a lot of changes in his life these last few months. He’s still trying to find out where he fits in and to sort out his relationship with his dad.”
“Speaking of his dad, I noticed a bit of tension between him and that
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