a man in Web’s life. Mitch refused to examine the relief he felt at that.
“I guess you had a mighty close call last night,” Gordon said to Mitch. “That accident out on Highway 16 was you, right?”
Mitch nodded.
Gordon began to ask him about the accident, but Web interrupted. “You askin’ after his health or hopin’ for an exclusive, Gordie?” He was smiling, but he was also giving Gordon a particularly direct look. “Gordie’s the editor of the Llano County News, ” he informed Mitch.
The contents of Mitch’s stomach seemed to curdle.
“Gordie, Mitch is family,” Allie warned him. “Don’t you go writin’ anything bad about him.”
“I was just bein’ polite!” Gordie’s olive face was all innocence.
Mr. Eisley passed Mitch the platter of jalapeño-and-beer brined pork chops while from the other side Mrs. Eisley delivered a glop of three-bean salad with dill dressing onto his empty plate. “Are you ready for Christmas?” she asked in the same tone she’d used when he was ten.
“I don’t really…” He looked at their expectant faces and didn’t complete the thought. It was probably sacrilege in this house to admit he usually didn’t even have the day off.
“Now you take another chop, Mitchell,” Aunt Mamie ordered. “There’s enough here to feed the Mexican Army. I’ve seen brandin’ irons fatter than you.”
“You do look a mite tuckered out, honey,” Mrs. Eisley observed. “I bet those theater people run you kids ragged. You have some of these nice scalloped potatoes.”
Mitch nearly had a foodgasm as he caught a whiff of bacon, blue cheese and chipotle as the large earthenware bowl was delivered into his keeping. He’d forgotten people ate like this. Lived like this.
“Is there any more champagne?” Allie inquired.
Web rose, returned with the champagne bottle and topped off Mitch’s glass before refilling his sister’s. He winked as he retook his seat across from Mitch.
Oh well. What the hell. Mitch took another sip. The bubbles tickled his nose and sparkled on his tongue. It wasn’t too bad.
“What’s it like living in New York?” Allie asked.
That was an easy enough question. Mitch was dreading when someone, probably Aunt Mamie, questioned him about whether he was married or whether there was a special girl in his life. Instead he talked about the spring tulips and daffodils in Central Park and the Frick museum and walking across the Brooklyn Bridge at night for pizza at Grimaldi’s and listening to jazz at Terra Blues in Greenwich.
Allie sighed longingly and Gordon scowled.
“I’d like to visit Grant’s Tomb,” Mr. Eisley put in. “You ever been there, son?”
“No, sir.”
Allie burst out laughing. “Daddy’s a closeted Yankee!”
Closeted. Mitch felt his smile fading. He redirected his attention to his meal. The food was worthy of his full attention, and the conversation flowed around Mitch without him paying it more than the necessary minimum attention—meaning he mostly listened when Web’s deep voice spoke.
After a time, though, he couldn’t help but get the gist. “Is that true?” he asked Web. “Are the drug cartels fixin’ to target Texas Rangers?”
“They’ve made some threats.” Web made a face. “Those boys are all hat and no cattle.”
Mitch’s appetite vanished in a single gulp.
“Bring it on, amigos ,” Mr. Eisley said. “That’s what I say.”
“There’s been enough said already,” Mrs. Eisley said severely.
“Yes, ma’am,” her husband replied. He winked at Mitch.
Mitch tried to respond normally, but the idea of Web targeted by drug dealers made him feel sick. Of course Texas Rangers didn’t spend their days handing out traffic tickets and helping old ladies across the sidewalk, but the idea that Web might die violently in the course of his duties was horrifying.
Web, watching Mitch, said, “There’s a lot more chance of me kickin’ off in a car crash than gettin’ bushwhacked by the
“I guess you had a mighty close call last night,” Gordon said to Mitch. “That accident out on Highway 16 was you, right?”
Mitch nodded.
Gordon began to ask him about the accident, but Web interrupted. “You askin’ after his health or hopin’ for an exclusive, Gordie?” He was smiling, but he was also giving Gordon a particularly direct look. “Gordie’s the editor of the Llano County News, ” he informed Mitch.
The contents of Mitch’s stomach seemed to curdle.
“Gordie, Mitch is family,” Allie warned him. “Don’t you go writin’ anything bad about him.”
“I was just bein’ polite!” Gordie’s olive face was all innocence.
Mr. Eisley passed Mitch the platter of jalapeño-and-beer brined pork chops while from the other side Mrs. Eisley delivered a glop of three-bean salad with dill dressing onto his empty plate. “Are you ready for Christmas?” she asked in the same tone she’d used when he was ten.
“I don’t really…” He looked at their expectant faces and didn’t complete the thought. It was probably sacrilege in this house to admit he usually didn’t even have the day off.
“Now you take another chop, Mitchell,” Aunt Mamie ordered. “There’s enough here to feed the Mexican Army. I’ve seen brandin’ irons fatter than you.”
“You do look a mite tuckered out, honey,” Mrs. Eisley observed. “I bet those theater people run you kids ragged. You have some of these nice scalloped potatoes.”
Mitch nearly had a foodgasm as he caught a whiff of bacon, blue cheese and chipotle as the large earthenware bowl was delivered into his keeping. He’d forgotten people ate like this. Lived like this.
“Is there any more champagne?” Allie inquired.
Web rose, returned with the champagne bottle and topped off Mitch’s glass before refilling his sister’s. He winked as he retook his seat across from Mitch.
Oh well. What the hell. Mitch took another sip. The bubbles tickled his nose and sparkled on his tongue. It wasn’t too bad.
“What’s it like living in New York?” Allie asked.
That was an easy enough question. Mitch was dreading when someone, probably Aunt Mamie, questioned him about whether he was married or whether there was a special girl in his life. Instead he talked about the spring tulips and daffodils in Central Park and the Frick museum and walking across the Brooklyn Bridge at night for pizza at Grimaldi’s and listening to jazz at Terra Blues in Greenwich.
Allie sighed longingly and Gordon scowled.
“I’d like to visit Grant’s Tomb,” Mr. Eisley put in. “You ever been there, son?”
“No, sir.”
Allie burst out laughing. “Daddy’s a closeted Yankee!”
Closeted. Mitch felt his smile fading. He redirected his attention to his meal. The food was worthy of his full attention, and the conversation flowed around Mitch without him paying it more than the necessary minimum attention—meaning he mostly listened when Web’s deep voice spoke.
After a time, though, he couldn’t help but get the gist. “Is that true?” he asked Web. “Are the drug cartels fixin’ to target Texas Rangers?”
“They’ve made some threats.” Web made a face. “Those boys are all hat and no cattle.”
Mitch’s appetite vanished in a single gulp.
“Bring it on, amigos ,” Mr. Eisley said. “That’s what I say.”
“There’s been enough said already,” Mrs. Eisley said severely.
“Yes, ma’am,” her husband replied. He winked at Mitch.
Mitch tried to respond normally, but the idea of Web targeted by drug dealers made him feel sick. Of course Texas Rangers didn’t spend their days handing out traffic tickets and helping old ladies across the sidewalk, but the idea that Web might die violently in the course of his duties was horrifying.
Web, watching Mitch, said, “There’s a lot more chance of me kickin’ off in a car crash than gettin’ bushwhacked by the
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