My Stubborn Heart by Becky Wade Page A

with a clean brisk wind that rustled the grass and lifted Kate’s hair away from her face. The forest that surrounded them smelled like a Girl Scout campout—damp and woodsy and comforting.
    Fall. Kate loved it. Loved the holidays. Loved wearing jeans and her quilted trench coat that she’d saved and saved for. Loved the temperature.
    Predictably, Velma had charged into the lead. William, in his good-natured way, was attempting to keep up with her both in pace and conversation. Gran and Peg came next, walking arm in arm, heads bent toward each other. Which left Kate, huffing and puffing ever so slightly, to bring up the rear with Morty.
    â€œSo where do you live down there in Dallas? You have a house?” Morty asked.
    â€œI do, actually. It’s a duplex I bought four years ago.”
    â€œOh yeah? Who’s living in the other side?”
    â€œA really nice lady. She’s a librarian at SMU.” Her renter had been living in the right half of the duplex for thirty-five years, so Kate had simply inherited her when she’d bought the place. Judy was quiet, scholarly, had two cats and loads of potted plants. Judy’d never been married. As much as Kate liked her, she couldn’t help occasionally thinking that their duplex was like a before and after snapshot. Kate was the “before,” but frequently felt like she was sliding inexorably toward the exact same fate as Judy. Cats and potted plants.
    â€œYour tenant isn’t making meth, is she?”
    She glanced abruptly at Morty. “Meth?”
    â€œYeah. I’m retired from the force, but I keep up with things pretty good. All kinds of people making meth in their kitchens these days. Selling it right from their home.”
    â€œAh . . .”
    â€œStrangers coming and going at all hours?”
    â€œNo.”
    â€œSuspicious people parked out front?”
    â€œNope. I’m pretty sure my tenant isn’t making meth.”
    He harrumphed. “Well, good then.”
    Morty looked like Elvis might have looked at seventy-seven. Hair dyed black and glistening with gel. White T-shirt over a barrel chest and a stomach that wasn’t quite a potbelly. Ironed jeans. White socks. Black penny loafers. When they’d left the house he’d pulled on a gray Member’s Only jacket.
    â€œDo you do much bowling down there in Dallas?” he asked.
    â€œNo, I’m afraid not.”
    â€œWell, come on out while you’re here. Bring Beverly there. I’m at the lanes every Tuesday and Thursday at ten. Be happy to give you some pointers.”
    â€œThanks, Morty.”
    They walked, shoes crunching over twigs and leaves.
    â€œPlay any poker?” he asked.
    â€œNot much these days.”
    â€œWell, these here and I,” he motioned to the group ahead, “we get together on Friday nights for poker.”
    â€œWas that your idea?” She couldn’t imagine anyone else in the group coming up with it.
    â€œYeah. But the rest of ’em are getting pretty good.”
    Kate nodded.
    â€œI talked with Beverly about it at lunch, told her to come and bring you this Friday, but she said Matt Jarreau eats with you on Fridays and she didn’t want to leave him.” He dug his hands into the pockets of his jacket. “So I was thinking that if you and your grandmother are interested in playin’, we could all meet up over at your place there at Chapel Bluff on Fridays.”
    â€œSure, that would be fine.” Sorry social life when this prospect excited her. “What do ya’ll play for?”
    â€œMoney. But the buy-in’s just five dollars each.” He nodded disdainfully toward the others. “These here don’t want to play for big money.”
    â€œI see.”
    Quiet stretched as they ambled along the dirt path. In the distance, Kate could hear the gurgle of a stream.
    â€œSo, Kate.”
    â€œYes, Morty?”
    â€œThere’s something