Lone Star (2 page)

“I sure hope you opted for the rental insurance,” the driver informed Mitch. He was panting from the short climb.

“Is it totaled?”

“Let me put it this way, she ain’t goin’ nowhere on her own. But we’ll tow her into town and take a look. Give us a call tomorrow and we’ll let you know the damage.”

Mitch nodded. “Thanks.”

“I’ll give you a ride out to the ranch.” That was Web.

The last thing Mitch wanted was the opportunity for another private chat with Web, but he could hardly decline on the grounds of being chickenshit. Besides, what was he supposed to do? Call a cab? There was no good reason not to take Web up on his offer. Mitch was past the initial shock of running into him again, right? He’d known all along coming back here meant confronting a few old ghosts. So here was the Ghost of Christmas Past offering him a ride. Big deal.

“I appreciate it. Thanks.”

He followed Web to the SUV. Web unlocked the passenger door, waiting till Mitch climbed inside. He slammed the door shut and walked around to the driver’s side. By then Mitch was starting to feel the aches and pains of getting thrown across the highway in a tin can. That was actually a relief because it gave him something to think about other than the fact that he was sitting about a foot away from Web Eisley.

The scent of sheepskin and leather and a faintly herbal aftershave filled the vehicle. It was annoying to be so aware of Web. Thankfully, Web paid him no mind, picking up the radio speaking to the dispatcher on the other end. When he was done, he clicked off, hung up the handset and started the SUV’s engine.

For all Mitch had been thinking he didn’t want to talk to Web, the silence got to him. He couldn’t seem to get past the strangeness of Web within arm’s reach after all this time.

“Are you still on duty?”

Web shook his head. Then, perhaps thinking Mitch might miss the gesture in the dark, he said, “No.”

Just being a good citizen, it seemed. Mitch searched for something else to say, the normal things people said in this kind of situation. Not that this was a normal kind of situation. “How long have you been with the Rangers?”

“Just over a year.”

“Congratulations.”

“Thanks.”

“You always said you’d make it before you turned thirty-five.”

“Is that so?” Web’s reply was automatic. The kind of tone people used when they had their minds on more important matters.

The final look in Mitch’s side mirror showed the tow truck being angled across the highway, backing to the side of the road. “How are your folks?”

“Fine. Gettin’ older, I guess.”

Well, yeah. Wasn’t everyone? Mitch didn’t say it. If Web didn’t feel like talking, the instinct was probably a good one. It wasn’t like there was a lot left to say between them. It had all been said twelve years ago. And then some.

Hard gusts of wind pushed against the SUV as it sped along the bleak stretch of unlit highway; the occasional crackle of the radio filled the silence.

It wasn’t more than ten minutes to the ranch. Mitch said nothing else and neither did Web until they reached the turnoff. Then Web parked so that Mitch could get out and open the wood gates.

Mitch got back in the SUV. As Web let the vehicle roll forward, an enormous tumbleweed rolled across the dirt road and vanished into the wind-scoured dark beyond the headlights.

Web drawled, “Welcome home, Mitchell Evans.”

The house hadn’t changed much.

Mitch’s footsteps sounded too loud as he walked slowly through the dusty rooms that still smelled of pipe tobacco and, more vaguely, horse liniment. But then it had never been a noisy place. Sometimes he and his old man had gone days without exchanging more than a word or two.

The steamer trunk, draped with a red and black Indian blanket, still sat in the front hall. In the dining room was the heavy old furniture that had once belonged to Mitch’s great-grandmother, including the squat china cabinet full of fragile teacups and saucers that hadn’t been touched in all the years Mitch had lived in that house.

In his father’s room the photograph of Mitch’s mother still perched on the bedside table next to the smaller framed photo of his parents’ wedding. Mitch stared at the neatly made bed with the handmade patchwork quilt. It looked so ordinary it was unsettling. He half expected Dane Evans to walk in and ask him what the hell he was doing in there. Maybe that was why funerals were a good idea.

The floorboard squeaked behind him. “I don’t know what I was expecting…” Mitch glanced at Web and his voice died away. It had been easier when Web was just a tall, shadowy figure.

He had been a handsome boy, and he was a handsome man, but he’d developed something more over the years. Presence. He filled the doorway of the bedroom and drove out the ghosts merely by standing there. Nearly.

Mitch shivered.

“I’ve got a fire started in the front room.”

“Thanks,” Mitch said, and meant it. He’d been paying to keep the electricity and gas on since his father’s death—mostly because he couldn’t come to a decision about what to do about the old place—but you’d never know it from the graveyard chill in these rooms.

Web nodded acknowledgment. He’d filled out—his shoulders and arms were bigger—but he was still very lean. He had taken his hat off when they’d entered the house, and his hair, still the color of sun-bleached gold, was starting to spring back. His eyes were bluer than Mitch remembered.
Blue as the Bonnie Blue Flag
, Web’s great-grandmother used to say. Now there was a character. She claimed to have been a spy for the Confederacy. Maybe it was true.

Funny to be thinking of her now. Or maybe not. This was exactly what Mitch had dreaded. The resurrection of all these dead and buried memories.

Web said, “You didn’t think to bring any grub?”

“What?”

“Food.”

“No. I’ll pick up what I need in town tomorrow.” Mitch wasn’t hungry. He hadn’t been hungry since he’d walked in on Innis and whatever-her-name-had-been. That memory alone was enough to start a lava flow through his digestive tract.

Web gave another nod, turning from the doorway. Mitch followed him to the front room where flames were crackling cheerfully in the big stone fireplace.

They had exchanged all of ten sentences since Mitch had unlocked the front door. Mitch had called the car rental agency and explained about the accident. Then he’d made a brief tour of the house and Web had left him to it. Mitch wasn’t sure if that was a relief or not. Web provided a useful distraction even when he wasn’t saying anything. No surprise there. Although Web had always been the talker, the funny one. He always had some yarn or some crazy observation to get Mitch laughing. There hadn’t been a lot of laughs in Mitch’s life, which was probably why he remembered that.

You’re rilin’ me, boy
. That had been one of Web’s stock phrases. Mitch’s mouth quirked, remembering.

“Something funny?” Web asked, jerking Mitch back to the present.

“Just remembering.” Web was waiting for Mitch to finish his thought, but he shook his head. “Are you still living at the ranch?”

“Uh-huh.” His blue gaze rested on Mitch’s face, and he seemed to relent. “Everybody’s in good health. Older and wiser. I guess you don’t want to hear it, but we were all real sorry about your daddy.”

“Yeah. Thanks.” Mitch winced inwardly at the thought of his outburst on the road. An old-fashioned hissy fit, that was what his old man would have called it—and he wouldn’t have been much wrong. Mitch had been more shaken than he’d realized at the time because that wasn’t like him. In fact, he’d developed a reputation in the theater for being unshakeable. Not that everyone viewed the fact that he reserved his emotion for his dancing as a strength. Innis certainly didn’t see it that way.

“He’d be glad to know you’re here now.”

“Sure. He’d be over the moon, I bet.” Mitch gave a short, bitter laugh, but apparently Web was serious.

“He used to talk about you.”

“You know what, Web? I don’t want to talk about
him
.” And particularly not with Web, but Mitch didn’t add that.

“Suit yourself.” Web’s face and voice gave nothing away. Maybe he was offended by Mitch’s frankness, maybe not. “Aunt Mamie’s been comin’ over a couple of times a month to make sure things don’t get too out of hand.”

“That was nice of her.” That explained why the layer of dust was still see-through and why the mice hadn’t taken up croquet in the front parlor.

“You’re family.” Web delivered it casually, with a shrug.

Mitch didn’t know what to say to that. He’d written all these people off twelve years ago. Well, not Aunt Mamie. That would be like trying to write off the periodic table of elements, but he hadn’t expected to see her again. He hadn’t expected to see any of them again. He still wasn’t sure what had prompted him to head for Llano after he’d found his lover
in flagrante delicto
. Possibly because this was the one place in the world where no one was laughing behind his back?

Correction. They were probably still laughing behind his back, but at least it wasn’t because he was so staggeringly oblivious to the fact that his partner had been screwing around on him with everything that moved for a year or so.

The air in the room seemed to change pressure. There was a peculiar high-pitched whine in his ears. Mitch felt behind him and sat on the low credenza, dimly aware that he was pushing aside the lariat lying there, knocking over a couple of his father’s old rodeo trophies. Reaction was setting in. It felt like he hadn’t stopped running since he’d walked into that dressing room. Everything was hitting at once: the disappointment of not getting the role of the Swan in the spring production of Matthew Bourne’s
Swan Lake
, Innis’s betrayal, the realization that he, Mitch, had been a laughingstock for months. And then finally the physical aftereffects of having been in a car accident an hour earlier—only to be rescued by Web Eisley himself. And the funniest part about that was nearly dying didn’t seem as traumatic as running into Web when he wasn’t prepared for it.

“Drink this.”

Mitch looked up out of his miserable preoccupation to find Web holding out a glass with about a thimbleful of amber liquid.

He shook his head. “I don’t drink.”

“I remember. You’re not going to get smashed on less than two fingers of Bushmills.”

“It’s not about getting smashed. It’s about…” Suddenly he couldn’t remember what it was about. Web was looking at him like Mitch was an idiot. Mitch took the glass, ignoring the brush of their fingers and tossed back the whiskey.

It burned down his throat and shot up into his sinuses. When he stopped coughing he heard Web saying, “What the hell was that, John Wayne? Even Texans are allowed to take a sip, you know.”

“I know all about Texans.”

The whiskey had a surprising and almost instantaneous effect. It started in Mitch’s toes and tingled up through his nerves and muscles till it prickled his scalp. He felt calmer, warmer and more alert.

“Better?” Web asked as though he knew exactly how Mitch was feeling.

“Thanks.”

Web nodded.

Once again there was nothing to say. Nothing safe to say, anyway. Sad to think that here was once the person who had mattered more than anyone in the world to Mitch.

He pushed away from the credenza. “It’s been a long day and a longer night. You don’t mind if I throw you out now, do you?”

“I don’t mind.” Web reached into his blazer, pulled out a wallet and removed a business card. “Give me a call if you need anythin’.”

Mitch took the card reluctantly. “Thanks. I’m not going to be here long.”

“No? But you’re stayin’ for the holiday?”

“No.” That was a lie and they both knew it.

Web gave a brief, crooked grin. “Uh-huh. Well, if you change your mind, I know some folks who’d be mighty happy to see you again, Mitch.”

“Thanks.” Mitch walked him to the front door.

“Sleep tight,” Web said, walking out onto the porch.

“Night.”

Web turned back. “Just out of curiosity, what was it you thought you saw on the road tonight? A deer wearin’ a…what?”

Mitch was too tired to prevaricate. “I thought I saw a reindeer.” He gently swung the door closed on Web’s startled expression.

He woke to the sound of bells. Christmas bells.

Mitch opened his eyes and blinked at the low ceiling and blackened beams.

No. Not Christmas bells. The doorbell. He groaned, swore—swore more loudly when he realized how painfully stiff he was—and threw the bunched blankets aside, pulling on his jeans as he staggered down the hall to the front door.

He fumbled the lock open and gaped at the vision of Mamie Eisley standing on his front porch holding an enormous picnic basket.

“Mitchell Evans, you young polecat! What’s the meanin’ of sneakin’ home without sayin’ a word to anybody?”

Mitch opened his mouth, but Mamie turned away, hollering, “Here he is, Web! He’s fine. Mostly.”

Web appeared around the side of the house and took the steps in that long stride of his. “Where the hell were you?”

“Sleeping. Where the hell were you?” It came out muffled because by then Mamie had shoved the picnic basket to Mitch and thrown her skinny arms around him. Mitch hugged her back instinctively—and then harder when he felt the fragility of her bones and smelt the familiar scent of honeysuckle and soap.

“Welcome home, honey,” Mamie whispered and there was an unexpected sting in Mitch’s eyes.

“Crawling in through your bathroom window,” Web answered Mitch’s previous comment. “I thought maybe you hit your head harder than you thought last night.”

“I didn’t hit my head last night.”

Mamie and Web exchanged disbelieving looks. Mitch put a cautious hand to his forehead and winced. “Did I?”

“Honey, you look like somebody throwed you in a blender and turned it on high. Why didn’t you tell anyone you was comin’ home?”

“I didn’t know myself.” Mitch turned and went back inside to have a look at the damage. Mamie and Web followed, Mamie still scolding him for not letting anyone know he was planning a visit.

“It was last minute.” Mitch paused at the mirror in the hall and peered at himself. His hair was chestnut-colored and currently styled in what Mamie would probably describe as a rat’s nest. His wide, tilted eyes were green and made an interesting contrast to the bruise darkening the left side of his face. His beard was coming along although the assorted nicks and cuts he’d picked up during the accident made it look like he’d had second thoughts about that.

“I don’t remember getting hit in the face. I guess I caught some of the air bag when it deployed.”

“I guess you did.” Mamie shivered. “Web told me the whole sorry story.”

“I bet.”

Web said grimly, “You’re lucky not to be crippled or dead.”

Mitch couldn’t help an instinctive shudder at the word
crippled
. “So you said last night.”

“Well, you’re home now and you’re safe and sound.” Mamie stroked Mitch’s arm as though he were a nervous horse than needed gentling. He smiled at her. He had always liked Mamie. Maybe even loved her. He didn’t have anyone like Mamie in his family. Hell, he didn’t have any family except his old man and now he didn’t have his old man.

That was the good news.

Except, strangely, today it didn’t feel like good news.

His stomach suddenly growled, far too loudly to be overlooked. Web and Mamie laughed, and after a moment so did Mitch.

“I’ve got the remedy for that, don’t you fret.” Mamie led the way to the kitchen. Mitch followed, uncomfortably aware of Web treading practically on his heels. The back of his neck prickled in atavistic response.

Mamie went straight to the long, wooden table where Mitch had eaten meals separated by eight feet of polished maple wood from his father. She opened the picnic basket and began to unload its contents while Mitch looked on helplessly. A small, old-fashioned milk bottle came out followed by several plastic food containers.

“What is all that?” The warm fragrance wafting from the basket made his stomach do a
petit saut
.

Mamie began to peel the lids back. “Fresh strawberries, blueberry pecan muffins… Web said you hadn’t had time to pick up any grub. I told him that was a sorry kind of homecoming, and I put together this little ol’ breakfast basket and made him drive me straight over here.”

“That was…neighborly of you, but you really didn’t have to.” Mitch watched Mamie lift out a white plate covered with wax paper. His taste buds were salivating. He hadn’t had food like this in years.

“Texas quiche,” Mamie informed him proudly. “Made with green chilies and Tabasco sauce.”

Mitch glanced at Web, who was silently watching the proceedings. “Texas quiche? Isn’t that an oxymoron?

“Aunt Mamie has been taking cooking classes. We’ve been her guinea pigs. Now it’s your turn.”

“Mitch, you get a plate and silverware out.”

“I’m not eating all this by myself.” But he obeyed, going to the cupboard and lifting out a short stack of dishes.

Aunt Mamie sucked in a sharp breath. “Why, Mitch, honey. Y’all are more hurt than you know. Just look at your poor feet!” Aghast, Aunt Mamie stared down at Mitch’s bare feet. “You need to see a doctor pronto.”

Mitch looked down at his feet and started to laugh. Bunions and corns were the least of it. His feet were beyond ugly with purple bruises and thick, hardened skin over the joints, and black, cracked nails. In fact, all things considered, his feet were looking better than usual. He’d danced with ulcers between his toes, sprains and even broken toes.