Lone Star (4 page)

Food and sex. But he really didn’t want to think about sex right now.

Naturally, having decided he wasn’t going to think about sex, he couldn’t get it out of his mind as he scanned labels and studied produce like it was auditioning for a part in his kitchen. It wasn’t sex with Innis he was thinking about either, even though it was their public breakup that had sent him fleeing across the country.

Mitch brooded over it as he chose brown rice, lentils, a loaf of coarse dark bread and yellow and leafy green vegetables. From the minute he’d recognized Web, something had changed inside him. All those safely submerged memories were bubbling up to the surface and Mitch now had to negotiate his way through the icebergs of his feelings.

He shook his head at himself.
Focus
. Protein was a must so he picked up eggs, chocolate milk, fresh salmon and a whole chicken. Generally he tried to avoid red meat, but this was Texas and he was sort of on vacation. Well, not vacation exactly but what the hell. He picked up a couple of steaks. One would have been plenty, of course, but…

I’m as out as I need to be. I don’t guess I fit your criteria for bein’ out.

So did that mean Web was out or not?

If Web was out, he had to be with someone. There was no way he wouldn’t be snapped up. He was handsome, healthy, gainfully employed in a job a lot of guys would find glamorous, and he had Aunt Mamie and her pecan pies. Of course he’d be snapped up.

Either way, Mitch would have his answer that evening, so he might as well stop speculating.

He resisted the temptation of ice cream despite the fact that he dearly loved ice cream, especially the stuff with chunks of chocolate and nuts. But all that sugar and fat was a waste of calories. Plus he’d missed dance class yesterday and would probably not have time for a real workout today. The rule was miss class for one day, you notice; miss class for two days, your peers notice; miss class for three days, your audience notices.

As an afterthought he picked up a bottle of champagne. He didn’t know anything about champagne so he just selected the most expensive bottle on the shelf and hoped for the best.

“Aren’t you Mitch Evans?” asked the woman who rang up his basketful of groceries. She was about sixty with false eyelashes and teased black hair. He wondered if she’d settled on that look forty years ago and simply never changed.

Mitch nodded curtly, braced for…he wasn’t sure what.

“I knew your daddy. He used to buy his groceries here. Every Sunday mornin’ on his way back from church. Regular as clockwork.”

“It was the same when I was growing up.”

“He was a tough old nut, but people around here thought a lot of your daddy.”

Was there implied criticism of himself? Mitch wasn’t sure. He settled for a nod and paying the total the cash register spat out. It was strange to find himself known only for being Mitch Evans, the prodigal son of Dane Evans, rather than Mitchell Evans, the ABT’s best-known male principal.

He asked for extra cardboard boxes and carried the boxes and his groceries out to his rental car, stowed them in the trunk and checked his cell phone. No messages. Was he expecting Innis to call?

Did he want Innis to call?

Mitch checked the time. Not quite eleven. It felt later in the day, but he’d got a virtuously early start to his day. He started the engine and headed back to the ranch, but on impulse on his way out of town decided to drive past where the Dance Box had been located. He found the avenue without trouble, trolling slowly down the street until he spotted the building.

He parked and got out. The building was small and square, painted white with crisp black and pink trim. The overhead sign read Dance Box in black script, and there was a small drawing of pink ballet slippers. The windows were dark. A For Sale sign taped in the center window featured a realtor’s radioactive-white smile.

The shop on the left was also for sale. On the right, a pet store had replaced the old Laundromat. Its windows were painted with a variety of animals in Santa hats or peeking out of stockings. Mitch returned his gaze to the studio’s unlit windows feeling—and what else had he expected?—melancholy.

And really, that was pretty much the perfect state of mind to tackle the afternoon’s job. He got back in the rental car and returned to the ranch, where he found that Mamie had not only washed the breakfast dishes, she’d tidied up the kitchen as well as making up the bed in his bedroom.

In New York it would have felt intrusive—Mitch wasn’t sure it didn’t feel intrusive in Llano—but at the same time he was touched by the intended kindness. Last night Web had tossed out that offhanded, “You’re family.” When it came to Mamie, Mitch felt like it might be true.

Since Mamie had robbed him of any more excuses, he headed down the hall to his father’s bedroom and began the laborious task of sorting through his belongings.

Laborious
was probably the wrong word because Dane Evans had been neat and frugal. He didn’t have a lot of possessions and those that he did have were in good shape and in their proper place. It was simple to transfer clothes from the dresser drawers to the cardboard boxes Mitch had picked up at the market.

Come to think of it, this was a hell of lousy way to spend the holidays. What had he been thinking? The mild case of melancholy had downgraded to something more like depression, but was he mostly depressed because he and his father had nothing in common? Even Mitch wasn’t exactly sure.

He moved on to the closet with its sparse contents. This turned out to be a little more complicated than anticipated because of the large, square old-fashioned garment bags that turned out to contain dresses once belonging to his mother. But in the end, the result was the same. He carried the garment bags out to the front room along with the boxes filled with his father’s belongings.

The top shelf of the closet contained odds and ends. A pistol wrapped neatly in oilcloth and stowed in a hatbox, another hatbox containing a new Stetson. In the very back, so far back he nearly missed it, he found a neatly rolled leather belt.

For a time Mitch sat on the edge of the bed, absently running the long, slightly cracked leather through his hands. A good, stout leather belt. He could still feel the stinging weight of it on his backside.

The truth was, his father had been from a different generation. Maybe not in years but in mind-set. Corporal punishment wasn’t viewed as anything but normal discipline.
Spare the rod and spoil the child.
And the whippings had been coolly measured out so as to make sure Mitch remembered his lesson but received no lasting damage.

Only one time had his father forgotten himself, actually lost his temper and struck Mitch with the buckle side of the belt. That had been when Mitch had enrolled in ballet class after being expressly told there was no money for such foolishness.

That had been one of the common refrains of his childhood.
No money for foolishness. Foolishness
had encompassed everything from a pair of Doc Marten boots to concert tickets for NSYNC. When the request for ballet lessons had been turned down flat, Mitch had gotten a job at the feed store and paid his own tuition. He’d tried to hide the fact that he was taking lessons, but hadn’t managed it for long, and when his father had discovered the truth, out had come that fucking belt. It was the only time Mitch had tried to run from a beating; his father’s face had frightened him. The buckle had caught him on his tailbone and he’d gone down on his knees in more pain than he had believed possible. At least at that point in his life.

It must have scared his old man too, because he had picked Mitch up, checked him over carefully and apologized for striking him in anger. He had put the belt away and had never referred to ballet or Miss Nesou again, although he was surely aware that Mitch had continued to take lessons.

So Mitch had inadvertently won that battle. Afterward he had gone to Web. It was the only time he’d told Web about a whipping. He hadn’t cried—he never cried—but Web had held him anyway. Held him for a long, long time, and he’d sworn that if Mitch’s dad ever struck him again, Web would kill him.

Jesus, they had been young. Mitch smiled wryly, remembering. Web had been seventeen and Mitch had been thirteen. And the fact was, no beating Dane Evans delivered had hurt half as much as the first time Mitch had to dance on cracked calluses.

He sat there for a moment, trying to imagine what it had been like for his father, trying to see it from his standpoint. Trying to understand. And he did, a little.

Dane Evans had been the father of the Ugly Duckling. He’d wanted a strong, sensible son to grow up and take over the family ranch, and what he got was a highly strung boy who dreamed of being a ballet dancer. Of course he’d been disappointed. Of course he’d been frustrated—even before he’d learned that his son, his only child, was queer.

That had been the breaking point. The night Mitch told his father he was gay. The night all that frustration had boiled up into anger and disgust and come bubbling out.

Fresh from the bitter argument with Web, Mitch had confronted his father and broken the news he was gay. His father’s face had turned gray. He’d knocked Mitch to the floor with a single punch. And while Mitch was lying there, his head ringing, the room spinning, his father had told him to leave his house and never come back.

And that was exactly what Mitch had done. He’d taken the money he’d been saving for his college tuition and he’d bought a bus ticket and headed for New York. He’d never seen or spoken to his father again.

Nor had he felt any regret until this very moment. He still wasn’t sure what he felt was an emotion as coherent as regret. Or what it was he regretted. That they had not been different people? If he was going to start wishing for that, he might as well wish it for himself and Web too.

The beard had to go. It was scraggly and slow-growing and didn’t really conceal Mitch’s distinctive, rather exotic bone structure. Anyway, it wasn’t like he was such a media star he had to worry about reporters tracking him down. It was unlikely his absence had even been noticed yet. And when it was, it wouldn’t exactly make the evening news. After a shower and due consideration, Mitch shaved it off. He felt instantly better. More like himself.

He needed a haircut too, but that would have to wait till he got back to New York.

He hadn’t planned on making social calls, and the extent of his dress wardrobe was a clean pair of jeans and a cashmere sweater. He couldn’t help knowing that he was going to look what the Eisleys would call “fruity” sitting in their living room in his white cashmere sweater and Doc Martens. He could always take his earring out. What bothered him was that the thought even crossed his mind.

He removed the champagne out of the fridge, double-checked he had his wallet and keys. His cell phone rang.

He checked the display screen. With the timing that made him such an excellent soloist, Innis’s photo flashed up.

It was not the greatest photo in the world. Innis liked it because it made him look handsome, but in Mitch’s opinion it also made him look a little sly. Or maybe hindsight really was twenty-twenty.

He let the phone ring. He had no idea what to say to Innis. He wasn’t even sure what he was feeling now that he was past the initial shock of betrayal. He’d been thinking his heart was broken, but having been reminded of what it felt like to really have your heart broken he was starting to wonder if it wasn’t more his pride and ego that had taken the worst hit. Oh, he’d cared for Innis. No question. He’d felt more for Innis than anyone since Web. In fact, for the first few years after breaking it off with Web, Mitch had wondered if he’d lost the ability to feel at all. But then Innis had come along and they’d had so much in common and the sex had been great and Mitch had realized how much he missed having someone to share both the good times and the bad times with.

And before long he and Innis were living together and a committed couple. At least that was how Mitch had seen it. Innis had clearly seen it differently. Maybe something more like roommates with benefits? Hard to say because Mitch hadn’t waited to hear Innis’s side of things—not once Innis had admitted to sleeping around with half the
corps de ballet
.

So that was that. Whatever he’d felt for Innis, he couldn’t see any way back from this.

All the same he felt guilty setting out for the Eisleys’ ranch. He felt nervous too, and that really was ridiculous. What exactly did he imagine was going to happen this evening? He wished he knew who all had been invited. He would be finding out one way or the other whether Web was in a relationship—and the fact that he even wondered about such a thing aggravated him.

It was little more than a ten-minute drive. In the old days Web and Mitch had ridden across the open prairie and cut the time down to five. Mitch hadn’t been on a horse since leaving home.

He parked in the tree-ringed front yard of the Eisleys’ nineteenth-century ranch house. Lights shone welcomingly from the downstairs windows. A white-muzzled piebald border collie that could have been the offspring of the Eisleys’ long-dead Betsy came to greet him, barking, tail wagging with nervous energy.

The door opened and Web stepped out on the porch. He whistled to the dog and came down the stairs to meet Mitch.

Web looked strikingly handsome in jeans and a black western vague–styled shirt. His fair hair was neatly slicked back as though he’d just stepped out of the shower and he was freshly shaved.

“Down, Belle,” he told the dog. And then to Mitch, “You made it.”

“Yeah.” Mitch handed over the bottle of champagne. His hands were damp, whether from nerves or the condensation on the bottle he wasn’t sure.

“No need to sound so giddy about it.”

Mitch gave a reluctant laugh and then froze when Web wrapped an arm around his shoulders, giving him a quick, casual hug.

If Web noticed, he didn’t give any sign. His arm tightened briefly and he let Mitch go. “Come on in and say hi to the folks. They don’t bite.”

Mitch followed Web inside and the minute he stepped through the doorway he was hit by memories. Memories and the friendly mob that was the Eisleys. The next few minutes were a blur of hugs and hellos.

“Mitch Evans, you young rascal!” Mrs. Eisley wrapped him in warm, slender arms. Her face changed. “My goodness, your poor eye!”

Mitch put up a self-conscious hand to his still swollen eye. “I don’t even notice it.” That was the truth. Compared to some of the injuries Mitch had danced through, a black eye didn’t even rate.

Mamie, a dab of flour on her nose, hugged him next. She was actually Great-Aunt Mamie, and had lived with the Eisleys as long as Mitch had known them—which was all his life.

“What’s the other fella look like?” Mr. Eisley gave Mitch’s shoulder a little squeeze, reminding Mitch of Web’s own casually warm manner. “Welcome home, son.”

“You haven’t changed a bit,” Allie, Web’s kid sister, told him. “I think you had a black eye the last time I saw you.” Allie was pretty and kind and funny and there had been a time in Mitch’s life when he had wondered why he couldn’t just fall in love with her and live happily ever after as a real part of the Eisley family.

They were a good-looking bunch. In fact, they could have modeled for a Levi’s commercial or Eagle Jeans. Mrs. Eisley was tall and blonde. Mr. Eisley was tall and blond. The Eisley kids were tall and blond. Even Aunt Mamie had once been tall and blonde. It kept things nice and simple.

Mitch was swept along on the golden tide of Eisleys to the big front room with its roughly hewn stone fireplace and comfortable furniture upholstered in leather and Indian blanket patterns. It looked a lot like it had twelve years ago although the current generation of furnishings looked newer.

Fresh pine garland wrapped around the open beams and staircase and filled the room with its spicy scent. A large pine tree filled one corner of the room just as it had every year when Mitch was a boy. He even recognized a lot of the handmade decorations. A landslide of gaily wrapped parcels covered the floor around the tree. Mitch had always envied that wealth of red and green and gold presents. Not because of the presents themselves—most of them were small tokens, things like jam or cookies or candles—but because of the friendships and relationships each small gift represented.

The Evans family didn’t exchange little tokens of friendship and liking with everyone from the mailman to the neighbors. There had been presents on Christmas morning, but they were always things that were needed for school or work. Now an adult, Mitch understood how little money there had been for extras, but as a kid it had been disappointing. He’d envied Web his family making such a big production out of the holidays. All the holidays, come to think of it.

“We were all so sorry about your daddy.” Mrs. Eisley pressed Mitch into a low, comfortable chair by the fireplace. “Folks around here had a lot of respect for him.”

“Thank you, ma’am.” The
ma’am
slipped out automatically. Mitch falling into old habits all too easily.

“What’ll you have to drink, Mitch?” Web asked.

“Anything diet.”

“How are things at the ranch, son?” Mr. Eisley inquired.

“Fine. Good,” Mitch answered, guiltily aware he hadn’t checked anything out on the ranch. The barn could be falling down for all he knew or the well pump could have exploded. There was no livestock now, so it wasn’t like feeding the chickens or watering the horses was an issue, but still.

Web appeared with a glass of diet soda at the same moment Allie pushed a glass of champagne into Mitch’s hand. Mitch tried to hand it back, but Allie resisted and he had to sip from the glass to keep from spilling.

“There! See,” Allie said triumphantly. “It’s a party. You can’t drink diet soda.”

“Maybe Mitch likes diet soda,” Web told her.

“Of course he doesn’t
like
it. No one likes it.” Allie turned that blue gaze so similar to her brother’s Mitch’s way. “You’re not an alcoholic or anything, are you?”

Mitch shook his head.

“No, he’s a control freak. So let him have some control,” Web returned.

Mitch glared at him.

“I’m on your side.” Web was smiling at him, teasing. It aggravated Mitch but at the same time it diffused some of his ire. He wasn’t used to being kidded anymore. There wasn’t a lot of fooling around in professional dance.

Well, not that kind of fooling around.

“Sure you are,” he muttered.

“Sure I am,” Web said softly. Mitch looked up and Mitch’s gaze held his for just a fraction too long.

“Dinner’s gettin’ ice cold!” Mrs. Eisley poked her head into the living room to warn them as she did every meal—though in all the years he’d known her, Mitch had never seen her serve a meal that wasn’t piping hot and perfectly prepared.

They trooped into the dining room and Mitch found himself sitting next to Allie and across from Web. To his right was Allie’s fiancé, Gordon Ramon.

There didn’t seem to be any sign of 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 Mexican mob. Or eatin’ this heart attack in a bowl of Mama’s. Same for all of us. Take you last night. It’s a damn—” his gaze slid to his mother, “—danged miracle you’re sittin’ at this table right now.”

Somehow it didn’t make Mitch feel any better.

The conversation moved into less controversial channels. The champagne bottle disappeared to be replaced by a bottle of Texas white. Mitch made halfhearted objections to having his glass refilled, but the champagne had unbent him considerably. He felt relaxed and mellow and a little sentimental. Plus it turned out he liked plain wine a lot more than champagne. Not that he was going to make a habit of this, but it
was
kind of a special occasion, wasn’t it?

“Gordon’s teachin’ us all about wine. He’s some kind of wine connoisseur,” Aunt Mamie said, and Mitch couldn’t tell from her tone whether that was a compliment to Gordon or not. And neither, he suspected, could Gordon.

He raised his gaze from his glass to find Web staring at him. Mitch felt his face warm at the directness of that look. What was going on in Web’s mind? Because in any other part of the country that look meant…