Sierra's Homecoming (4 page)

Gabe had still been well when he wrote that letter. He'd been looking forward to coming home. It was about time they added to their family, he'd said, and got cattle running on their part of the Triple M again.

She'd dropped to her knees, right there on the hard-packed dirt, too stricken to stand. The mule had wandered home, and presently Doss had come looking for her. Found her still clutching that letter to her chest, her throat so raw with sorrow that she couldn't speak.

He'd lifted her into his arms, Doss had, without saying a word. Set her on his horse, swung up behind her and taken her home.

“Hannah?”

She blinked, came back to the kitchen and the biscuit batter, the package of sausage in her hands.

Doss was standing beside her, smelling of snow and pine trees and man. He touched her arm.

“Are you all right?” he asked.

She swallowed, nodded.

It was a lie, of course. Hannah hadn't been all right since the day Gabe went away to war. Like as not, she would never be all right again.

“You sit down,” Doss said. “I'll attend to supper.”

She sat, because the strength had gone out of her knees, and looked around blankly. “Where's Tobias?”

Doss washed his hands, opened the sausage packet, and dumped the contents into the big cast iron skillet waiting on the stove. “Upstairs,” he answered.

Tobias had left the room without her knowing?

“Oh,” she said, unnerved. Was she losing her mind? Had her sorrow pushed her not only to absent-minded distraction, but beyond the boundaries of ordinary sanity as well?

She considered the mysterious movement of her mother-in-law's teapot.

Adeptly, Doss rolled out the biscuit dough, cut it into circles with the rim of a glass. Lorelei McKettrick had taught her boys to cook, sew on their own buttons and make up their beds in the morning. You could say
that
for her, and a lot of other things, too.

Doss poured Hannah a mug of coffee, brought it to her. Started to rest a hand on her shoulder, then thought better of it and pulled back. “I know it's hard,” he said.

Hannah couldn't look at him. Her eyes burned with tears she didn't want him to see, though she reckoned he knew they were there anyhow. “There are days,” she said, in a whisper, “when I don't think I can go another step. But I have to, because of Tobias.”

Doss crouched next to Hannah's chair, took both her hands in his own and looked up into her face. “There's been a hundred times,” he said, “when I wished it was me in that grave up there on the hill, instead of Gabe. I'd give anything to take his place, so he could be here with you and the boy.”

A sense of loss cut into Hannah's spirit like the blade of a new ax, swung hard. “You mustn't think things like that,” she said, when she caught her breath. She pulled her hands free, laid them on either side of his earnest, handsome face, then quickly withdrew them. “You
mustn't,
Doss. It isn't right.”

Just then Tobias clattered down the back stairs.

Doss flushed and got to his feet.

Hannah turned away, pretended to have an interest in the mail, most of which was for Holt and Lorelei, and would have to be forwarded to San Antonio.

“What's the matter, Ma?” Tobias spoke worriedly into the awkward silence. “Don't you feel good?”

She'd hoped the boy hadn't seen Doss sitting on his haunches beside her chair, but obviously he had.

“I'm fine,” she said briskly. “I just had a splinter in my finger, that's all. I got it putting wood in the fire, and Doss took it out for me.”

Tobias looked from her to his uncle and back again.

“Is that why you're making supper?” he asked Doss.

Doss hesitated. Like Gabe, he'd been raised to abhor any kind of lie, even an innocent one, designed to soothe a boy who'd lost his father and feared, in the depths of his dreams, losing his mother, too.

“I'm making supper,” he said evenly, “because I can.”

Hannah closed her eyes, opened them again.

“Set the table, please,” Doss told Tobias.

Tobias hurried to the cabinet for plates and silverware.

Hannah met Doss's gaze across the dimly lit room.

A charge seemed to pass between them, like before, when Hannah had come back from getting the mail and found Tobias outside, in the teeth of a high-country winter, building a snow fort.

“It's too damn dark in this house,” Doss said. He walked to the middle of the room, reached up, and pulled the beaded metal cord on the overhead light. The bare bulb glowed so brightly it made Hannah blink, but she didn't object.

Something in Doss's face prevented her from it.

Present Day

Travis had long since finished his coffee and left the house by the time Liam got up from his nap and came downstairs, tousle-haired and puffy-eyed from sleep.

“That boy was in my room again,” he said. “He was sitting at the desk, writing a letter. Can I watch TV? There's a nice HD setup in that room next to the front door. A computer, too, with a big, flat-screen monitor.”

Sierra knew about the fancy electronics, since she'd explored the house after Travis left. “You can watch TV for an hour,” she said. “Hands off the computer, though. It doesn't belong to us.”

Liam's shoulders slumped slightly. “I
know
how to use a computer, Mom,” he said. “We had them at school.”

Between rent, food and medical bills, Sierra had never been able to scrape together the money for a PC of their own. She'd used the one in the office of the bar she worked in, back in Florida. That was how Meg had first contacted her. “We'll get one,” she said, “as soon as I find another job.”

“My mailbox is probably full,” Liam replied, unappeased. “All the kids in the Geek Program were going to write to me.”

Sierra, in the midst of putting a package of frozen chicken breasts into the microwave to thaw, felt as though she'd been poked with a sharp stick. “Don't call it the Geek Program, please,” she said.

Liam shrugged one shoulder. “Everybody else does.”

“Go watch TV.”

He went.

A rap sounded at the back door, and Sierra peered through the glass, since it was dark out, to see Travis standing on the back porch.

“Come in,” she called, and headed for the sink to wash her hands.

Travis entered, carrying a fragrant bag of take-out food in one hand. The collar of his coat was raised against the cold, his hat brim pulled low over his eyes.

“Fried chicken,” he said, lifting the bag as evidence.

Sierra paused, shut off the faucet, dried her hands. The timer on the microwave dinged. “I was about to cook,” she said.

Travis grinned. “Good thing I got to you in time,” he answered. “If you're anything like your sister, you shouldn't be allowed to get near a stove.”

If you're anything like your sister.

The words saddened Sierra, settled bleak and heavy over her heart. She didn't know whether she was like her sister or not; until Meg had e-mailed her a smiling picture a few weeks ago, she wouldn't have recognized her on the street.

“Did I say something wrong?” Travis asked.

“No,” Sierra said quickly. “It was—thoughtful of you to bring the chicken.”

Liam must have heard Travis's voice, because he came pounding into the room, all smiles.

“Hey, Travis,” he said.

“Hey, cowpoke,” Travis replied.

“The computer's making a dinging noise,” Liam reported.

Travis smiled, set the bag of chicken on the counter but made no move to take off his hat and coat. “Meg's got it set to do that, so she'll remember to check her e-mail when she's here,” he said.

“Mom won't let me log on,” Liam told him.

Travis glanced at Sierra, turned to Liam again. “Rules are rules, cowpoke,” he said.

“Rules bite,” Liam said.

“Ninety-five percent of the time,” Travis agreed.

Liam recovered quickly. “Are you going to stay and eat with us?”

Travis shook his head. “I'd like that a lot, but I'm expected somewhere else for supper,” he answered.

Liam looked sorely disappointed.

Sierra wondered where that “somewhere else” was, and with whom Travis would be sharing a meal, and was irritated with herself. It was none of her business, and besides, she didn't care what he did or who he did it with anyway. Not the least little bit.

“Maybe another time,” Travis said.

Liam sighed and retreated to the study and his allotted hour of television.

“You shouldn't have,” Sierra said, indicating their supper with a nod.

“It's your first night here,” Travis answered, opening the door to leave. “Seemed like the neighborly thing to do.”

“Thank you,” Sierra said, but he'd already closed the door between them.

 

Travis started up his truck, just in case Sierra was listening for the engine, drove it around behind the barn and parked. After stopping to check on Baldy and the three other horses in his care, he shrugged down into the collar of his coat and slogged to his trailer.

The quarters were close, smaller than the closet off his master bedroom at home in Flagstaff, but he didn't need much space. He had a bed, kitchen facilities, a bathroom and a place for his laptop. It was enough.

More than Brody was ever going to have.

He took off his hat and coat and tossed them on to the built-in, padded bench that passed for a couch. He tried not to think about Brody, and in the daytime, he stayed busy enough to succeed. At night, it was another matter. There just wasn't enough to do after dark, especially out here in the boonies, once he'd nuked a frozen dinner and watched the news.

He thought about Sierra and the boy, in there in the big house, eating the chicken and fixings he'd picked up in the deli at the one and only supermarket in Indian Rock. He'd never intended to join them, since they'd just arrived and were settling in, but he could picture himself sitting down at that long table in the kitchen, just the same.

He rooted through his refrigerator, something he had to crouch to do, and chose between Salisbury steak, Salisbury steak and Salisbury steak.

While the sectioned plastic plate was whirling round and round in the lilliputian microwave that came with the trailer, he made coffee and remembered his last visit from Rance McKettrick. Widowed, Rance lived alone in the house
his
legendary ancestor, Rafe, had built for his wife, Emmeline, and their children, back in the 1880s. He had two daughters, whom he largely ignored.

“This place is just a fancy coffin,” Rance had observed, in his blunt way, when he'd stepped into the trailer. “Brody's the one that's dead, Trav, not you.”

Travis rubbed his eyes with a thumb and forefinger. Brody was dead, all right. No getting around that. Seventeen, with everything to live for, and he'd blown himself up in the back room of a slum house in Phoenix, making meth.

He looked into the window over the sink, saw his own reflection.

Turned away.

His cell phone rang, and he considered letting voice mail pick up, but couldn't make himself do it. If he'd answered the night Brody called…

He fished the thing out, snapped it open and said, “Reid.”

“Whatever happened to ‘hello'?” Meg asked.

The bell on the microwave rang, and Travis reached in to retrieve his supper, burned his hand and cursed.

She laughed. “Better and better.”

“I'm not in the mood for banter, Meg,” he replied, turning on the water with his free hand and then switching to shove his scorched fingers into the flow.

“You never are,” she said.

“The horses are fine.”

“I know. You would have called me if they weren't.”

“Then what do you want?”

“My, my, we
are
testy tonight. I called, you big grouch, to ask about my sister and my nephew. Are they okay? How do they look? Sierra is so private, she's almost standoffish.”

“You can say that again.”

“Thank you, but in the interest of brevity, I won't.”

“Since when do you give a damn about brevity?” Travis inquired, but he was grinning by then.

Once again Meg laughed. Once again Travis wished he'd been able to fall in love with her. They'd tried, the two of them, to get something going, on more than one occasion. Meg wanted a baby, and he wanted not to be alone, so it made sense. The trouble was, it hadn't worked.

There was no chemistry.