"Good."
She cocked her head. "Just good?"
Deke shook his head, unable to hide his smile. "No, not just good. Better." He told them about Zack—about the panicky first days of fatherhood, about his dash to the emergency room, about Zack's new words and fascination with horses and his love of crayons.
"He likes to eat them, you mean?" Dori said. "When Dad gave Jake crayons, he ate them."
Deke shook his head. "No, he draws with them."
Both his sisters stared at him. "He's, what, eighteen months old?" Milly said doubtfully.
"Twenty," Deke said. "Almost twenty-one. I know. He's precocious. He just loves to draw."
"Draw what?"
Deke shrugged. "Who knows. It's abstract."
"Impressionist?" Dori grinned.
"Hard to say. He just spends a lot of time at it. Picking up one, then the other, scribbling on the page. But he doesn't get bored. I've got a whole portfolio of 'em," he admitted.
They looked at him, then at each other.
"The doting father," Milly said, grinning. "Who'd a thunk it?"
"Fatherhood seems to agree," Dori said with a grin.
Deke nodded. "A lot more than I figured it would."
"Speaking of which—" Milly prodded him with her toe "—did you stop and see ours?"
"Briefly." He didn't want to get into that now. Didn't even want to think about it.
"Oh, dear." Dori read between the lines.
"Don't worry. He'll come around." Milly curled her feet under her in the armchair. "He'll love Zack. He's wonderful with C.J."
"He was wonderful with Jake," Dori added, "until the business about Jake inheriting half the ranch came up."
Deke remembered hearing about how wonderful the old man had been with his first grandchild. The sun had risen and set on Jake for years, according to an astonished Dori.
It wasn't until Riley had turned up to tell them that Jake had inherited half the Stratton family ranch after his father's death, that John Malone had started on the 'duty and responsibility and the family store' stuff he used to shove down Deke's throat. He'd wanted Dori to sell Jake's inheritance and put it into the store. It would, after all, he'd told Dori, be Jake's some day.
Jake's reaction to the news had been no more enthusiastic than his uncle's had. He didn't want the store, he'd told his mother. He wanted the ranch.
John Malone had been appalled.
Dori had been willing to swallow her dreams in order to give Jake a future. But even when her father insisted, she hadn't been willing to destroy Jake's dreams and sell the ranch.
Instead she'd quit the store and Dori and Jake had moved in with Riley at the ranch. Deke didn't know the whole story about Dori and Riley on the ranch. But presumably something had happened at a swimming hole and a few months later they'd got married.
They'd been happily married now for over two years. They had a brand-new baby daughter, a thriving son. And apparently they'd made their peace with John Malone.
So it could be done.
"It's just so great you've come," Milly said now. "We'll have Thanksgiving dinner tomorrow like a real family—all of us together at last—the way it's supposed to be. Everything will be perfect. You'll see."
Deke devoutly hoped so.
Milly had brought the cranberry sauce, and the yams and the pumpkin pies.
"Good cranberry sauce," their father said, beaming down the table at his daughter. "Just like Grandma used to make."
Dori had brought banana and cranberry quick breads and the homemade apple butter she'd put up this fall.
"Always liked apple butter," their father said, adding a dollop to one of the hot rolls their mother had baked.
Deke had brought three bottles of a private label wine from a friend's vineyard.
John Malone stared at glasses his wife was filling. "Since when," he asked, "do we have wine at Thanksgiving?"
"Deke brought it from New Mexico," Carol said quickly. "It's from a local vineyard, isn't it, dear?" she asked him.
Deke mustered a smile. "That's right."
He didn't remember them ever having apple butter either. But he didn't say so. Instead he turned to Riley. "Pass the mashed potatoes, will you?"
Riley passed them. "Great potatoes." He gave Carol a bright smile. "It isn't Thanksgiving without mashed potatoes and gravy."
"Deke always mashes the potatoes," Carol said, as if he'd been here to do it every year. Certainly he'd done it this year. His mother had handed him the mixer that evening just as if he'd never been away.
And Deke had taken it gladly, accepting it in the spirit it was offered—as a welcome back into the fold.
"Had 'em when he wasn't here," John Malone said flatly.
Tension simmered around the table. You could hear C.J. blow bubbles in his milk. Carefully, almost studiously, Deke spooned a small mound of mashed potatoes onto Zack's plate. He didn't look his father's way.
He'd tried smiling when they'd come in that afternoon. He'd said, "Hey, Dad, how are you?" and had deliberately taken Zack over to him. "This is your grandpa. Say hi to your grandpa."
Zack, bless his heart, had said, "Hi," and given his grandpa a big smile.
To give the old man credit, he'd smiled in return. He'd ruffled the boy's hair and chucked him under the chin. He'd never met Deke's eyes, and had almost at once made some excuse about needing to get something in the basement and had slipped down the stairs and away.
He hadn't reappeared until dinner was served. Then he'd taken his place at the head of the table, looked at them all—save Deke—with satisfaction and had proceeded to make his pronouncements on the meal. Milly and Dori tried to paper over the awkwardness of his remarks. Their mother smiled with all her might and tried to pretend everything was lovely.
And Deke felt steam coming out his ears.
"More turkey, anyone?" Carol asked brightly.
"I'll have some," Cash said quickly. He took the platter. "Deke?"
"Sure." Though it tasted like rubber to him. He turned to his brother-in-law. "So tell me, how's it going at the bull- and bronc-riding school?"
"Goin' good. Real good." It didn't seem to bother him that he was limping from getting kicked by a bull yesterday. "Got a bunch of eager kids out there right now. Gotta be eager," he reflected wryly, "to spend your entire Thanksgiving riding broncs or bulls."
"It's called dedication," Riley said with a grin. "We all had it once."
"We still do," Cash said, "we're just focusing on different stuff." He grimaced. "Two weeks and I've got finals coming up."
They talked about his classes and then about the work he was doing for Taggart and Noah. "It's a nice break," he said. "You ought to come visit while you're here. You know Taggart, don't you?"
"Oh, yeah. Worked for Will one summer."
"Come tonight," Milly invited.
"Yeah," Cash agreed. "They're having the annual Thanksgiving bash up at Taggart's. All the cowboys from the school, a bunch of locals. You probably knew some of them. Maybe you can get a few to turn up at your opening."
"What opening?" Deke's mother asked him.
"Deke's got a show opening at Dustin's tomorrow night," Milly said, looking at her mother, surprised. "Didn't he tell you?"
Carol shook her head and looked at Deke for an explanation.
He shrugged awkwardly. Somehow this didn't seem the right time, but he could hardly deny it. "It's no big deal. Just part of a small show my agent set up."
"Just a small show?" Dori rolled her eyes. "He and Charlie Seeks Elk. Two of the best photographers in America."
"Charlie thinks it's a big deal," Milly added. "And so does the gallery. Poppy and I have been doing flowers for the food table. Classy and elegant, that's what they told us. There will be big people there. Critics. Art connoisseurs. Magazine writers. We'll all go en masse and brag that we're related to Deke."
"Of course we will," Carol said, smiling for real now. "That will be wonderful, Deke. I wish I
'd known. I'll have to call Esther and Marilyn and—"
"Ma," Deke protested, embarrassed.
"Well, why not? It isn't every day my boy has a show right here in Livingston. I've only been to one, you know, that time Milly and I came down to Santa Fe, remember? But Dad's never been. He's only seen your books."
At least he'd looked at them. Or Deke hoped he had. He'd made it a point of sending them a copy of each of the five books he'd done.
"What's it about?" his mother asked.
It was hard to explain. You had to see the photos to appreciate his vision, to get a feel for his approach. Deke was an outdoor photographer. But he wasn't looking for calendar photos. Few of his shots could be called "pretty pictures."
He worked with space, with the horizon, with distance and perspective. His photos had a trademark expansiveness. They were always open, never closed. He went looking for places that gave him the opposite of the feelings he'd had when he'd stood in a building stamping prices on cereal boxes and sorting out brussels sprouts all day long.
He couldn't say that, of course. But because they were clearly waiting for him to say something, he had to try. "I went to the Four Corners area last winter, spent a week camping out in the snow, shooting a lot just at daybreak. Went over near Cortez and up on the mesas, looking down toward Shiprock. You know what it's like in winter before sunrise—all those muted colors, browns and taupes and grays—they can seem so flat, so dull. But then the sun comes up and the world seems to open up. All of a sudden there's coral and pink and rose, all these incredible possibilities…" He paused, feeling awkward at the enthusiasm that had crept into his voice.
He shrugged. "Anyway, it was … great." He took a breath. "And Gaby thought some of the shots I got would be a good balance for Charlie's work. She's been showing some of them recently at Sombra y Sol, her gallery in Santa Fe," he explained. And then he couldn't help adding the news he'd got right before he'd left, the news Gaby had been over the moon about. "They're going to be part of a show she's setting up this coming March in New York."
"New York!" his mother exclaimed. "Imagine that."
"And next summer they're going to be part of an exhibit in Cody called Wide Open Spaces."
"We'll have to get to that one," Riley said to Dori. "Don't think we'll make it to New York," he said ruefully.
"New York!" Carol murmured again. "That's wonderful. You've done so well, darling. Hasn't he, John?"
They all looked at him, even Deke. Especially Deke, who wanted just one tiny crumb of acknowledgment that he'd done better than he would have sorting brussels sprouts all day.
His father looked at him and said flatly, "I didn't ask to be impressed."
There was a second of stunned silence—as if all the air had been sucked right out of the room. The mood deflated. The enthusiasm vanished.
Just like that. With a single sentence. Six words.
And if anyone had asked him minutes before, Deke would have said there were no words left with which his father could hurt him. They had, after all, flung so many at each other in their anger all those years ago.
But he'd have been wrong.
These hurt. They cut because they'd been delivered so deftly, so neatly, so unexpectedly, like a knife between his ribs, when Deke had merely been trying to explain himself.
He hadn't said it to brag, for God's sake, but to share his joy, to create a little understanding.
And he had been willfully misunderstood—and dismissed.
Deke pushed back his chair and stood.
Color high in her cheeks, his mother put out a hand. "Deke! Stay!"
But he shook his head. No one spoke as he removed the tray of Zack's high chair and scooped his son, midbite, up into his arms. "I have to go."
"But, Deke. There's pie."
He wasn't staying. Not even for pie. There was no point.
He'd come to make peace with his father. He'd come to put the past behind them, to meet his old man, one adult to another, to connect. He'd tried. Dear God, he'd tried.
They couldn't connect. His father refused. And Deke couldn't keep trying. It hurt too much.
He gave his mother, his sisters and brothers-in-law and Jake a quick, thin smile, then bundled Zack into his jacket.
"Da!" Zack said, confused. "Pie?" He looked hopefully toward the table.
"No pie," Deke said.
"I'll put some on a plate for you," his mother offered, jumping up, coming after him toward the door.
"No. No, Ma." Deke did his best to smile at her, to try wordlessly to reassure her that this had nothing to do with her. "The dinner was fine. We're full. We don't need any pie." He opened the door and turned back to kiss her cheek and give her a squeeze. "It was good to see you."
She clung to him. "It was wonderful to see you, darling. We'll be there tomorrow night. Both of us. He doesn't mean—"
"He means," Deke said firmly.
"He doesn't think!"
Deke's mouth twisted. "I wouldn't know about that."
"He just says the wrong thing sometimes. He does love you, darling."
Deke just looked at her.
"We'll be there tomorrow," she vowed.
"It doesn't matter," Deke told her, giving her one more squeeze. "Take care of yourself, Ma." Over her shoulder he had a clear view through the living room into the dining room.
His father sat eating, eyes on his plate.
So much for burying the hatchet.
Another five minutes in his parents' house and he and his father might well have buried it in each other. He shouldn't have bothered to come. He wished to God he could leave right this minute and head back home. But he couldn't because, damn it all, he was stuck here until the show opened tomorrow night.
His fingers flexed on the steering wheel. What the hell else could go wrong?
It was snowing as he turned onto the highway toward Milly and Cash's place, and the truck skidded slightly. Instantly Deke slowed down.
"Pie?" Zack reminded him in a half plaintive, half hopeful voice.
"One-track mind?" Deke said, glancing wryly back at the little boy. Actually Zack had the right idea. If Deke had been focusing on important things—like pie—he'd be in a lot less danger of disappointment.
"We'll see what Aunt Milly's got at her place," he promised. "I think I saw her making some good stuff."
"Pie," Zack said happily and clapped his hands together, confident that his father wouldn't let him down.
Had he ever felt that way about his own father? Deke wondered.
Maybe. A long long time ago. He could, if he tried very hard, dredge up memories of his father ruffling his hair or laughing at one of his childish riddles or jokes. He remembered sharing a twin popsicle with his father on a hot summer day when they'd unloaded a truck at the back of the store.
When I was doing what he wanted me to do.
But by the time Deke was in college, they were barely speaking. There was no room in John Malone's life for a son who didn't follow the path he approved of. It was as if there was only one way to be a success—John's way.
When he'd left, Deke had been determined to do it his own way—and make his father proud of the man he had become.
Yeah, right.
Obviously he wasn't. I didn't ask to be impressed. The words still echoed, still stung, because it didn't matter to John Malone that his son was good at what he did. It didn't matter that Deke was—in the eyes of his colleagues, his critics and the world at large—a resounding success.
Because his father's approval had nothing to do with his success or lack of it, Deke realized. It had to do with the core of who he was.
And that, apparently, the old man disapproved of as heartily as ever. So he'd do them both a favor—this time when he left, it would be for good.
But—he rubbed a weary hand against the back of his neck—it wouldn't happen until after the gallery opening tomorrow night.
"Pie?" Zack said in a tone as weary as his father felt.
> Deke shook himself and determinedly threw off the depression. What he couldn't change didn't matter.
"You want pie?" he said to Zack, who beamed at him. "I know where we can get you some pie."
And where he could have a good time, see some old friends and forget how stupid he'd been to hope that he and his father might ever see eye to eye again.
The main ranch house on the Jones place had been home to Will and Gaye Jones when Deke had worked there that summer nearly twenty years ago. It was where he'd gone after work on many cool evenings to sit on the porch and talk to Erin and, when he was home from rodeoing, her older brother, Taggart.
Deke knew from Milly that Will and Gaye had moved to Bozeman and Taggart, retired from bull riding with a world champion's gold buckle, had taken over running the ranch while he taught bull riding to young and not-so-young wanna-bes.
Looking at it now as he turned onto the road leading to the ranch house, he felt a quickening in his heart and soul, a feeling quite unlike the trepidation he'd experienced when he'd pulled up in front of his folks' place. The memory of his father's disapproval faded and he stepped on the accelerator.
Even with Erin halfway across the world, he was glad he'd come. He knew Taggart would be glad to see him. He could count on a warm welcome from Gaye and Will, who would surely be among the throng of dinner guests. There were more than a dozen trucks and cars parked haphazardly in the yard as he pulled up.
"Pie, Da?" came the voice from the back seat.
Deke glanced over his shoulder and grinned. "You betcha, sport. Coming right up."
As he opened the door to the truck he could hear the noise of laughter and the sound of happy people celebrating—giving thanks for the joy of each other. The way it ought to be.
"Hear that?" he said to Zack. "They're eating pie in there."
"Pie!"
A gorgeous blonde answered the door when Deke knocked.
Deke cleared his throat. "I'm Deke Malone. My sister—"
"Deke! Milly mentioned you last night. I'm Felicity, Taggart's wife. Come in and join the crowd."
She wasn't kidding about the "crowd." There were at least twenty-five people visible from where he stood—cowboys and kids, babies and women, old folks and young, toddlers and teenage girls and boys. Everyone was talking and laughing, balancing plates as they stood or sat on everything from sofas to steps to folding chairs. Some were eating turkey and cranberry sauce and mashed potatoes and dressing, others were already making headway into huge slices of pumpkin or apple pie.
The Cowboy's Christmas Miracle Page 3