They’d spotted the Butter Biscuit Café earlier, over on the other side of the street, and even from that distance, the smells of good country-style cooking reached their noses, wafting out every time the door opened to someone going in or out.
“You hungry?” Zane asked Nash, waiting beside the truck while the boy conferred the tag on Slim with all the ceremony of royalty bestowing knighthood.
“I guess,” Nash said doubtfully. He’d hoisted Slim down from the backseat and clipped on his leash, by then. “But I don’t have any money.”
Zane held in yet another sigh. “I didn’t ask if you had money,” he pointed out, with affable reason. “I asked if you were hungry. Very different questions.”
Slim was tugging at the other end of the leash, wanting a walk and, most likely, a place to lift his hind leg against something.
“I could eat,” Nash admitted, in that offhand way he had, which was probably supposed to indicate a lack of concern one way or the other. “I was about to let Slim stretch his legs a little, though. He’s been cooped up in the truck for a while and—”
“I’ll wait,” Zane said, when the boy fell silent. He leaned back against the side of his dusty truck and folded his arms to show he was in no hurry.
Nash brightened, just briefly, then looked troubled again, but all he said was, “Okay.”
Zane watched, full of emotions he wasn’t eager to name, as the boy and the dog headed down the sidewalk, away from the truck. Away from him.
He was no mind reader, but he’d have sworn Nash was worried that Zane might ditch him and Slim, simply drive off and leave the two of them to stay afloat or go under.
The thought ached in his mind like a bruise, then settled into his heart like silt stirred up in a shallow pond. He watched as the boy and the dog passed under dappled shadows cast by venerable oak and maple trees, rounded a corner and disappeared behind the courthouse.
Love, Zane thought. This tangle of feeling in his chest and his gut was love, for his little brother, and for that cast-off dog, too. Slim was settling into his new life nicely, but the kid had a longer memory. He expected to wear out his welcome at any time and find himself alone in the world.
Zane’s throat screwed shut again, and he rubbed his eyes hard with a thumb and forefinger, once again remembering Maddie Rose. She’d never had a pot to piss in, as Grandpa had reminded her at every opportunity, but there was never any doubt that she cherished her children. She’d been proud of them, scraped the money together for school pictures every fall and tucked the new likenesses into dime-store frames, prominently displayed no matter where they happened to be living. The shots from the previous term wound up in a photo album that was always the first thing Maddie Rose packed when it was time to move on again.
He straightened, waited out the strange rush of sentimentality and thought about other things, carefully avoiding the past, until Slim and Nash reappeared, several minutes later.
Nash loaded the dog into the backseat of the truck and made sure the windows were rolled down a little way, so the air could circulate.
Slim, content to stay behind, settled on the seat, sighed and immediately fell asleep. Zane locked the truck and he and Nash crossed the street—there were lots of cars in the lot next to the Butter Biscuit, and parked out front, too—but a plump lady with a name tag that read “Essie” seated them right away.
Nash held down the fort while Zane went to wash his hands, passing three men gathered around a table near the jukebox, one of them wearing a sheriff’s badge. They seemed comfortable together, as if they’d known each other a long time—maybe their whole lives. Once, Zane had been at ease with Landry in the same way, but that time was over, and the brief realization stung. He nodded as he passed, and they nodded back, cordial enough.
When he got back to the booth he and Nash were sharing, the menus had been delivered and there were glasses of ice water waiting.
“I’ll have—” Nash began, having already perused the menu, evidently.
“You’ll wash your hands before you have anything,” Zane interceded, quietly but firmly.
“I’m not dirty,” Nash argued. “And besides, I’m starved.”
“Go,” Zane said, cocking a thumb in the direction of the men’s room. He didn’t smile until the boy had turned his back. Nash dragged his feet as he went, looking put-upon.
Meanwhile, Zane reached for a menu and studied it, deciding immediately on the meat loaf special, only to look up and find the sheriff standing next to the table. A dark-haired man with a solemn face, albeit a face women probably found attractive enough, put out a hand and smiled in greeting.
“Howdy,” he said. “I’m Boone Taylor.”
Zane nodded, shook the offered hand. “Hello, Sheriff,” he replied.
“Boone,” the sheriff said. “Call me Boone.” Then, after a beat. “And you are...?”
Zane felt a surge of relief. The man didn’t recognize him; he was just meeting and sizing up a newcomer to his county. Most likely, it was routine for him.
“Zane Sutton,” he answered mildly. “Glad to meet you, Boone.”
Boone nodded, indicated his two companions with a slight motion of his head. “That’s Slade Barlow over there, in the blue shirt, and the other yahoo is Hutch Carmody.”
Overhearing, both men nodded a silent hello.
Hutch Carmody. The name struck Zane like a shock from a cattle prod. Sure enough, this was the same guy he’d seen on the internet, a few years older now than in the pictures and videos, the very one who’d run out on Brylee on her wedding day.
Zane’s back molars locked together, a reflexive response, and he forcibly eased up on his jaw muscles, returned the other men’s unspoken hello with a nod of his own.
Nash came back from the restroom, clean-handed and no longer visibly perturbed, looking the sheriff over with good-humored interest. “I guess the law finally caught up with you, big brother,” he said, grinning at his own cleverness. “It was only a matter of time, I suppose.”
At the periphery of his vision, Zane noticed several waitresses huddled together behind the lunch counter, staring at him and giggling as they whispered to one another. He swore silently and told Boone, “This is Nash. He’s twelve and he thinks he’s a wit.”
Boone chuckled. “Howdy, Nash,” he said, and repeated his name for the boy’s benefit. The sheriff seemed to be in no hurry to go on about his business, and that made Zane strangely uneasy, like the gaggle of blushing waitresses on the other side of the room. Not to mention the sudden and pulsing silence that had fallen over the previously noisy café as everybody in the place looked their way.
“We live over by Three Trees,” Nash announced, though nobody had asked. “At Hangman’s Bend Ranch.”
Boone nodded, taking in that information and a whole lot more, it seemed to Zane, who was, by the way, a law-abiding citizen, though he had gotten into a scrape or two back in high school. Nothing serious enough to count against him now, though.
The sheriff’s friendly attitude never wavered, but it was obvious that he took his job seriously. He probably made a point of introducing himself to every stranger he met up with, just on general principle.
“Well,” Boone finally drawled, “welcome to Parable County, both of you.” He paused, and his service belt creaked as he shifted slightly. “I see you haven’t had a chance to order yet—the BLT is real good, and the hot beef sandwich is even better.”
“Thanks,” Zane said, deciding he liked Sheriff Boone Taylor.
Boone nodded again and walked away, but he didn’t go back to his friends. Instead, he ambled over to the cash register to pay his share of the check before leaving, a man who knew he had plenty of time to do what needed doing.
One of the waitresses, shooed forward by the others, approached Zane and Nash’s table, order pad in hand.
“My name’s Lucy,” she said. Her narrow face was mottled with red patches of sheer embarrassment, but her gaze was avid, as if she was tak
ing an inventory and mentally recording the results.
“Hello, Lucy,” Zane replied, checking the menu again. Maybe he didn’t want the meat loaf special, after all—a good BLT was hard to beat, and it usually stuck to a man’s ribs without making him feel as if he’d just gorged himself at Thanksgiving dinner.
“And you’re Zane Sutton,” Lucy trilled.
Nash tried not to laugh, but the sound came sputtering past his lips, and his eyes were dancing. And you’re Zane Sutton, he mouthed, gleefully mimicking the waitress.
“Yes,” Zane said smoothly, though he felt the heat of temper rise up his neck and tingle behind his ears. “At least, that’s who I was when I got up this morning.”
“I’ve seen all your movies!” Lucy blurted out.
The other waitresses, still behind the counter, were giggling again by then, but the other customers had, mercifully, lost interest. Or maybe they were just being polite.
Essie, the woman who had greeted Zane and Nash when they came into the café, must have been the boss, because she looked mighty impatient as she marched over and snatched the order pad from Lucy’s hand.
“Lucy,” she said summarily, serious as a heart attack, “get your silly self in back and don’t come out until you’ve pulled yourself together.” Essie turned her head to shoot a look at the apron-clad crew behind the counter, and though she didn’t speak, they all got busy real fast. Lucy scuttled away, blushing magnificently, and Essie turned back to the matter at hand. “I sincerely apologize, Mr. Sutton. We get famous people in here now and again, we surely do, but my people never seem to get used to it. Fall all over themselves every time, like a bunch of gum-popping junior highers.”
Zane didn’t let his amusement show. It wasn’t as if things like this didn’t happen to him right along, so he’d long since gotten used to effusive fans. Plus, he didn’t want Lucy to get into trouble on his account.
“That’s all right,” he said kindly, waving off the woman’s earnest apology, and ordered the BLT on wheat, with a side of fries and a strawberry milk shake.
Nash asked for a cheeseburger deluxe, onion rings and what sounded like a five-gallon drum of cola.
Essie wrote everything down, turned on the crepe-soled heel of one sensible shoe and trundled away, waitresses scattering before her like a flock of startled chickens.
“I bet you get that a lot,” Nash said. He was trying not to grin, but not very hard.
By then, Zane was thinking about Hutch Carmody again, and what he’d done to Brylee on their wedding day. Carmody seemed like an okay guy, on the surface, anyhow, not somebody who made a habit of breaking women’s hearts as publicly as possible—but then, what did that kind of man look like?
Like you, Tiffany might have said, if she’d been there and heard the question. Zane rarely thought about his ex-wife, especially since he’d made Brylee Parrish’s acquaintance, and he dismissed her from his mind immediately.
“Yo, Hollywood,” Nash said, waving a hand in front of Zane’s face. “You in there?”
Zane gave the boy a look fit to strip paint from a wall and said nothing.
“Okay, okay,” Nash said, leaning back in the vinyl seat, palms out in a bid for peace. “So I guess you don’t like to be called ‘Hollywood.’ No problem, that’s cool.”
Before Zane could answer, Carmody and the other cowboy-type—Barlow?—scraped back their chairs and stood up, ready to leave.
Barlow, clearly a man of few words, settled up with Essie and went out, putting his hat on as he passed through the doorway onto the sidewalk.
Carmody, on the other hand, walked over and stood in the same spot Boone had occupied earlier. “Hutch Carmody,” he said, putting out a hand, a slight grin quirking up the corner of his mouth. “My wife, Kendra, and I are throwing a barbecue this Sunday afternoon, out at our place. We’d be pleased if you could join us.” He paused, blue eyes twinkling, and lowered his voice a notch. “Never mind those gals back of the counter. Most folks around here are country, through and through, and they won’t crowd you or anything.”
Zane was a little taken aback. He’d been prepared to dislike Carmody, but it was proving difficult, even at this early stage of the game. The last thing he’d expected from him was an invitation to a barbecue.
“That would be great!” Nash piped up, instantly enthused. “Can we bring our housekeeper? Her name is Cleo and she dresses wild and talks loud, but, down deep, she’s okay.”
Carmody grinned at that. “Sure,” he said, before shifting his gaze away from the boy and back to Zane. “Well, then,” he added, “I guess it’s decided. We’ll start things rolling around one in the afternoon, and there’s no need to bring anything, because my wife and all her friends will be building potato salads and stuff all week.”
Lunch arrived just then, delivered by a chagrined and speechless Lucy, who barely managed to set the plates down on the table without spilling the contents to hell and gone.
Hutch chuckled as she rushed back for the milk shake and the cola. “We live at Whisper Creek,” he told Zane, in parting. “The ranch is easy to find. Name’s on the mailbox, number’s in the book.”
With that, he walked away. Like Barlow and Sheriff Boone Taylor before him, he paid his bill, took his hat from a peg on the wall and settled it on his head as he went out.
“Thanks for jumping right in there and accepting for both of us,” Zane told Nash with a frown, after the drinks had arrived and Lucy had left them to eat in relative peace. “I really appreciate it.” Not.
“Don’t you want to be sociable, big brother? Get to know the locals?” Nash asked, that impish glint back in his eyes, as he swabbed a French fry through a pool of ketchup on his plate.
The truth was, Zane wanted to be part of the community, and that meant getting acquainted with the folks who lived in Parable County. Still, he liked to make decisions like whether to attend a barbecue or not himself. “In the future,” he said, casting an appreciative glance over the good old-fashioned bacon, lettuce and tomato sandwich on his plate, along with a pile of fries and a few slices of pickle, “I’d prefer to speak for myself.”
“I bet it’ll be cool,” Nash speculated thoughtfully, reaching for a second French fry. “Visiting a real ranch, I mean.”
“As opposed to one like ours?” Zane countered, arching an eyebrow slightly and picking up half his sandwich. His mouth was already watering, but he remembered his mother’s advice on etiquette—Keep one foot on the floor while you eat, boys. That’s all I ask.
“You know what I mean. Whisker Creek probably has lots of horses and some cattle—”
“I believe the name is Whisper Creek,” Zane commented. For the next few seconds, he was busy eating, and so was Nash.
“Well, excuse me,” Nash said, after chewing and swallowing what appeared to be a full one-quarter of his cheeseburger in one bite. “Whisper Creek, then.”
Zane chuckled, then shook his head. “Sometimes,” he observed, “you’re a real pain in the ass, you know that?”
Nash looked righteously affronted. “Language,” he said.
Zane laughed.
“I’m just a kid,” Nash hastened to remind him. “You have to set a good example or God knows how I might turn out.”
“God and Cleo,” Zane clarified. “She’s reason enough to behave yourself, because if you don’t, she’ll have your hide.”
Nash absorbed that information and they both went on eating, enjoying their lunch and keeping the chatter to a minimum.
* * *
CLARE BURST INTO Brylee’s office right after lunch and shut the door hard behind her. She looked frantic, rather than angry, and more childlike than she’d probably intended in sandals and an airy sundress, pink, with ruffles and touches of white eyelet.
Brylee, who had been going over an inventory list with her employee and best friend, Amy Dupree, frowned slightly, concerned. Was something wrong at home? Were Walker and Casey and Shane and little Preston all right?
Amy, a petite blonde, hurried out of the room, rolling her eyes at Brylee before closing the door in her wake.
“Clare, what on earth—” Brylee began, pushing back her chair, about to leap to her feet and take appropriate measures against, well, whatever.
“I’m going to be an old maid!” Clare burst out. “A spinster! I will never, never have a social life!”
Relieved, Brylee hid a smile and gripped her niece gently by the shoulders. “Sit down,” she counseled gently. Last night at supper, with the rest of the family, Brylee had engaged Clare in conversation, just as Shane had asked her to do. The girl had opened right up, prattling about something her friend had said in a text about a boy they both knew, the pair of shoes she was certain she couldn’t live without and the book she was reading for her school’s summer extra-credit program. Now, she was in tizzy mode—big-time.
“People still use the word spinster?” Brylee teased, buying time, perching on the edge of her ugly desk. Clare was slumped in the extra chair by then, shoulders hunched, head down, hands twisted together in her lap.
Clare looked up at Brylee in that moment, and her eyes, the same incredible shade of green as Casey’s, brimmed with tears. “I’m serious, Brylee,” she said, in a wail-like whisper. “My life is over.”
Do not smile, Brylee instructed herself silently. Having been a teenager herself once, she knew that whatever was going on in her niece’s young life—or not going on—seemed earth-shattering, apocalyptic and very, very final to her.
“Okay,” Brylee said carefully. “Talk to me, kiddo. What’s going on?”
“It’s awful,” Clare sputtered, wiping furiously at one eye, then the other, with the back of her right hand. Her slender body rippled with a visible shudder.
“Sweetheart,” Brylee persisted, “what is awful?”
“Mom and Dad are having another baby,” Clare replied. “I heard them talking about it in the kitchen this morning. They were all moony and it was—gross. I mean, Preston is so little and already—I mean, don’t they do anything but have sex?”
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