Don't Let It Be True

by Jo Barrett

  The shirt was black with white lettering. It featured one word: “Zeus.”

  “Hey. I like it,” Dylan said.

  He couldn’t figure out why his brother would give him a Zeus T-shirt, but who knew with these west coast types. There was always the latest buzz. Dylan wasn’t one for trends, but to be a good sport, he pulled the shirt over his head anyway.

  “It fits,” he announced, holding out his arms.

  “So, what’s the word, brother?” Wyatt asked, beaming proudly at them from the couch.

  Dylan wondered how to answer this question. He turned and shot Kat a serious look. And his eyes told her all it needed to tell.

  “Oh no. What’s wrong?” Kat asked immediately. She could read Dylan better than a spy.

  “Why don’t you take a seat next to Wyatt,” Dylan said, hustling her toward the couch.

  Kat plopped down next to Wyatt and crossed her arms over her chest.

  “We’re all ears,” she said.

  Dylan stood in front of the couch like a drill sergeant. Legs spread apart, arms at his sides. Zeus T-shirt on.

  “I have some major news I need to tell y’all,” he began.

  “Is this about Dad’s death?” Wyatt asked. His younger brother was looking up at him; a deer in headlights.

  Dylan stared at the floor. He could feel Kat’s eyes boring into him. Waiting for him to deliver the “major news.”

  Hells bells, he thought.

  Thirteen

  In Texas, when wounded animals die on the side of the road, the vultures come flapping in. It was the same for humans.

  With Butch Grant’s death, the vultures had swirled in. Dylan and Wyatt hadn’t even buried their father, and already Bo Harlan had staked a title claim against the last remaining oil well in the Grant family, and with it he had taken the rights to all the future oil wells to be drilled on their family land.

  The final straw was the poker game. To win an oil well in a poker game was one thing. But to win an oil well in a poker game against a drunk—against a man known for being weak and out of control—against a man who’d lost everything except the last remaining oil well named after his wife, well…

  That’s just wrong, Kat thought. She watched Dylan pace in front of the couch. He’d worked up a sweat talking about Bo Harlan.

  Bo Harlan, also known as “Wild Bo” for the streak of shock white hair running through his dark locks, was one of those men for whom the world was one big game. There were winners and losers, and Wild Bo considered himself a winner. Everyone else, by default, was a loser.

  As Dylan described the poker game, and the piece of paper signed in Butch Grant’s telltale red ink handwriting, Kat felt a certain power surge up inside her.

  I’ll have none of this, she thought.

  Kathleen Connor King had something that Bo Harlan didn’t have, despite his wealth and fame and reputation as being the meanest, baddest, most wildly successful wildcatter that Houston had ever seen—and that was her name. She was a King, but Bo Harlan would be a Harlan until the end. No matter how much wealth he’d acquired, the Harlan name didn’t mean diddly-squat. And in the elite circles of Houston, Texas, a name still meant something.

  More than something, Kat thought.

  She made a vow to herself. She’d be damned if Wild Bo got away with this. But until she devised her plan, she would have to play a role. The role that Dylan and Wyatt expected. The role of poor little needs-to-be-taken-care-of Kathleen.

  It would be fine. Her mother had been quite the actress.

  Fourteen

  “Dylan Charles Grant!” Kat shrilled. “Are you telling me we’ve got to move outside the Loop!”

  Dylan cringed. Kat wasn’t taking this well.

  “Why don’t you just kill me and get it over with!”

  Not well at all, in fact.

  “C’mon, hon,” Dylan pleaded. He glanced at Wyatt, who just shook his head and stared down at his size twelve, hand-stitched Lucchese boots.

  Wyatt won’t be any kind of help, you can be sure of that, Dylan thought.

  Not when Kat had her nose up in it all the way.

  “It’s just temporary,” Dylan said. “Until we get back on our feet. Otherwise we’re going to blow through our savings.”

  “I’d rather be in jail!” Kat boomed. For such a small girl, she had quite an impressive mouth.

  Dylan knew that in certain ways Kat was right. As the world’s only starving philanthropist, it was crucial for her to stay inside the Loop.

  In Houston, Texas, you either lived inside the Loop, or you didn’t. People who didn’t often pretended that they did, as in: “We live in Memorial City—it’s very close to the Loop.”

  Very close, indeed. But no cigar. As any Realtor worth her respective salt would tell you, it was location, location, location. The Loop was Loop 610—a sweeping circle of highway that surrounded central Houston like a moat. The Guccis typically lived within the moat, preferably in River Oaks, but some streets around Rice University, also known as Southhampton, were also considered très chic.

  The Guccis also lived right off the Loop—technically outside—but just on the other side of the Galleria—in old Tanglewood, the gated community of Stablewood, Memorial, or near the Houstonian Country Club and Spa.

  Dylan knew that Kathleen never drove outside the Loop for any reason whatsoever, unless she was going on a road trip. Like to Austin or San Antonio. Otherwise, there was never any reason to leave.

  The fact that her grandfather, or “Pa Pa” as Kat called him, had been one of the wealthiest and most powerful oil men in the state was of little consolation now that Kat had given her money away.

  After her grandfather’s death, Kat had gone through a “dark period.” She auctioned off the corpus of the old man’s estate and donated nearly everything she owned to the foundation, thinking that everything was fine and dandy with her future tied inextricably to Dylan’s rising star.

  Dylan didn’t want to inform Kat that it took money—a lot of money—to be a bleeding heart.

  She still has the ranch, Dylan thought. At least she kept that.

  The Tangled Spur was a dusty ten-thousand-acre tract that she’d kept for purely sentimental reasons. The land had some grazing rights, and Kat was paid a small royalty income each month by the farmers who kept their cattle there, but this was just enough to pay the property taxes and provide Kat with a little spending money.

  Kat loved the Tangled Spur. A ranch that had carried the King family crest for more than a century, but still. No one had ever found buried treasure there—which in Texas terms, meant oil and gas.

  Dylan began to pace back and forth in front of the couch. He knew that Kat would starve before she sold the ranch for land value alone.

  “I guess you’re angling for me to sell Tangled Spur,” Kat spoke up suddenly, as if reading Dylan’s mind. “Isn’t that right? Well, before you speak another word, let me make myself clear. I will eat dirt, Dylan Grant, before I sell my family’s land.”

  Dylan frowned, noticing how Kat had emphasized the “eat dirt, Dylan Grant.”

  Now it’s getting personal.

  “C’mon, Kathleen,” Wyatt sputtered. Dylan’s younger brother slapped his palms against his knees, huffed with exertion, and stood from the couch.

  “No one’s asking you to sell Tangled Spur,” Wyatt announced with tremendous gravitas, as if he had a handle on the situation.

  He limped over toward Dylan.

  “Don’t you worry, Kathleen,” Wyatt said, puffing out his chest. “Dylan and I will come up with a plan to resurrect ourselves, here.”

  “You just don’t get it.” Dylan sighed, shaking Wyatt’s hand off his shoulder. “There’s no more money. No more leases. No more checks. We’re broke, Wyatt.”

  Dylan squared off toward his brother, his fists planted firmly at his hips like a squad commander.

  I’m so tired of this, he thought.

  He was sick of picking up his brother’s me
ss. Sick of taking care of Wyatt as if he were Dylan’s own son. Sick of it, period.

  “Actually, we’re worse than broke, Wyatt. Broke would mean we were at zero. But because someone in this room decided that he was Rain Man, we’re now in debt up to our eyeballs with—I forget—which casino was it again?”

  Wyatt glared at Dylan and scuffed his boot along the wood floor. Dylan could tell from the crestfallen look on his brother’s face that the bomb was about to drop.

  “The Golden Cowgirl,” Wyatt said, under his breath.

  Just perfect, Dylan thought.

  “I’ve never heard of that casino,” Kat piped up.

  It couldn’t be a reputable casino, Dylan thought. Like the Bellagio or the MGM Grand or even the Wynn Las Vegas, where perhaps Dylan could get a lawyer to reason with ’em about Wyatt’s debt. It had to be a fringe casino. A place that enlisted a bunch of goons who’d watched too many Godfather movies and probably thought they were the freakin’ old school consigliere themselves.

  “I don’t think this guy Felix will hurt me,” Wyatt said, shuffling toward the kitchen. “He knows I’m good for it.”

  Dylan chortled. He laughed so loudly that his entire body shook and his eyes got moist with tears.

  “How on earth are you good for it, son?” Dylan asked his brother.

  “The car.” Wyatt shrugged.

  “You mean the car Gary Fudge-packer loaned you?”

  “Loaned me! Hell, I must’ve paid three times over that ride!”

  “I assume you have the title then?”

  Dylan hated himself for doing this.

  It was easy being smarter than Wyatt. He’d been smarter than Wyatt his whole damned life. Which was often a burden because Wyatt thought he was about the smartest cat on the planet. Dylan remembered reading something by Confucius—a quote in a fortune cookie that described his younger brother to a T: Real knowledge is to know the extent of one’s ignorance.

  That was Wyatt’s problem. He didn’t know the extent of his damned ignorance.

  Dylan didn’t want to bust his brother’s balls about the bad deal he’d made for a loaner car that he never owned outright. So he let it drop.

  “There’s no more car,” Dylan announced, watching Wyatt’s eyes widen in dismay. “I traded it in this morning for an early model—hell! We’ll just call it ‘vintage’ truck.”

  “Ooh,” Kat said, rubbing her small palms together. The idea of a vintage truck had piqued her interest.

  Wyatt wasn’t so keen. “Do you mean vintage? Or do you mean shit on wheels?” he asked, hobbling over toward the kitchen.

  “Well, if we all pile in the front seat, and load up the bed with watermelons, we could set up the Grant family roadside fruit stand.” Dylan smirked.

  “Oh brother,” Kat said.

  “I need a drink,” Wyatt said.

  Kat followed Wyatt into the kitchen, reached up to the liquor cabinet, and wrestled out a large bottle of Patrón she’d been hiding for emergencies.

  “Tequila?” she asked.

  “You bet,” Wyatt said.

  Kat liberated three shot glasses from the dishwasher, poured the tequila neat, and served the shots to Wyatt, Dylan, and herself.

  “To Dylan and Wyatt Grant, my two favorite men on earth,” Kat said, raising her shot glass high in the air.

  “To making a comeback,” Wyatt said, clicking his glass against Kat’s.

  You guys are both nuts, Dylan thought. He slammed the shot, felt the burn in the back of his throat, and had to admit, it felt damned good.

  Just then, Dylan’s cell phone rang in his pocket. He slipped it out of his jeans and checked the caller ID.

  “Hello?”

  “Mr. Grant,” said the voice in a hushed whisper. “This is Ned Greely over at Colonial Funeral Home. The urn is ready for you to pick up.”

  “Fantastic.”

  Dylan grabbed the tequila off the bar and took a swig straight from the bottle.

  Fifteen

  Kat wandered through the hospital, wishing she’d worn a sweater. Her flimsy T-shirt didn’t do much to fight the cold air blasting down from the air-conditioning vents.

  I will not be an alcoholic. I am stronger than Ketel One, Kat thought. She reached the hospital elevator and stabbed the button.

  She needed to be away from Dylan. She needed time to think.

  I need to check on my babies, she thought.

  The elevator doors swooshed open, and Kat stepped inside. The goose bumps on her arms were now large and pronounced, as if she’d broken out in hives.

  Pretty.

  Kat pushed the button for the sixth-floor critical care unit. The children who weren’t going home anytime soon were on the higher floors of the hospital.

  Closer to heaven, Kat thought. Whenever she set foot inside the children’s wing, she felt a certain wholeness to her existence, a content feeling that had been lacking ever since her parents and sister died.

  These children, although not her flesh and blood, provided her with something she desperately needed.

  A reason to “keep on keepin’ on,” as her Pa Pa would’ve said in his booming voice.

  Kat wound her way through the critical care unit and paused outside Diego’s room. She peeked in at the toddler and saw that he was sleeping soundly after the surgery. His heart monitor was beeping steadily and his blood pressure looked good. Dr. Levin had already called her with the news. The brain surgery had been a success, and Diego would be home in time for his birthday.

  Kat smiled and blew Diego a kiss. She walked briskly toward another room and stepped inside.

  Maria was sitting up in bed, playing with her Barbie dolls. Kat watched the child mash the faces of the two Barbie dolls together in a forced smooch.

  “Who are your friends?” Kat asked, in a soft voice.

  Maria glanced up and flashed Kat an all-knowing smile, the type of smile that only little girls of a certain age had a flair for.

  “This is Kelly. And this is Billy,” Maria announced, holding out the Barbie dolls for Kat to come say hello.

  Kat looked down at the Barbie dolls and introduced herself. “Why hello there, Miss Kelly. Have you been kissing Mr. Billy?”

  Maria kicked her little legs and screeched with laughter. “You saw it! You saw the kiss!”

  “I did.” Kat took a seat next to Maria’s bed. She put her hand on the child’s shaved bald head and checked the scar on her right occipital.

  Kat had never been to nursing school, but she’d read the Journal of Nursing from cover to cover and spent enough time in the hospital to know about as much as anyone. She was self-taught in the tradition of midwives and other women who’d apprenticed in hospitals.

  Healing well, she thought, seeing how the black stitches stood in steep contrast with Maria’s white shaved head. There were a few red welts from the needles, a large blue bruise, and a few apple-colored splotches on Maria’s skin. It wouldn’t be long until the doctor snipped the stitches out, and Maria’s hair would start growing back.

  Bald, sick children suffering from cancer, Kathleen thought. Sometimes she wondered why. Why sickness afflicted the meek.

  “I want Cathy Caterpillar!” Maria shrieked, and threw her head back against the pillow in fits of laughter.

  “Cathy Caterpillar…coming right up!” Kat said, plugging her finger into Maria’s little belly and watching the girl howl with laughter. She reached over to the bed tray and pulled the Tales of the Unicorn Land book into her lap.

  In a soft voice, Kat began to read.

  Beauty and the Butterfly

  Cathy Caterpillar

  Was sitting on

  A big yellow sunflower near the pond.

  It was a warm

  Sunshiny day.

  She should have been

  Happy but she was crying.

  Just then, Uli Unicorn

  Came by and asked her

  Why she was crying.

  Cathy told Uli

  She was
sad because

  She was so brown and ugly

  And drab.

  Uli said, “Have patience and you will be

  Happy.”

  Cathy had no idea

  What Uli was talking about.

  About three months passed and

  Cathy Caterpillar began to

  Feel strange.

  She went to the Smiling Pond

  And looked at herself in the

  Water.

  She couldn’t believe her

  Eyes. She had turned

  Into a beautiful butterfly!

  Kat felt Maria’s body go slack. The little girl had fallen into a dreamy sleep, her small tummy rising in pitches and falls. Kat felt her own eyes begin to droop close. Last night, she’d suffered from severe insomnia, which she imagined was a result of too much coffee, and the stress of Dylan and Wyatt.

  While the two Grant brothers slept soundly, she’d spent the entire night painting a neon green giraffe eating leaves from a bright orange tree. She planned to present the canvas as a gift to Diego when he left the hospital.

  As Kathleen began to drift off, she felt a hand touch her shoulder.

  “Ms. King?”

  It was Dr. Levin. Making his rounds. The chief surgeon and hospital administrator stood over her shoulder, looking down at her with an unmistakable paternal flicker in his eye.

  “I heard you wanted to see me,” he said. Kathleen roused herself from Maria’s bedside.

  “Yes, I wanted to inquire about…” Kat paused, and searched for the right word. Finally, it came to her.

  “A job,” she said, primly, tucking her chin against her chest and staring up at Dr. Levin.

  Dr. Levin patted the small paunch of his belly the way he always did when he was thinking. With the amused glint in his eye, and his hand pressed against the round of his belly, Kat had an image of a laughing Buddha statue she’d seen at an art gallery once.

  “A job?” he asked quietly.

  Kat tried hard not to blush. This was rule number one of being “Those with Family Names.”

  Rule number one: Never look down at one’s shoes.

  Always make eye contact. Appear calm, stately, and in control.