A Piece of Texas Trilogy

by Peggy Moreland

  Because this is personal, she reminded herself as she looked around the den of her childhood home. Each item in the room represented a massive mountain of emotion she feared she’d never find the strength to climb.

  “And standing here dreading it isn’t accomplishing a thing,” she told Runt, the dog at her side.

  Taking a deep breath, she crossed to her father’s recliner and laid a hand on its headrest. Oh, how he’d loved his recliner, she thought as she smoothed a hand over the impression his body had worn into the leather. When he wasn’t out working on the ranch, he could usually be found reared back in the chair, with one of his dogs curled on his lap. He’d always had a dog tagging along with him, Runt being his most recent…and his last.

  As if aware of her thoughts, Runt nudged his nose at her knee and whined low in his throat. Blinking back tears, she looked down at him and gave him a pat, knowing by his soulful expression that he was missing her father as much as she was. Runt—the name her father had given him because he was the runt of the litter—wasn’t a runt any longer, she noted. The top of his head struck her leg at midthigh. Part Australian sheepdog and part Labrador retriever, he had inherited traits from both breeds, resulting in an intelligent long-haired dog with a sweet temper. But a long line of other canines had preceded him, and not all had been as endearing as Runt. Biting back a smile, she dipped her head in search of the section of frayed upholstery at the recliner’s base, compliments of Mugsy—a Jack Russell terrier—and made during a chewing stage her mother had feared would never end.

  The tears rose again at the thought of her mother, and she glanced over at the overstuffed chair positioned close to the recliner. Though her mother had preceded her father in death by two years, the floor lamp at its right remained angled to shed light on her hands and the endless knitting projects she worked on at night. An afghan for the church auction. A warm shawl for one of the ladies at the nursing home. A sweater for Stephanie.

  Her chin trembled as she envisioned her mother and father sitting side by side, as was their habit each night, her mother’s knitting needles clicking an accompaniment to the sound of whatever television program her father had tuned in at the moment.

  How will I ever get through this alone? she asked herself, then sagged her shoulders, knowing she had no other choice. With no siblings to share the responsibility, the job was hers to do.

  Releasing a shuddery breath, she said, “Come on, Runt,” and forced herself to walk on.

  They made it as far as the hallway before she was stopped again, this time by a gallery of pictures depicting her family’s life. Her gaze settled on a photo of her and her father taken at a Girl Scout banquet when she was eleven. Few would guess by the proud swell of his chest that Bud Calloway was her stepfather and not her natural father. From the moment Bud had married her mother, he’d accepted Stephanie as his own and had assumed the full duties of a father. Never once in all the years that followed had he ever complained or made her feel as if she were a burden. She touched a finger to the glass, his image blurred by her tears. She was going to miss him. Oh, God, she was going to miss him so much.

  Gulping back the grief, she tore her gaze away. She had taken no more than two steps when Runt stopped and growled. Linking her fingers through his collar to hold him in place, she glanced back over her shoulder. She strained, listening, and tensed when she heard the familiar squeak of hinges that signified the opening of the front door. Since she hadn’t told anyone of her plans, she wasn’t expecting any visitors—especially one who could get past a locked door. Mindful that burglars sometimes read the obituaries in search of vacant homes to rob, she whispered to Runt, “I hope your bite is as ferocious as your growl,” and cautiously retraced her steps, keeping a firm hold on his collar.

  As she approached the doorway that opened to the entry, she caught a glimpse of a man standing just inside the door. She might’ve screamed if she hadn’t immediately recognized him. The thick sandy-brown hair that flipped up slightly at his ears, just brushing the brim of his cowboy hat. The tall, lanky frame and wide shoulders. The faded chambray shirt, jeans and scuffed cowboy boots.

  No, she had no problem recognizing him. As she’d learned the hard way, Wade Parker was a hard man to forget.

  Runt whined, struggling to break free. At the sound, Wade whipped his head around and his gaze slammed into Stephanie’s. As she stared into the blue depths, she felt the old familiar tug of yearning and forced steel into her spine, pushing it back.

  Runt wriggled free and leaped, bracing his front paws on Wade’s chest.

  Smiling, Wade scrubbed his ears. “Hey, Runt. How you doin’, boy?”

  She advanced a step, her body rigid with anger. “What are you doing here?”

  The smile Wade had offered Runt slid into a frown. Urging the dog down to all fours, he gestured at the front window. “Drapes were open. Since they’re usually closed—or have been since Bud’s funeral—I figured I’d better check things out. Didn’t see a car. If I had, I would’ve knocked.”

  “I parked in the garage,” she informed him, then narrowed her eyes to slits. “How did you get in? The door was locked.”

  “I didn’t break in, if that’s what you’re suggesting. Bud gave me a key after your mother passed away. Figured someone close by should have one in case anything happened to him and needed to get inside the house.”

  She thrust out her hand. “There’s no need for you to have a key any longer. Bud’s gone.”

  He whipped off his hat. “Dang it, Steph!” he said, slapping the hat against his thigh in frustration. “Do you intend to spend the rest of your life hating me?”

  She jutted her chin. “If emotion ends with death, yes, at least that long.”

  Scowling, he tucked his hat beneath his arm and dug a ring of keys from his pocket. “I thought you went back to Dallas after the funeral,” he grumbled.

  “Only long enough to tie up a few loose ends.”

  He worked a key from the loop. “So how long are you planning on staying?”

  “That’s none of your business.”

  He slapped the key on her palm and burned her with a look. “Maybe not, but Bud’s cattle are.”

  She drew back to peer at him in confusion. “But I assumed Mr. Vickers was taking care of the cattle. He always helped Dad out in the past.”

  He snorted and stuffed the key ring back into his pocket. “Shows how much you know. Vickers moved to Houston over a year ago. When Bud got to where he couldn’t do his chores himself, I offered to do them for him.”

  Her eyes shot wide. “You worked for my father?”

  “No,” he replied, then added, “Not for pay, at any rate. I offered, he accepted. That’s what neighbors do.”

  She stared, stunned that her father would accept anything, even a favor, from Wade Parker. “I…I had no idea.”

  “You might’ve if you’d ever bothered to come home.”

  She jerked up her chin, refusing to allow him to make her feel guilty for not visiting her father more often. “Dad and I talked on the phone three or four times a week.”

  He snorted. “That was mighty nice of you to squeeze him into your busy schedule.”

  His sarcasm rankled, but before she could form a scathing comeback, he held up a hand.

  “Look,” he said, suddenly looking tired. “I didn’t come here to fight with you. I only came to check on the cattle.”

  She wanted to tell him that she didn’t need his help, that she would take care of the livestock herself. But it had been years since she’d done any ranch work, and she wasn’t at all sure she could handle the job alone.

  She tipped up her chin. “Hopefully I’ll be able to free you of that obligation soon. When I finish clearing out the house, I’m putting the ranch on the market.”

  He dropped his gaze and nodded. “Bud said he didn’t think you’d keep the place.”

  She choked a laugh. “And why would I? I have no use for a ranch.”

  He glan
ced up and met her gaze for a long moment. “No, I doubt you would.” He reached for the doorknob, preparing to leave. “Have you talked to Bud’s attorney?”

  She trailed him to the door. “Briefly. We’re supposed to meet after I finish clearing out the house.” She frowned. “Why do you ask?”

  He lifted a shoulder as he stepped out onto the porch. “No reason. If you need anything—”

  “I won’t.”

  Her curt refusal dragged him to a stop at the edge of the porch. Dropping his chin, he plucked at the brim of his hat as if he had something to say but was having a hard time finding the words. Seconds ticked by, made longer by the silence, before he finally spoke.

  “Steph…I’m sorry.”

  Scowling, she gave Runt’s collar a firm tug to haul him back inside and closed the door without replying.

  As far as she was concerned, the apology came years too late.

  Wade exited the barn and headed for the house, exhausted after the long hours he’d put in that day. No, he mentally corrected. His exhaustion wasn’t due to the amount of time he’d worked or the effort expended. His weariness was a result of his run-in with Steph. The woman frustrated the hell out of him and had for years.

  He knew it was his fault she felt the way she did about him, but what the hell had she expected him to do? He’d made a mistake—a big one—and had tried his best to rectify it by doing what was right. In doing so, he’d hurt Steph. But dammit, he’d suffered, too. He wondered sometimes if she realized how much.

  As he neared the house, music blasted from the open windows, the bass so loud it reverberated through the soles of his boots and made his teeth ache. Stifling a groan, he made a quick detour to his toolshed. He wasn’t in the mood for another argument and he knew if he went inside now he was bound to wind up in one. Meghan called that junk she listened to hip-hop. He considered it trash and had forbidden her to play it. Unfortunately she hadn’t docilely bowed to his wishes. Instead she’d screamed and cried, accusing him of ruining her life—which was nothing new, since she accused him of that at least once a day.

  He slammed the door of the toolhouse behind him and succeeded in muffling the sound of the irritating music only marginally. Sinking down on an old nail keg, he buried his face in his hands. How the hell was a father supposed to deal with a rebellious daughter? he asked himself miserably. If Meghan were a boy, he’d take her out behind the woodshed and give her a good spanking, the same as his father had when Wade had disobeyed the rules. A few swats on the behind had made a believer out of Wade, and he figured it would Meghan, too…if he could bring himself to spank her.

  Groaning, he dropped his head back against the wall. When had his life gotten so screwed up? he asked himself. There was a time when his daughter had idolized him, thought he all but walked on water. Not so any longer. In fact, she’d told him on more than one occasion that she hated his guts and wished she could go and live with her mother. There were days when he was tempted to pack her bags.

  He shook his head, knowing full well he’d never allow Meghan to live with Angela. Hell, that was why he’d fought so hard for custody of his daughter in the first place! Angela wasn’t fit to be a mother. Even the judge, who historically ruled in favor of mothers, had recognized Angela’s deficiencies and awarded Wade custody of Meghan.

  No, Wade wasn’t going to allow Meghan to browbeat him into letting her go and live with her mother. He’d deal with her rebellion, the same as he’d dealt with every other stage of her development. But damn, he wished there was someone to share the responsibility with, someone he could at least talk to about his problems with his daughter! He’d give his right arm to be able to sit across the table from his mom and dad right now and seek the wisdom of their years and experience as parents.

  But his parents were gone, he reminded himself, victims of a random murder, according to the police. Random or not, his parents were dead, and the carjacker who had killed them was currently sitting on death row.

  He’d taken the loss of his parents hard—and inheriting the millions they’d left him had in no way softened the blow. If anything, it had only made things worse. He had been twenty-two at the time of their deaths and living on his own. After he’d buried his parents, he’d gone kind of crazy and done some things he wasn’t too true proud of. He’d quickly discovered that when a man has money to burn, there’s always somebody around offering to light the match. Bottom-feeders, his dad would’ve called them. Folks who thrived on another person’s misery.

  He still wasn’t sure what it was that had made him realize he was traveling on a fast train to nowhere. But one morning he’d looked at himself in the mirror and was ashamed of what he’d seen. In a desperate attempt to put his life back together, he’d pulled up roots and bought the ranch in Georgetown, hoping to make a fresh start.

  Less than two months after the move, he’d met Steph. He hadn’t been looking for romance the day he’d delivered the bull to the Calloway ranch. In fact, romance had been the furthest thing from his mind. But it was on that fateful day that he’d met his neighbors’ daughter, home for summer break between semesters. He remembered when Bud had introduced her to him how her smile had seemed to light up her entire face, how her green eyes had sparkled with a sense of humor and innocence that he’d envied. And he remembered, when he’d shaken her hand, how delicate yet confident her fingers had felt in his. By the time he’d left several hours later, he had been head over boot heels in infatuation and already thinking of ways to see her again.

  From their first date on, they’d spent almost every waking minute together. With a ranch to run, Wade hadn’t had a lot of time to spare for formal dates. But Steph hadn’t seemed to mind. She’d ridden along with him when he’d needed to check his fences, sat with him in the barn through the night when his mare had foaled. She’d brought him lunch to the field when he was cutting hay and sat with him beneath the shade of an old oak tree, laughing and talking with him while he ate.

  When summer had come to an end and it was time for her to go back to college, he had stood with her parents and watched her drive away, feeling as though a boulder were wedged in his throat. Before the first week was out he knew he couldn’t live without her. That very weekend he’d taken his mother’s wedding ring out of the safe where he’d kept it and headed for Dallas to propose.

  In his mind’s eye he could see Steph as she’d looked that day. He hadn’t told her he was coming, and when she’d spotted him standing in the parking lot of her apartment complex, her eyes had widened in surprise, then she had broken into a run, her arms thrown wide. With a trust and openness that warmed his heart, she’d flung herself into his arms and he’d spun her around and around. He remembered the way she’d tasted when he’d kissed her, the weight of her in his arms. And he could still see the awe in her expression when he’d given her the ring, the love and tears that had gleamed in her eyes when she’d looked up at him and given him her answer. It was a memory he’d carry with him to his grave.

  But dwelling on the past wasn’t going to help him deal with his daughter, he told himself. Knowing that, he braced his hands against his thighs and pushed himself to his feet and headed for the house, already dreading the ugly scene that awaited him.

  Stephanie didn’t give another thought to her encounter with Wade Parker. As she’d learned to do with any unpleasantness, she blocked it from her mind and focused instead on something more productive—in this case, cleaning out her parents’ home. It helped to know that the sooner she finished the job, the sooner she could leave Georgetown and close this chapter of her life once and for all.

  She had started with the dining room, thinking that, as the only formal room in the house, it would hold fewer personal possessions, fewer memories. Wrong! After two days spent purging and packing, she’d already filled all the storage boxes she’d brought with her from Dallas…and emptied two boxes of tissues mopping her tears. It seemed everything held a memory, from her mother’s silver tea service to
the chipped ceramic Cookies for Santa plate that had graced their hearth every Christmas for as far back as Stephanie could remember.

  Fully aware that this job was going to be tough, she had attempted to disassociate herself from the personal aspects attached to it by applying an organizational tool she’d picked up while watching HGTV. She had created three areas—Keeper, Trash and Donate—and set to work.

  Sadly, after two days of what she’d considered cold-blooded sorting, the Keeper stack of boxes towered over the other two.

  Promising herself that she would be more ruthless in her decision making, she tried to think where she could find more boxes. She was sure there were probably some in the attic, but the attic had always given her the willies. Unfortunately the only other option was driving into town, and that prospect held even less appeal. Thirteen years later, and she still felt the sting of the pitying glances from people she’d once counted as friends.

  With a sigh of resignation she turned for the hallway and the narrow staircase at its end, with Runt tagging along at her heels. It took some muscle to open the door at the top of the stairs, and once inside, her knees turned to rubber when she was confronted with the sheet-draped objects and cobwebs that filled the space.

  She remembered well the last time she’d entered this room. She’d been ten years old and sent there by her mother to retrieve a box of canning jars. While searching for the requested box, one of the sheets had billowed as if someone was trying to fight free from beneath it. Convinced that she was about to be attacked by a band of killer ghosts, she’d run back down the stairs screaming bloody murder. Though her mother had assured her there were no such things as ghosts, from that day forward Stephanie had refused to step foot in the attic again.

  Narrowing her eyes, she studied the sheet-draped objects, trying to remember which one had frightened her that day. That one, she decided, settling her gaze on a hump-shaped object in the corner. Determined to confront her fear and dispel it, she murmured a firm, “Stay” to Runt, then marched across the room and lifted the sheet.