Home at Last

by Shirlee McCoy

  Expensive taste.

  He was the most like their father in looks and in lifestyle, but he had an even temper and an easy outlook on life.

  “To the fair?”

  “That is where we’re going,” Porter responded dryly. “For better or worse.”

  “I’m guessing it wasn’t your idea?”

  “You’re guessing right. I have a few days off, and I was thinking Clementine and I could go canoeing, maybe have a nice dinner together. Alone.”

  “She had other plans?”

  “She wants to look at the booths, see if anyone is selling hand-pulled and dyed wool. Next year, she wants the farm represented there, and she’s trying to decide what products will sell best and attract the most interest. Plus, school is starting soon, and she wants the kids to have a fun day away from the farm.” He shrugged. “Once she explained it all, I decided to jump on board. If things go the way I’m hoping, I’ll be setting up an office in town this fall, starting a new business, and the county fair may be a good place to make some security connections.”

  “Security connections?”

  “It takes a lot to make sure a venue of that size stays safe, and I’m thinking of launching a security business here. I like working for the sheriff’s department. Don’t get me wrong. But, I’m used to a more high-stress faster-paced job,” Porter responded.

  “You could go back to LA,” Flynn suggested, and Porter shook his head.

  “No. I couldn’t. This is home now.”

  “I thought that, for you, home was always going to be the big city,” Flynn said, feeling a jolt of surprise at Porter’s words. Maybe, even, unease.

  He knew his brothers, and he’d thought he knew them well.

  If he’d been asked before the accident, he’d have said that Sullivan and Porter were happy with their lives, and there wasn’t anything that would bring them back to Benevolence for good.

  Obviously, he’d have been wrong.

  If he was wrong about them, maybe he was wrong about himself, too, because if anyone asked him right now at this very moment if he were happy to be back home, he’d have made it really clear that home was Texas, home was the ranch.

  The little town he’d grown up in? It wasn’t even close.

  “Goals and dreams change,” Porter said.

  “They do,” Flynn agreed. “I guess I’m just wondering how much business a company like yours will find in a town like Benevolence.”

  “Not just Benevolence. We’ll be taking clients all over the Northwest.”

  “We?”

  “I’ve got some people willing to relocate. If things go as planned, I’ll open the office after the new year.”

  “You’ve convinced other people to come to Benevolence to work?” He sounded surprised, because he was.

  He hadn’t thought much about the town he’d grown up in. Not while he was living there and not after he’d left. Sure, he’d come to visit Matt and his family, but Benevolence wasn’t the kind of place he imagined anyone relocating to.

  “You sound shocked.”

  “It’s a small town on the edge of nowhere,” he pointed out.

  “Your ranch is in the middle of nowhere and look how successful you’ve made it. I’d better go get Clementine and the kids moving. Otherwise, we’ll miss half a day of adventure. Sure you don’t want to come along?”

  “As sure as I am that I want to take my next breath,” Flynn responded.

  Porter laughed as he walked out of the room.

  He sounded . . .

  Happy.

  And that was as surprising as the rest of the morning had been.

  Floorboards creaked above his head, feet pounding against old flooring as kids raced through their bedrooms gathering stuff. He could have followed his brother, helped get things organized, but he didn’t think he’d be much of an asset. He had no idea what a child might want to bring on an overnight trip and only a few vague notions about what would be necessary.

  His time would be better spent on the land, checking fencing, feeding whatever livestock Clementine had purchased. Last he’d heard, there were a couple of pigmy goats, an old cow, a donkey, and a pig.

  He’d only ever seen the pig. A behemoth named Gertie who ate her weight in kitchen slop.

  He walked into the living room to grab his hat and gloves.

  Sunday was there. Sitting in the easy chair, staring at the wall. Nothing in her hands. No book. No phone. No magazine, paper, or pen. She had a blanket over her legs and a sweater wrapped around her shoulders. She looked like an invalid—weak and sapped of energy, and for some reason, that pissed him off.

  “There are a lot better views,” he commented as he crossed the room and unzipped his suitcase.

  “Pardon?” she replied, turning her attention in his direction. Slowly. As if it were too much of an effort to move.

  “There are more interesting things than a wall to spend the day looking at,” he replied, yanking his work gloves out and shoving the hat on his head.

  “You have a point,” she said, a hint of amusement in her voice.

  “Then why are you staring at white plaster?”

  “It’s cream,” she corrected, shoving the blanket aside and standing. She seemed shaky, and now that he thought about it, she hadn’t eaten more than a bite of the pancakes Milo had piled on her plate. “But you’re right. I should be helping the kids get ready instead of sitting here staring at a wall.”

  “Clementine has things under control.”

  “I know, but they’re my children. They still need me, right?”

  It should have been a rhetorical question, and he shouldn’t have felt the need to answer. He heard the heaviness behind her words, though, the weight of her fear. She’d lost Matt. Maybe she was afraid of losing her children, too. Afraid that the accident would take more than it already had.

  “They still need you,” he repeated, and she smiled. Bright. Fake. Faux happiness at its finest.

  “So I’ll go help.” She was across the room and stepping into the hall when footsteps pounded on the stairs.

  “We’re ready to go, Mom!” Moisey shouted, bounding through the hall and throwing her arms around Sunday. The force of the hug threw her off balance and nearly knocked them both off their feet.

  Flynn put out his hand to stop the backward momentum, his palm settling between Sunday’s narrow shoulders. For a split second, she was leaning into it, her weight too light, her bones too fragile.

  Then she righted herself and laughed. “You’re getting so strong, Moisey!”

  “That’s from working outside. Clementine says farmwork makes kids tough.”

  “Clementine is right,” Sunday agreed, pulling her daughter in for a hug and pressing a kiss to her forehead. “Have fun at the fair, honey. Behave. Be careful.”

  “I always behave,” Moisey responded.

  “Really?” Sunday asked, raising an eyebrow.

  Moisey giggled. “Mostly, but this time I will for certain, because I want to make you proud.”

  “You always make me—” Sunday began, but Moisey was bouncing away, joining her siblings near the front door, grabbing a bright pink pack from the floor.

  “Sunday?” Clementine called as she descended the stairs, Porter just a few steps behind her. They both looked happy. They both looked enthusiastic. Neither looked like they felt tortured by the thought of a few hours in the car with six kids. “You’re coming with us, right?”

  “I . . . didn’t realize I was invited,” Sunday said, her gaze darting to her children.

  “Invited?” Porter responded, stepping up beside Clementine and sliding an arm around her waist. “Why would you need an invitation. We’re family. Everyone is going.”

  “I didn’t pack.”

  “That will only take a minute. Come on, hun,” Clementine said, holding out a hand. “Heavenly and I will help, won’t we?”

  She glanced at the teen.

  Heavenly sighed but set her bag down. “I’ll do
it myself. You stay here, Sunday. Otherwise, it’ll take too long.”

  Sunday winced. Just a tiny little tightening of muscles that Flynn would have missed if he hadn’t been watching her so carefully.

  “No, that’s okay,” she called as Heavenly started up the stairs. “I . . . have other plans.”

  “You do?” Heavenly, Clementine, and Porter said in unison.

  “Well”—Sunday’s gaze darted from her oldest daughter, to Clementine, to Porter, and then to Flynn—“Flynn and I are going to the east side of the river today. To talk about setting up tents for the fall festival.”

  “I thought you wanted to wait until next year to host a festival?” Porter asked, obviously not buying the story.

  “I do. I did. But I’ve been thinking about it, and I’m feeling so much better. Plus, it looks like the pepper harvest is going to be good, so we’ll be able to make pie and jams to sell.”

  “Pepper pies?” Milo asked, elbowing his twin.

  “You mean apple?” Clementine corrected gently, and Sunday’s cheeks went three shades of red.

  “Of course. Sorry. Apple pie and jams. And . . . other things. People will love that, so we should do it this . . . August . . . Augus . . . autumn.” She was stammering now, fighting for words the way she had in the first days after she’d woken from coma.

  The kids noticed.

  They probably felt her frustration and embarrassment.

  Flynn sure as heck did.

  “So I was thinking about that, and the stuff you make, Clementine. All that beautiful . . . stuff. We can sell that, too. And maybe we can get the kids something to ride.” She pressed her lips together, stopping the flow of words, and Flynn had the absurd urge to hug her, to tell her it was okay, that everyone understood.

  “You mean . . . like a horse?” Heavenly asked, her voice breaking through the uncomfortable silence. She sounded . . . sweet and kind. Nothing like the bratty teen who’d been huffing up the stairs moments ago.

  “That’s what I was thinking,” Sunday said, her voice devoid of emotion. “You wanted a horse. You told me that the day we brought you to the farm.”

  “I still want a horse,” Heavenly agreed, the look in her eyes and the gentleness in her tone speaking of a maturity Flynn hadn’t realized she possessed. “I’ll stay home with you and Uncle Flynn. We can plan things together. I’ll write everything down for you, okay?”

  “I’ll stay home, too,” Twila agreed, dropping her navy blue backpack near the steps and throwing her arms around Sunday. “We’ll have fun today, Mommy. You’ll see.”

  “You can’t—” Sunday began, but the kids were all dropping their bags, rushing to her side, acting excited about touring the farm and discussing a fall festival that might not even happen.

  Clementine and Porter looked . . . confused. Maybe a little lost.

  And, Sunday looked devastated, her face pale, her eyes glittering with what Flynn was afraid might be tears.

  She didn’t want the kids to give up a fun trip.

  She didn’t want to go with them and slow the group down, maybe put a damper on the fun.

  He figured that was her choice.

  He also figured it would be good for the kids to get away for a while. To just be kids without having to worry about slowing their pace to match their mother’s.

  “Hold on,” Flynn said, trying to break into the cacophony of voices.

  The kids just kept talking.

  “I said,” he repeated, “hold on. As in stop. As in quiet.”

  Still no response, so he pulled the whistle from his pocket. The one he used to signal herding dogs. He blasted it twice. A signal for attention.

  To his shock, the kids shut up.

  Their mouths gaped open, their gazes were glued to him.

  “Guess this isn’t just good for dogs,” he said as he tucked it back into his pocket. “Now, here’s the deal. You kids and Clementine and Porter have plans. Good plans. Your mother and I have plans too. We’re all going to have fun doing the things we had planned. All of us.” He met Heavenly’s eyes, was pretty certain he saw mutiny in her gaze. “Meaning everyone standing in this foyer.”

  “I understand what ‘all’ means,” she muttered, but leaned in to kiss Sunday’s cheek. “I’ll go, but tomorrow, can we talk about the horse?”

  “We can talk about anything you want,” Sunday assured her. She said good-bye to each of her children, thanked Clementine and Porter for taking them, waved at the departing group from the front porch.

  Her hand was still in the air until the beat-up Chevy passenger van was out of sight.

  Then it dropped to her side. Her shoulders slumped, her fake-happy expression fell away.

  Flynn watched it all, a voyeur to a scene that he’d rather not be privy to.

  “They’ll have fun,” Sunday whispered, and he wondered if she’d forgotten that he was standing on the porch.

  “Of course they will.”

  She met his eyes, and he realized hers were deep purple-blue. The color of bluebonnets at sunset.

  “Thanks.”

  “For?”

  “Helping with that.” She sighed, brushing a strand of light brown hair from her cheek. It had grown since the accident, the buzz cut giving way to a soft flyaway style that danced just above her shoulders.

  “You don’t have to thank me.”

  “Thanks anyway.” She smiled. Another fake expression of happiness.

  “You don’t have to pretend, either” he commented as she opened the storm door and stepped inside the house.

  “What?” She stopped but didn’t turn to face him.

  “You don’t have to pretend to be happy, Sunday. We can all handle the truth. Whatever it is.”

  “Good to know,” she murmured, and walked away.

  He could have left things like that.

  She’d earned the right to have negative feelings. Lots of them. And she’d earned the right to hide them, if that’s what she wanted to do. He, on the other hand, had earned the right to be alone. Not just earned it. Worked dang hard for it. He preferred solitude to the messiness of relationships. He’d spent his childhood watching his father destroy his mother, watching his mother push aside her feelings to create the best life she could for her sons, watching his brothers become as stoic as she’d been.

  He’d vowed to never marry because he hadn’t wanted to hurt or to be hurt. He’d wanted one thing, and he’d planned to always have it—peace.

  And then he’d met Patricia his second year at Texas A&M. He was on scholarship, heading toward a degree in agricultural engineering. She’d been studying the same. They’d bonded over homework, and they’d been a couple all through their junior and senior year.

  They’d married after graduation, because he’d loved her, and because on paper it all worked. They had similar views, beliefs, and values. They had similar ideologies. They both were interested in agriculture and in sustainable living.

  Until Flynn had taken a job as a ranch hand for one of the biggest cattle operations in Texas, things had been great. But that job had changed things. Flynn had wanted to learn ranching from the bottom up. He’d wanted to use his degree to fix real-world problems on a working farmstead. Eventually, he wanted to own land and cattle, make a name for himself the way ranchers had done decades ago.

  Patricia had wanted a job in the city, designing farm equipment for John Deere, making big bucks and using it to entertain high-society friends.

  They might have still made it work if she hadn’t gotten bored and restless. If she hadn’t cheated on him.

  If she hadn’t left with everything they’d saved, her dog, and the only nice set of dishes they owned.

  He frowned.

  Water under the bridge and not something he spent much time thinking about. Patricia had been out of his life for longer than she’d been in it. She’d tried to resurface after the Houston Chronicle ran a story about Two River Run. Flynn bought the successful ranch when the previous owner
retired. He’d doubled its profit in the first three years of business, and people in the business were interested in his methods.

  Patricia had liked the idea of being wife to a successful rancher.

  He’d sent her away three times before she’d finally understood that he wasn’t interested in rekindling their romance.

  That had been three years ago.

  Three years of peace, and he didn’t plan to ruin the streak.

  But Sunday had made some big plans in front of her children. They’d be awfully disappointed if she didn’t follow through.

  Chapter Five

  Her chest hurt.

  Her pulse raced.

  Her muscles felt weak.

  Maybe she was having a heart attack.

  Or maybe she was having a panic attack because of the lie she’d just told. To. Her. Children.

  Plans for the day?

  She had none. Aside from chair sitting and wall staring.

  She and Flynn hadn’t ever discussed anything regarding a fall festival or horses.

  Horses!

  She’d looked Heavenly in the eye and mentioned a horse, the words flowing off her tongue as if they’d been there for years waiting to be said. She knew Heavenly dreamed of riding. She knew she longed to own a horse. Not a pony. A real horse. The kind a teen could saddle and ride all day if she wanted.

  Sunday had written about it in the journals.

  That childish dream and how much she’d wished she could make it come true. But horses were expensive. Feed and medication and farriers cost money the family hadn’t had. Now . . .

  Maybe. There’d been an insurance payoff and fundraisers and silent auctions. People had been generous. Matt’s brothers had been generous. Pleasant Valley Organic Farm was on firm financial footing. She and the kids didn’t need to worry. She’d been told that by so many people, so many times, she couldn’t forget it.

  But there wasn’t time for a horse.

  There wasn’t energy for teaching a teenager how to care for a large and intelligent animal.

  But Sunday had opened her mouth and mentioned it as if it were going to happen.

  “You’re an idiot,” she muttered, dropping into the easy chair and pulling the blanket off the floor and onto her lap.