LITMIR.BIZ

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moved here myself,” he finally replied, feeling a distinct lack of nostalgia for the old place back in L.A., and the fast-paced life that went with it. “I haven’t had time to make a plan, let alone shop for a houseful of stuff.” By then, he was sitting at the card table in the center of the kitchen, with his laptop open. It was time to do a little research on child-rearing. “Anyway, there’s a lot to be done around the place, as you’ve probably noticed.”

      Nash dragged back the second folding chair, which completed the dining ensemble, and fell to the seat with a sigh. “It’s not so bad,” he said, taking Zane by surprise. Had the kid actually said something civil? “Anyway, beggars can’t be choosers. That’s what my mom always tells me. When I can find her, that is.”

      “You’re not a beggar, Nash,” Zane said, looking up from the computer screen, which indicated that he had a shitload of emails waiting for him. A daunting prospect, since at least eight of them were from his ex-wife, Tiffany. Tiffany. What had he been thinking, marrying that woman-child? Maybe he’d give her the monumental water bed; God knew, she’d get plenty of use out of it, and maybe even sleep once in a while. “You’ve had a run of hard luck, that’s all. It happens to the best of us.”

      “With me, it’s a lifestyle,” Nash said, leaning back indolently, though his eyes were alert for any sign that trouble might be about to land on him like a cougar dropping out of a tree.

      “You could look at it that way,” Zane replied, “if you were inclined to feel sorry for yourself. You’ve had it tough, but so have lots of other people. What matters is where you go from here, what you do next. When you get right down to it, it seems to me, almost everything hinges on what attitude you decide to take.”

      Nash widened his eyes, and his mouth had a scornful set to it. “What are you—some kind of rah-rah motivational speaker now?”

      “I’m your brother. You can keep up the act for as long as you want, but it’s basically a waste of energy, because, trust me, I can outlast you.” Zane paused, letting his words sink in. “Also, I know a thing or two about having a no-account for a father myself, as it happens. And that means I understand you better than you think I do.”

      Nash’s face, so like his own and, for that matter, like Landry’s, too, hardened in all its planes and angles. Once the boy grew into himself, he’d be a man to be reckoned with.

      “Dad’s not a no-account,” he retorted coldly.

      “You have a right to your opinion,” Zane answered. “And I have a right to mine.”

      Nash slammed one palm down hard on top of the rickety table, causing the dog to jump in alarm. “What’s that supposed to mean?” he demanded.

      “Exactly what it sounded like it meant—you have a right to your opinion. Mine happens to differ a little, it would seem. And don’t scare the dog again—he’s been through enough as it is.”

      “Dad’s made a few mistakes, but he’s not a bum,” Nash said, but he lacked conviction. The sidelong look he gave Slim was genuinely remorseful. “Sorry, boy,” he muttered, under his breath.

      “He is what he is.” Zane spoke in a moderate tone, but no power on earth could have gotten him to make Jess Sutton out to be more than he was. The man was good-looking, charming to the max and absolutely useless in the real world, an overage Peter Pan.

      “You sound just like Landry,” Nash accused, flaring up again. “Both of you are full of yourselves, the high and mighty movie star and Mr. Moneybags. I couldn’t believe the things Landry said, right to Dad’s face!”

      “Guess that’s better than saying them behind his back,” Zane observed diplomatically. “Maybe you had a different experience with the old man than Landry and I did, growing up. We saw him every few years, when he needed a couch to sleep on between wives and girlfriends. When he did have a few bucks in his pocket, it was only because one of his scams had finally panned out, and he sure as hell never shared it with Mom.”

      Nash sat stony-faced and still. They were at a standoff, obviously, neither one of them willing to take back anything they’d said, though Zane, for his part, was beginning to wish that he’d kept his opinions to himself. If it comforted the kid to make-believe the old man had his best interests at heart, well, where was the harm in that?

      Nash scowled on, two bright patches burning on his otherwise pale cheeks. Zane didn’t look away, nor did he speak.

      “He could have changed,” Nash finally said. “Dad, I mean.”

      “Yeah,” Zane agreed, after unlocking his jawbones so he could open his mouth at all. “Or not.”

      Nash leaned forward, both hands flat on the tabletop now, fingers splayed. At least he didn’t make a loud noise or a fast move and scare the dog again.

      “Look,” the kid ground out, eyes narrowed, breath quick and shallow, “I didn’t ask to come here, to Butthole Creek or whatever this place is called, all right? I didn’t ask to be dumped off on Landry’s doorstep, either. So don’t go thinking I’m some poor orphan who needs to be preached at, okay?”

      “Far be it from me to preach,” Zane said calmly.

      Nash glared even harder. “In the movies, you always play an easygoing cowboy with a slow grin and a fast draw. Now, all of a sudden, you’re talking like some college professor or something.”

      “That first part,” Zane responded, “is called ‘acting.’ It was my job.”

      “Did you go to college?” From Nash’s tone, he might have been asking, Did you rob a bank—mug an old lady—kick a helpless animal?

      “Now and then,” Zane replied. “Mostly, though, I just read a lot.”

      There was another pause. Then, “You think you’re better than Dad—better than me.” Nash Sutton was obstinate to the core—just like both his older brothers.

      “There’s only one man I try to be better than, and that’s the one I was last week, last month or last year. It’s a simple creed, but it serves me well, most of the time.” Privately, Zane wondered where those lofty words had come from and, at the same time, realized they were true. He wanted to be himself, not the movie cowboy with the smooth lines, too much money and the steady supply of silicone-enhanced women, Tiffany included.

      It was time to get real, damn it.

      Another long silence stretched between them, broken when Nash finally asked, “Am I going to have to sleep on the floor?”

      Zane grinned, aware that the tension had eased up a little and thus felt relieved. Although he could be pretty hardheaded—bull-stubborn, his mom would have said—he wasn’t unreasonable. He liked people and preferred to get along with them when he could. Especially when they were kin—like Nash.

      “No,” he said. “You won’t have to sleep on the floor. We’ll head into town and buy a couple of decent beds in a little while—with luck, we’ll be able to haul them home in the back of the truck and set them up right away. If that plan doesn’t work out for some reason, you can use the air mattress in the meantime.”

      “Beds,” Nash ruminated. He seemed wistful now, but that might be an act. “With sheets and blankets and pillows and everything?”

      Where in hell had this kid been sleeping? Zane wondered that and many other things. “With sheets and blankets and everything,” he confirmed, hoping the boy didn’t notice the slight catch in his voice.

      Nash’s grin flashed, Landry-like. Zane-like.

      There was certainly no question of his paternity. He was Jess Sutton’s kid, all right, full of bravado and brains and smart-ass attitudes. Were there other siblings out there? Zane wondered, as he often did. Did he and Landry and Nash have sisters and brothers they knew nothing about?

      It seemed more than possible.

      “Let’s go, then,”

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