LITMIR.BIZ

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left, they’d formed an unspoken bond, knowing it was their job to take care of their mother. It hadn’t been easy, but they’d survived.

      Surviving was a long way from being whole, though.

      Flowers filled the beds in front of the house, the roses climbing the trellis on the side a reminder that his mother loved gardening. It had become her therapy and filled her time.

      He walked up the stone path to the door, his nerves on edge as he buzzed the doorbell. He didn’t bother to wait for his mother to answer, though. He pushed open the door, slipped inside and removed his Stetson.

      Voices sounded from the dining room, and he crossed the foyer, passed the living room and stepped into the dining room.

      Lucas, Dexter and Brayden had gathered at the highboy, each with a drink in hand. Lucas had joined the FBI, Dexter had opened his own detective agency and Brayden was a lawyer.

      He might need their help on the case. Maybe he could explain before he talked to their mother.

      She bustled in a second later, her arms laden with food, and gave him a pointed look. “It’s about time you got here.”

      “I’m sorry,” he said, “it’s been a busy day.”

      She set a plate of roast on the table, then mashed potatoes and gravy, and wiped her hands on her apron. “I guess it has. I heard you found Waylon Granger dead at the bluff.”

      Surprise made him stiffen. He glanced at his brothers but they looked at him stoically.

      “Where did you hear that?” he asked.

      “It doesn’t matter,” his mother said. “I’m just glad that man is dead.”

      * * *

      THE QUESTIONS AND worry needling Honey made her feel restless and on edge. She stared at her father’s house with a knot in her stomach.

      Even exhausted, there was no way she could sleep right now.

      She dug into the cabinet, grabbed some garbage bags and dived into cleaning out the closets. She started in her room and made two piles—one for trash and the other for donations to the local church.

      There were very few toys, except for a few stuffed animals and a couple of dolls, so she dusted them off and placed them in the donation bag. The clothes she’d worn as a teenager were plain but someone might be able to use the jeans and flannel shirts. Everything else was either ragged or so frayed that she put them in the trash.

      She stripped the gingham bedspread and sheets, then the ratty curtains, and stuffed them into the donation bag. Washed, they could be reused. But if she did anything with this house, she would gut it and stage it with new things to make it look more appealing.

      When her room was bare, she moved to her father’s room and did the same. His clothing was old and worn and reeked of smoke. Unable to salvage anything, she shoved everything into trash bags. Work boots, overalls, jeans, socks, underwear, shirts, belts—she didn’t bother to even look at them. No one would want the outdated, threadbare items.

      The faded chenille bedspread was marked with cigarette burns and stains, as were his sheets. She rolled the items up and added them to the trash.

      She collected all the soda cans, liquor bottles and other trash and carried it to the garbage can outside. The refrigerator reeked of soured milk and several containers of molded food. She cleaned everything out, including the condiments, which had probably been in the fridge for ages.

      Thankfully she found a bottle of cleaner beneath the sink so she wiped out the refrigerator and counters, then scrubbed the Formica table.

      The small bathroom came next. Shaving cream, used soap and other toiletries went into the trash, along with the nasty shower curtain. If she sold the place, the bathroom would be gutted, too.

      But if she was going to stay here until her father’s murder was settled, she had to make the place livable. Even though the bathroom tiles and flooring were outdated, she scrubbed the toilet, sink, tub and walls until they smelled like cleaner.

      Her shoulders and muscles ached as she piled the donation bags into her van. She pushed the garbage can to the curb for pickup, then piled the other trash bags beside it.

      Tired but needing to get rid of the donation bags, she grabbed her purse and drove to town. She dropped the bags off first, then stopped by the discount store and stocked up on more cleaning supplies, a cheap shower curtain, sheets and a pillow for her bed. She added some scented candles to help alleviate the smoky smell, picked up a case of bottled water, coffee, cereal and milk for breakfast, then headed to the café for dinner.

      An older couple had owned it when she lived here, but now it was named Cora’s Café so it had changed owners. Did her former friend Cora own it now?

      She was surprised to see that the place had been renovated. It still sported a Western theme, but the oak tables looked new, as did the sky blue curtains. Bar stools jutted up to a counter for extra seating, and country music echoed through the room, a backdrop to the chatter and laughter. A chalkboard showcased a handwritten menu with the specials for the day.

      Customers filled the booths and tables, evidenced by the number of cars outside. The scent of fried chicken and apple pie made her stomach growl.

      A woman about her age with auburn hair in a pixie cut greeted her. “Honey, I heard you were back in town. I’m sorry about your father.”

      She smiled, grateful to see her old friend “Hi, Cora. I was thinking about you today. So you own the café now?”

      Cora handed her a menu. “I bought it a couple of years ago and did a makeover. Guess cooking for the family all those years paid off.”

      “It looks good.”

      “Thanks.” Cora blushed, and Honey smiled, grateful she seemed happy.

      She noticed a booth to the far right and started toward it. Suddenly the room grew quiet, though, and an uneasy feeling prickled her spine.

      She glanced around and noted several people looking at her.

      She’d forgotten what it was like to live in a small town. Everyone knew everyone else. When a stranger visited, everyone knew that, too.

      She offered them a tentative smile, but memories of being the hub of gossip made her want to run.

      * * *

      HARRISON GRITTED HIS teeth at the questioning looks from his brothers and his mother. Maybe he should have called and given them a heads-up.

      “You didn’t think to tell us before everyone in town knew?” Dexter asked.

      Harrison took a deep breath before he responded. “I came here as soon as I could. I don’t know how word leaked. It shouldn’t have.”

      “Well, it did.” His mother pushed her bangs off her forehead with a smile. The fact that the hair found at the crime scene was short and brown didn’t escape him. His mother’s hair was short and brown.

      Lucas lifted his drink glass in a gesture of offering. “Fix you one and then we’ll toast.”

      “What are we toasting?” Harrison asked gruffly.

      “That Waylon Granger is dead,” his mother said. “Tumbleweed is better off without him.”

      Harrison’s patience was wearing thin. It had been a long damn day. “How can you say that, Mother? Granger was a crappy father, but we don’t have proof he did anything else.” Honey’s face flashed in his mind. She didn’t deserve any of this.

      His mother patted his shoulder. “You always were the diplomat, Harrison. But we know, at least I know, that that damned man hurt our Chrissy.”

      Harrison glanced at his brothers to see if they were in agreement. Lucas sipped his drink, his expression neutral. Dexter slipped an arm around their mother as if to offer support. Brayden poured himself another drink, then

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