LITMIR.BIZ

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in Dallas. I see you’re still too cheap to spring for a current edition of Popular Mechanics.” He indicated the rolled-up magazine.

      “The back issues I get from the beauty parlor every six months when Eula cleans off her coffee table are plenty good enough for me.” He winked. “What can I say? The price is right.”

      “There is no price.”

      “That’s why it’s so right. I ain’t made of money like some folks around here.” He winked. “Speaking of which, I heard you’re headin’ up one of them highfalutin ad agencies out there.”

      “Was. I’m through doing the corporate thing. I want to slow down. Speaking of which, my car quit on me out on the highway. You think you could dig up a wrecker and give me a tow?”

      “Sure thing. What kind of car?”

      “Black.”

      “I’m talking make and model.”

      Brady drew in a deep breath. “A Porsche 366.”

      Merle let loose another whistle. “Slick car to go with the duds.”

      “Not for long. These clothes are a mite too hot for me. I’m thinking of changing before I head over to Granddaddy’s place.”

      “You sure as hell better. He’s still a little attached to his Wranglers, and anybody who ain’t wearin’ them amounts to an outsider.”

      “I’ve got a pair in my suitcase.” Several pairs to be more exact. While Brady had left straight from his office and hadn’t taken the time to change, he had come as prepared as possible to face his grandfather after all these years.

      “Since my car’s out of commission, you have any loaners you can spare?”

      “All’s I got is ole Bessie out back.”

      “You mean she actually still runs?” Brady remembered the old Chevy pickup being on its last legs back when he was in high school.

      “On occasion. She’s pretty reliable, so long as you stroke the console ‘afore you start her.”

      “Will do.”

      “I don’t think your grandfather will take too kindly to you driving up in Bessie.”

      True enough, but Zachariah would like it even less seeing his only grandson drive up in a fancy car the likes of which no salt-of-the-earth cowboy would be caught dead in.

      “A truck’s a truck. So,” Brady went on, eager to change the subject, “you’re looking really good. Still sponsoring the same T-ball team and wearing the same shirt.”

      “It ain’t the same. They give me a new one every year. One of the perks. As a matter of fact, I made ‘em give me two shirts this past year ‘cause I hit my twenty-year mark.”

      Brady grinned. “Still spittin’ vinegar, I see.”

      Merle winked before casting a glance at the kids and giving them a look that sent them running. “And pissin’ fire,” he added, turning back to Brady. “Thanks to Maria’s cookin’.”

      “She still make the best tamales this side of the Rio Grande?”

      “And the best dadburned enchiladas. I keep tellin’ her she ought to put all that good cookin’ to use and open up a restaurant. Then I could retire and let Marlboro have this old place.”

      “Jake Marlboro?”

      He nodded. “He’s been itchin’ to buy me out all year. Already talked Cecil over at McIntyre Hardware into selling his place.”

      “Why would he want the old hardware store?”

      “He’s fixing on putting in a Mega Mart. It’s got everything from hardware to groceries. Opened one up over in Inspiration and it’s a big hit. Folks like the convenience, I guess. Me, I’m just a little attached to this place. Not to mention, I ain’t sold Maria on the restaurant idea. She says she’s too busy with all the young’uns.”

      “How many are you up to?”

      “Out of seven grandkids, we’ve got nineteen great-grandbabies, and number twenty’s due any day now.” A smile creased his old face. “Your gramps is pickle green with envy.”

      “And you’re loving every minute of it.”

      Merle’s grin widened. “I never had too many chances to one-up your old grandpa when we were growing up, and I ain’t ashamed to admit that it’s a mite satisfying to know there’s something the old coot wants that he cain’t have.” At Brady’s smile, Merle shrugged. “What can I say? Things ain’t changed much in the past eleven years.”

      Brady sent up a silent prayer. “That’s what I’m counting on.”

      2

      “BRADY’S HOME!” The shout preceded the frantic embrace of Brady’s youngest sister. Before he could so much as get in a hello, she opened the front door, threw herself into his arms and held on for dear life.

      For the next few moments, Brady forgot his doubts and simply relished the feeling. It had been a long time since he’d been hugged so fiercely…since he’d wanted to hug so fiercely.

      “You’re here,” his sister murmured into his shoulder. “You’re really here.” Another quick squeeze and she pulled back enough to give him a scolding look. “It’s about damned time.”

      “Ellie Jane Weston.” The admonishment came from a tall, slender, sixtyish woman with silvery hair and stern blue eyes who appeared in the entryway behind Ellie. “You watch your language.”

      “Sorry, Ma. Brady’s home,” Ellie announced to the woman.

      “I heard. Why, I wouldn’t be surprised if every one of the surrounding counties heard.” Claire Weston eyed her only son for a long moment, before her gaze softened. “It’s about damned time,” she finally declared, moving past her daughter to pull her son into her arms. “It’s been much too long.”

      “I wanted to come home sooner, but I didn’t—”

      “It doesn’t matter.” She shook her head. “You’re here now. That’s all that matters.” Another hug and she pulled away.

      Surprisingly, her eyes glistened with tears and something shifted inside of Brady. While growing up, he’d seen his mother cry only once and that had been at his father’s funeral. Claire Weston, as strong as the 150-year-old oak tree growing in the backyard, had buried relatives, seen her family through many trials, and not once had she lost control of her emotions, a character trait that no doubt pleased her father-in-law. Tears were for the weak, and there wasn’t anything weak about the Westons.

      One hundred years ago, Miles Weston had started Weston Boots all by himself. He’d handtooled leather from sunup to sundown, using little more than a makeshift tin shack out behind his barn as a workshop. He’d started something that generations after had continued. The Westons were hard workers, diligent, persistent, strong.

      “It’s good to see you,” Brady said, giving his mother a warm smile.

      “I hope this means what I think it means,” she told him.

      “That depends.”

      “I don’t care what the old man says, you’re staying.”

      “We’ll see.” He smiled and wiped at a stray tear gliding down her cheek. “You’re looking as sexy as ever.”

      She sniffled and gathered her composure. “I see you’ve still got a fresh mouth.”

      “And you’re still the prettiest woman in Cadillac.” A loud cough and he turned toward his sister. “One of the prettiest women.” Ellie rewarded him with a smile. “And speaking of pretty women, where are Brenda and Marsha?” Brenda was his oldest

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