A Hero to Come Home To (10 page)

Scowling, he pushed the vacuum across the living room carpet with more force than necessary. He’d already dusted, cleaned both the upstairs and downstairs bathrooms and loaded the dishwasher. The counters and kitchen table still needed scrubbing, but other than that and a load of laundry, the house would be clean to his standards. Not his mom’s and certainly not Sandra’s, but it would do.

Oh, and the wooden box. It would have to go back above the fireplace. But that could wait.

By the time Noah clumped down the stairs again, Dalton had finished the living room and was wrapping the cord around the vacuum. Noah took a look around, then hesitantly said, “What about the flag? You know Mom and Dad will expect to see it. And the pictures.”

His father had made a display box for the flag that had covered Sandra’s coffin, a photograph of her in uniform and the ribbons she’d earned during her Army career. He’d been meticulous with the craftsmanship, creating a beautiful piece with Sandra’s name and the dates of her birth and death engraved in the rich cherry. It was respectful, an honor, a gift from his father’s heart that Dalton could hardly bear to look at. Even so, he’d left it on the mantel where his father had placed it for more than a year before moving it, along with all the other photographs, to the guest room closet.

“I’ll get them later.”

“When?”

“Tonight. Tomorrow morning.” Any time that wasn’t
now
.

“Don’t forget,” Noah warned, then he raised both hands defensively. “I’m just saying.”

“I won’t forget,” Dalton said sharply.

Noah had that look about him, the one that meant he wanted to say something that Dalton didn’t want to hear. Dalton set his shoulders, waiting, and Noah opened his mouth, then exhaled, shook his head and went into the kitchen.

Dalton followed him. “Go ahead. Spit it out before you get all sour from keeping it in.”

“Like you?” The words burst out as Noah set a can of diced tomatoes on the counter so hard it probably dented the surface, then turned to face him. “You know Mom and Dad worry about you. When they see you like this…When’s the last time you got your hair cut or shaved or put on clothes that don’t look like they spent a week in the cow pen? Hell, when’s the last time you talked to someone without taking his head off? No one expects you to smile and be happy like nothing happened, but at least quit acting like they buried you with Sandra.”

Blood turning to ice, Dalton stared at his brother. The list of subjects that were off-limits in this house was so simple even Noah could remember them: Dillon and Sandra. If the restrictions chafed him so much, he could consider the dorm at Stillwater his home from now on and stay the hell away from Tallgrass.

The silence dragged out until Noah shifted his weight awkwardly. “I—I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to—” Mouth clamped shut, he picked up the can along with an armful of others and went to the pantry. Before he finished putting the cans away, Dalton left the room and the house. He didn’t bother feeling his pockets for the keys he’d left in their usual spot on the counter, didn’t turn toward the pasture to catch and saddle one of the horses. He just walked, across the grass that was trying to green up, past the barn, through the gate and across the field.

The temperature fell as he walked from the front moving in that the weather guys had predicted. By ten o’clock tonight, it would be in the low thirties, and tomorrow morning, they were saying, would bring an inch or so of snow. Dalton didn’t go back for a jacket, though. His anger at Noah was enough to keep him warm.

But it wasn’t Noah he was mad at, he finally admitted. Noah was a kid, not even twenty yet, and he said what he felt needed to be said. It could be worse. He could have been like Dillon, telling people what he thought they wanted to hear, making promises he never intended to keep, never putting himself out for anyone other than himself.

It would be easier to live with a dozen Noahs than just one Dillon.

Finally, deep in the woods, Dalton slumped down on a boulder not five feet from the bank of a sluggish creek. His dad had called this his thinking spot. He must have been about eight when he discovered it, and he’d come here so often in the years since that he swore the sandstone had worn away in the shape of his butt.

He propped his feet on the top edge of the rock, his boot heels leaving marks on the soft surface, and he let his head hang down, his eyes close.

Noah
was
just a kid. How did he know Dalton felt like he’d died with Sandra? Nothing had been the same for him since. He’d kept his distance from his family and neighbors, had given up his friends, had done only what was necessary to keep the ranch running, and for a long time he’d considered giving that up, too. He didn’t need much—didn’t
want
much. A little place with no memories where he could waste away. Sandra’s life insurance would have provided that for the rest of his life and still have money left over.

He’d gone so far as to trailer up the prime of his herd to haul them off to market, but the truck had never made it through the gate. He’d loved ranching. It was all he’d ever wanted to do, not just because he liked the hours and the work, but also because it was a part of who he was. Smiths had been running livestock on this land for more than a hundred years. Being a part of the land, earning a living from it—that was their legacy.

The legacy was what had kept him going the last four years. Not even Noah, who’d lived with him even then after their parents had retired to south Texas, had been enough reason to stick around, but the cows and the horses had. Noah would have been all right on his own, but the animals had needed Dalton. Almost as much as he’d needed them.

So this was what his sorry life had come to. No wife. No kids. No word of Dillon in thirteen years. No friends. No one in his life on a regular basis, unless he counted weekends with Noah. Nothing but a whole world of hurt.

God, he wished he’d learned to like liquor back when Dillon did.

He heard the footsteps approaching long before Noah came into sight. His brother walked up to him, hand extended.

“Here. You left your cell phone.”

Dalton took the phone. When a man worked alone as much as he did, the lack of a phone could turn an accident from bad to disaster. He never went out without his. “Thanks.”

“I got the groceries put away and cleaned the upstairs bathroom.”

“I already did that.”

“Huh. Sure could’ve fooled me. Anyway, I’m going into town to get a burger. Want to go?”

“For what?” He avoided Tallgrass as much as he could.

“I don’t know. A haircut? Maybe buy a pair of Wranglers that don’t look older than me?” Noah shrugged. “Hell, maybe just for a change of scenery.”

Dalton fingered a worn place at the hem of his right leg where the denim was frayed into tiny white threads. He didn’t blame Noah for not wanting their mother worried during their visit. When Ramona got worked up, no one got any peace until whatever troubled her was resolved. If a haircut and a new pair of jeans could keep her from getting worked up in the first place…

“Okay. But I drive.”

Noah punched him on the arm. “Aw, man, you drive like an old woman.”

“You drive like a NASCAR wannabe. You get one more ticket, and Dad’s going to take the keys to the truck back to Texas with him.”

Noah grinned. “Yeah, but only the keys, since Mom won’t let him park it at the condo. And I know how to hot-wire it.”

“Dad can park it here. You come around trying to hot-wire anything, I’ll kick your butt.”

And that was it. Things were back to normal. No apologies, no talking it out. Everything forgotten.

Except that Dalton never could seem to really forget.

Tallgrass remained a small town despite the increase to its population of fifty-five thousand residents brought by Fort Murphy. People on the sidewalks downtown spoke to everyone they passed. The clerks in the stores were chatty and friendly. Other shoppers didn’t hesitate to offer advice or information, solicited or not. It reminded Dane of the town where his grandparents had lived.

Since neither Dane nor Carly had had any particular activity in mind, they had driven downtown, parked the truck in front of the old stone building that housed the county courts and the police department and made their way through the shops, up one side of the street and down the other. He wasn’t much of a shopper, but the stores were mostly antique or, more honestly, junk stores, and a lot of the items inside brought back good memories.

As they walked out of the final store on the block, the wind blew a few old dead leaves in a swirl of dust. Carly shivered, pulling her denim jacket tighter. “I’ve never gotten used to how quickly the weather changes here. At noon it was seventy-something. Now it’s thirty-eight.”

He glanced at the flashing sign above the bank entrance on the northwest corner. It was a quarter of six, and he could feel the passage of time in his leg. He’d been on his feet for nearly four hours, and he’d already learned that the stump didn’t like rapid weather changes. He was thinking about someplace warm, a comfortable sofa, propping up his foot and popping a pain pill when she gestured down the block.

“Serena’s Sweets has really good coffee. Can I interest you in a cup and a piece of pie or cake or even dinner?”

He glanced at the shop a few doors down. Condensation on its big plate-glass windows showed it was warm inside, and a padded bench could be as comfortable as a sofa, especially if he could put his foot on the opposite bench. As for a pain pill, who needed that when good pie was available, along with Carly?

“Sounds good,” he said, and she tucked her arm through his, pushed her hands into her pockets and began strolling in that direction.

His muscles were taut where their arms made contact. There had been a time when casual touch was so normal a part of his day that he’d never thought twice about it. Brushing fingers with a waitress, bumping shoulders in a crowd, laying his hand on a woman’s arm or putting his arm around her shoulders. Simple, everyday stuff. Now it seemed momentous. It made him crave so much, to lean in closer, to run away faster, that it took all his control to do nothing. To act as if it were natural.

“You remember Jessy, the redhead? She lives up there.” Carly gestured toward the upper floors of the building they passed. “It’s the coolest apartment in town. The ceilings are twelve feet high, and the floors are wood that has this wonderful old glow. The walls are plaster and lath, and the moldings are really elaborate. If Jeff and I hadn’t been planning to start a family—”

As she broke off, Dane felt the tension in her own muscles. The only response that came to mind was
Good thing it didn’t happen so you’re not a single mother and your baby doesn’t have to grow up without a father.
But he couldn’t say that out loud. She loved Jeff a lot, probably enough to regret that there wasn’t a little Jeff running around and giving her purpose.

A bell jingled over the door of the restaurant as she pulled it open. “Some things just weren’t meant to be,” she finished softly, then smiled at him, her eyes brightening. “Doesn’t that smell good?”

“It does,” he agreed. Coffee, cinnamon, apples, and something savory. Meat loaf, he thought, and his stomach reminded him that lunch had been a peanut butter sandwich more than six hours ago.

She slid her arm free to make her way through the narrow spaces between tables and booths. When she reached an empty booth against the easternmost wall, she glanced at him, brows raised, then, at his nod, took off her jacket and shivered violently. “Nothing like warmth to remind you how cold it is.”

“You went to college in Colorado. This should be a lovely spring evening to you.” He sat down and stretched his left leg, rubbing it gingerly, hopefully not too noticeably.

“I’m a warm-weather girl. My idea of heaven is lots of sunshine, sand, blue-green ocean, a book and something cold to drink.”

“A margarita?”

“No margaritas here,” the waitress said as she set two menus and napkin-wrapped silverware on the table. “You have to go down the street to Buddy Watson’s place for that. But we do have the best coffee in town, no matter what that little froufrou place outside the post gates claims.”

“I’d like coffee,” Carly said, picking up her menu.

“Make it two.” Dane didn’t bother with his own menu. A chalkboard on the wall above them listed the evening’s specials: meat loaf with mashed potatoes and gravy and pot roast with all the trimmings.

“Dessert or dinner?”

“I’m having meat loaf. I haven’t had that in a long time.”

“Sheesh, no meat loaf, no pizza…where have you been all this time?”

“Um, in the desert?” Heat rose inside him at the deliberate lie, but he didn’t feel guilty enough to stop it. “In Afghanistan?”

“Oh, right. Sorry. I think I’ll have the pot roast.” She put the menu down, then settled more comfortably. “Truth is, I don’t like margaritas very much. It just seems the right drink to order in a Mexican restaurant. After we became regulars at Three Amigos, they expected us to get them, and then we began calling ourselves the Tuesday Night Margarita Club, and the bartender started making special recipes for us, and…” She shrugged, her auburn hair swinging in its ponytail. “That’s why I buy a margarita every week, take a few drinks and leave the rest on the table.”

“What a waste of good tequila.”

“I know. Jeff had a two-drink limit when we went out together. Mind you, that was
ordering
two drinks. I’d usually get one and take a few sips, then he would finish it. But because he didn’t order it, it didn’t count toward his limit.”

“My ex-wife had a two-drink
minimum
. She liked to party. She’s remarried now, has three kids and is pregnant with the fourth, so I’m guessing the drinking days are in the past.”

Carly smiled, a full, lush action that made her practically glow. “Ah, you keep up with her.”

His own grimace was heavy as her smile seemed light. “Talking to my mother is like watching the national news. You don’t want to know what’s going on in Congress, but they tell you anyway. You’d think Sheryl was her daughter instead of her ex-daughter-in-law.”