Welcome to Harmony (11 page)

Alex continued to look at Saralynn, who was busy feeding the fish the rest of her sopapilla.

“I don’t think so,” she said, and finally looked at Hank.

The old sadness was back. She was looking at him, but she was remembering her big brother. If Saralynn hadn’t been there, he might have said something he would regret. Warren had been dead for three years. They’d both seen his body on the road that night. They’d both grieved. It was time Warren’s memory stopped haunting them both.

She was gone before he could come up with a response.

AFTER LUNCH, HANK WENT BACK TO THE FIRE STATION. The wind had kicked up to about thirty miles an hour. With the lack of rain, he was starting to worry. The land was ripe for a fire. It was only a matter of time, and he had to get everything ready while he prayed nothing would happen. He made a mental note to call Bob McNabb. The guy was far too old to be active as a volunteer, but he knew more about grass fires than anyone around.

Saralynn sat in the only comfortable chair in his office, her braced legs covered with one of the extra blankets from the station, while he worked at his desk. After worrying over a training schedule for a while, he looked up and smiled at the sight of her concentration on her coloring book. The tip of her tongue stuck out of the corner of her mouth. She was so cute, she had to be an angel.

“I love you, kid.”

She looked up. “I love you, too, Uncle Hank. Mom says you’re the only good man left on the planet.”

He grinned. “I’m sure you’ll find another one, better than me, one day. Then you’ll get married.”

She shook her head. “I’m going to live with you and Grandma and Momma and Great-Aunt Fat and Great-Aunt Pat and Liz all my life.”

“Liz is your aunt, too, you know.”

She nodded. “I know, but she told me to call her just
Liz
because
Aunt Liz
dulls her down.” Saralynn frowned. “Have any idea what she means, Uncle Hank?”

He hadn’t understood either of his sisters since they were born. When they hit puberty and got their periods about the same time each month, it was like living with a serial killer and a suicidal manic. His mother used to say they’d grow out of it, but they were now twenty-seven and twenty-eight. He saw no sign of it yet.

Saralynn went back to her coloring, and he went back to his paperwork and tried not to think of how good it had felt to slide his hand along Alex’s leg. He wouldn’t mind doing it sometime when she wasn’t wearing trousers. And a gun, he thought.

A few minutes later he looked out the window and saw his mother’s battered old Suburban pull up. The green truck was like a fixture in town. If she kept it much longer someone would stick a historical marker sign on the thing. Everyone knew where she and the old aunts were by where the van was parked.

Hank watched Claire, his redheaded, fiery sister, climb out of the Suburban and run toward the fire station. She hit his office door laughing.

She hugged Saralynn wildly and shouted, “They loved my paintings, baby! They loved Mommy’s work.”

“They did?” Hank and Saralynn said at the same time. Hank couldn’t imagine anyone even giving them more than a blink of a glance. He’d seen one with a man spread out on a linen dining table. He’d been sliced apart about every inch down from his head to his toes. Claire had named the painting
Last Guest for Dinner
. He’d seen another one of a man’s head with every tool he could think of implanted in his skull. She’d titled that one
The Perfect Tool
.

“Yes, they loved me.” Claire circled around the room, dancing with an invisible partner. “They want me to do a show this spring. Imagine. My own show in Fort Worth. The walls of a gallery completely covered with my work.”

Hank hoped the gallery didn’t serve food at the opening. “That’s great, Sis,” he said. “I’m proud of you.”

She lifted Saralynn. “We’re celebrating tonight,” she said to Hank. “Be home for supper by seven if you can.”

“I wouldn’t miss it.” He picked up Saralynn’s books and medicine bag and followed Claire out to the truck.

His two old aunts were on the third seat completely surrounded by shopping bags. “I see the hunt was successful.” He grinned at them.

They both giggled. “We found Victoria’s Secret,” Aunt Fat whispered. “We went a little crazy, I’m afraid.”

For a moment he pictured his bowling-ball shaped Aunt Pat walking the runway wearing one of the Victoria’s Secret outfits of lace and feathers, or his aunt Fat in her thin frame wearing only underwear. The image made him want to grab the fire hose and screw it into his ear to blast the thought from his mind.

He closed the truck door and jogged back to his office in time to catch his phone before the answering machine picked up.

REAGAN STOOD IN THE SPOTLESS KITCHEN AND STARED at Jeremiah. “It’s not a date,” she said, fighting down a scream.

“You’re going out. He’s picking you up.” Jeremiah cut himself another slice of coconut pie. “If it walks like a duck and talks like a duck . . .”

She leaned closer and pointed her finger at his nose. “Don’t start that duck logic with me again.”

He shoved her finger away with his fork. “You’re full of spitfire and vinegar, girl. I can’t believe any boy’d want to take you out. You sure he’s right in the head? If he’s riding rough stock like his old man used to, he’s probably got mush for brains. I don’t think it’d be wise to date some fellow like that.”

“It’s not a date and if I’m hard to get along with, it only proves I’m related to you. As for brains, I’m not too sure. Maybe I’m the one with brain damage, going to a rodeo when I don’t even know anything about it.”

Old Jeremiah snorted. “Don’t change the subject. You got brains. I ain’t worried about that. Which reminds me, don’t think for one minute I don’t know you made this pie in hopes of sweetening me up.”

“Did it work? I used an old recipe from the box that looked like it was in Beverly’s handwriting.”

“No, it didn’t work, but I will admit you make a fine pie.” He carried the dessert to the table where his coffee waited. “And you can tell that boy who you’re not having a date with that he’d better get you home early ’cause we got a full day of work tomorrow.”

Reagan grabbed her hat. “I’ll be ready to work at eight.”

He stared at her. “You got money in your pocket? Never go nowhere without enough to get you home.”

“I got money and I know my way home.” She hurried out the door, almost choking on her last words. If he could call it her home, she could, too.

They’d work hard tomorrow and he’d complain about everything, but it didn’t matter. For the first week she’d been at the most dilapidated place on Lone Oak Road, she’d counted the days, wondering how long it would be before he kicked her out. The second week, she’d been afraid to breathe. He’d known the truth about her, or at least some of it, and she thought any minute he’d tell everyone she’d lied about being a Truman. Then the state would come in and take her away even if she didn’t want to go . . . even if he wanted her to stay.

Now, they’d made it two weeks. He was still griping about the chickens laying too many eggs, but he hadn’t said a word about the things she’d bought in town. She’d been careful not to spend too much, but wondered if the old man had any idea how great it felt to have her own shampoo and soap and a hair dryer she didn’t have to share. She had a dozen hangers in her closet with new clothes no one else had ever worn.

It couldn’t last. Nothing lasted. But when it ended, she’d have something good to remember. She could look back and think of Harmony and the old house as home. And she’d feel, even if it were only for a little while, that she was with family.

Noah’s truck bounced down the dirt road. “Ready?” he yelled when he saw her jump off the porch.

“Ready.” She ran toward the truck as he leaned over and opened her door.

He never came to a complete stop as he circled the yard and headed back up the dirt road. “Hang on, Rea,” he grinned at her. “We’ve got to make the forty miles to Bailee in thirty minutes.”

“Does this thing go that fast?” She was so excited, she had to fight down squealing. She’d hung out with boys before. Not dates really, just group things where no one paired off until late. This was different. It might not be exactly a date, but it was the closest thing she’d ever had.

Deep down in her gut she wondered about what he’d do when it got late. From the few times she’d been around boys, she’d learned fast that they were like werewolves, changing into something different after midnight. She glanced at Noah, wondering if he would, too, and hating the thought that he might.

“Don’t worry about this truck.” He patted the steering wheel. “We’ll make it. I thought we’d get to Bailee early and stop in town for a hamburger, but looks like I’ll have to buy you dinner at the chuck wagon.”

“You don’t have to buy me dinner. I brought money.”

He pulled onto the farm-to-market road and gunned the engine. “If you’re with me, Rea, I pay. We may only be eating burritos out of the back of a truck, but I pay. That’s the way it is.”

She thought of telling him he was living in the past, but she didn’t want to start the almost-date out with an argument. “But you have no idea how much I can eat.”

He glanced at her. “I got twenty dollars in my pocket. If you eat more than that I’ll borrow money from you and feed you, then I’ll pay you back come Monday.”

“Fair enough.”

“I like that new shirt, Rea. It’s not western, but it’ll do.”

She smiled her thanks. She’d been wearing T-shirts and jeans to school, but she wanted something different tonight. She’d found the plain blue shirt on sale in the boys’ department. Tucked in, with a white T-shirt underneath, she didn’t think it looked bad.

They talked about school until they reached the small rodeo grounds just outside Bailee. Noah left her at the stands while he ran to register, and then they bought dinner at the food wagon parked beside the stands.

When men on horses began lining up at the far end of the arena, he stood, tugged off his coat, and dropped it over her shoulders. “Keep this on,” he said.

“But I’m not cold.”

“No one will bother you if you’re wearing it. I’ll be back after I ride.”

There was something in his eyes she hadn’t seen before. A warning. Looking around, she saw no one sinister, but she didn’t argue with Noah. This wasn’t the streets of the city. She doubted there were a hundred people in the stands, and they appeared to be high school kids or parents. Noah was gone before she could ask what it was she was supposed to be worried about.

The coat did feel good; it still had the warmth of him inside. Reagan pushed her hands through the arms and shoved up the sleeves. The patches on the jacket marked Noah as part of the rodeo team, and his giving it to her seemed to make her a part of the team. Almost.

As the sun set, she leaned back against the bleachers and watched her first rodeo. There was a way of life here, a whole subculture she’d never imagined. She watched it all, fascinated. There was almost a dance about it, the way the horses stomped in the soft dirt, the flash of fringe on the chaps, the flow of riders and ropes.

Noah rode saddle broncs first. He fell off almost before he was out of the chute. But the announcer yelled that they should all give “Preacher” a hand, and Reagan clapped as loud as she could as she watched him dust off his bottom and collect his hat from the dirt.

When they switched to team roping, her heart slowed down a little. She’d never been interested in any sport, but this was different. This was one-on-one with the challenge, and the men were helping and rooting for one another. Again and again she saw them pick up another rider’s gear or jump off the gate to guard a downed cowboy from the wild spins of a bull. One man in baggy pants and a red shirt looked like a clown, but the announcer kept calling him the bullfighter. It didn’t take long before she realized he was there not to entertain the crowd, but to help out when needed.

A body plopped down beside her on the bench, and Reagan knew it wasn’t Noah before she turned her head.

“You here all by yourself?” a voice whispered so close she fought the urge to swat it away like a buzzing fly.

“No.” Reagan turned to look at the overweight boy about her age who was sitting next to her. He wasn’t dressed western but wore baggy pants and a black T-shirt with holes in it.

“I’m Brandon Biggs,” he said, as if she cared. “I looked around and I noticed only one girl I didn’t know. So this is your lucky night. I’m going to sit with you.”

He seemed to notice the jacket she wore for the first time. “Who’s that belong to? It’s not yours, for sure. Way too big.”

She didn’t want to talk to this guy. Reagan had met creeps like him in every place she’d lived. He thought he ran the world. “It belongs to Preacher McAllen and I really wish you’d leave.”

Brandon laughed. “It’s a free country. I can sit here if I want to. Besides, I know who Preacher is. Saw him almost ride.”

“Leave, or I’ll leave.”

She stood and moved one step sideways before he caught her hand.

“Don’t go away. Preacher and me are tight. He wouldn’t mind us hanging out.” Brandon wiggled his eyebrows. “Besides, pestering you is far more interesting than this dumb old rodeo.”