Unexpected Family

“No!” Jack said quickly. “I mean, I will move back if we have to, but…”

Mia ran a hand down his arm. That house didn’t have a whole lot of happy memories for Jack.

God, what a mess. Lucy didn’t want to go home and she didn’t want to stay. She didn’t want Mom taking care of Walter, but it was utterly unfair to ask these two to do it.

Mom wants to do it, she reminded herself.

“Mia,” Lucy said. “You guys deserve a little time alone. You’ve been caring for that man for five years.”

Jack and Mia shared a look and then Jack nodded. “We were just talking about this. Getting a ‘housekeeper’ who could act as a nurse.”

Mia pushed away from the white door frame to cup her husband’s cheek. It was too bad they were going to move out of this little house. It looked pretty on her sister. Sweet.

“It won’t be easy to find someone to take Walter on, much less get Walter to agree to it,” Mia pointed out.

“Well, Mom seems to think she knows how to get him to agree to a caregiver sooner rather than later.”

“How?” Mia asked.

“I have no idea, but Mom wants to stay for three weeks. By then he’s off the cast and the worst of it should be over. If I can’t get Mom to leave after three weeks, then I’m never going to get her leave.”

And three weeks should be enough time for me to figure out a plan for the rest of my life.

“You know,” Mia said, “if you need to get back to Los Angeles, you can. It’s not like Mom needs a babysitter.”

“You’ve done your time, Mia.” She smiled over at Jack, hoping she sounded convincing. “The two of you are building a house, starting a life. You don’t need to play referee between Mom and Walter.”

Mia sighed and put her hand on Lucy’s shoulder as if she could discern what was wrong just by touch. And she probably could. Lucy felt uncomfortable being so naked to anyone—even her sister. She fought the urge to shake off Mia’s fingers.

“Hey, Lucy?” Jack asked, his eyes focused on something past her head. “Who’s the kid in your car?”

She whirled in time to see Ben climbing out of the backseat of Reese’s car into the driver’s seat. The boy barely saw over the steering wheel, not that he was looking at them. Nope, the kid was focused on the steering wheel. The ignition key.

“Oh, Jesus,” she muttered, running down the steps of the porch just as Ben started the car.

The engine roared to life and she heard Jack and Mia charge down the steps after her.

“Stop!” she screamed, her heartbeat deafening in her ears. “Ben!”

The boy looked up, his dark eyes barely clearing the steering wheel. And then the car rocketed into Reverse and spun out, kicking up clouds of dust that choked and blinded her.

Frantic, she waved the dust away but it didn’t do any good, so she simply ran after the sound of the engine.

Oh, God, please don’t let him hit anything big.

Just as she sent the prayer skyward there was a sickening crunch and the terrifying sound of breaking glass. The dust cleared and she stopped at the sight of the back end of the car buried in the green roses on the side of the house.

She skid to a halt just as Jack ran past her and threw open the driver’s side door. She was a coward but she knew her heart couldn’t take seeing that boy hurt in the driver’s seat of that car. The blood and broken little bones.

Please, please let him be okay. Please.

“He’s fine,” Jack said, glancing at her over the roof of the car. “A little banged up, but fine.”

“I’m going to go see if the inside of the house is okay,” Mia said, and she ran back inside.

Ben, looking so small, so fragile, walked around the car and stopped in front of her.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered.

She laughed, a wild gust of breath. It was impossible to process what had just happened in…had it even been ten seconds? Ten seconds of terror and relief. She was light-headed. “I think maybe you need to save that apology for Reese. Look at what you did to his car.”

He glanced over his shoulder and hung his head, the black curls along his thin neck damp with sweat.

So small, so terrifyingly small.

“He scraped through a big patch of paint, but the structure of the house is fine,” Jack said as he came up. “The roses, however, are toast. You dodged a bullet, son.” Jack propped his hands on his hips and managed to look so disappointed even Lucy felt like apologizing.

“Does your uncle know where you are?” Lucy asked. She reached out to put a hand on Ben’s shoulder but he jerked away before she made contact.

“No.”

“Well, we’re going to have to call him. He’s probably freaking out.”

“He’s always freaking out.”

“Doesn’t make what you did okay,” Lucy said.

“Not by a long shot,” Jack said. “You could have been hurt. Or you could have hurt someone else. Badly. You should know better, Ben.”

Ben’s jaw, remarkably similar to his uncle’s, set like concrete.

“I’ll go call Jeremiah,” Jack said, and stepped back toward the house.

“Do you have to tell my uncle?” Ben asked when Jack was gone. For the first time in the few hours she’d known him, the little boy looked his age.

“Uh, yeah.”

Ben stared down at his boots, which were beat up and dusty.

“What were you thinking, Ben?” she whispered.

He jerked a shoulder, trying so hard to be cool. An instinct she understood all too well, and she applauded his effort. Hard to act cool when you’ve just plowed a hundred-thousand-dollar sports car into someone’s house, but he was giving it his best shot.

Things were bad at Stone Hollow, she thought, if a nine-year-old boy had to pretend to be so hard. Worse than she’d thought and she wondered if anyone knew it.

“He hates me,” Ben whispered.

“Who?”

“Uncle J.”

Lucy gaped at the boy, at the heartbreak and anger. This was bad, really bad. And she had no idea what the boundaries were. Or the rules. Jeremiah wouldn’t like her interfering but Ben was a nine-year-old boy in a lot of pain who needed all the help he could get. “Oh, honey, no, he doesn’t—”

“Yes, he does,” Ben spat. “And I hate him, too. I do. I hate him. He’s not my dad.”

“Jeremiah’s on his way,” Mia said, coming around the side of the house. She glanced over at the car and winced. “So much for Mom’s roses.”

“I’m sorry,” Ben whispered.

Mia laughed and handed Ben a glass of water. “Not as sorry as you’re gonna be when your uncle gets here.”

* * *

JEREMIAH STARED AT REESE’S sports car covered in slaughtered rosebushes and wished he had one clue about how to handle this. One single clue. A hint. He wished he could have a five-minute conversation with his sister for some guidance, because he was totally in the dark. He tried to think of what his own father would have done in this situation, a tactic that usually helped him in whatever parenting dilemma he was facing. But Jeremiah had never caused the kind of trouble Ben seemed drawn to.

So he stared at those rosebushes, the yellow clapboard house with the—thank God—cement foundation, and waited for the answers to come to him.

“The house is fine,” Jack said, and Jeremiah nodded as if that was the much-needed answer to a question. But the truth was he didn’t care about the house right now. He cared about the sullen, wild-eyed nine-year-old ball of anger to his left.

What about Ben? he wanted to ask. Is he fine? Will he ever be fine again? Will any of us?

Reese started up his car and slowly pulled it away from the house. Everyone breathed a sigh of relief as if they’d all been expecting the house to fall apart. The back of the car looked like an accordion. A broken and very, very expensive accordion.

“You,” Jeremiah said through his teeth, unable to even look at his nephew, “will be working at the ranch until you’ve paid off repairs to that car. In fact, I think you’re grounded until you’re about thirty and if you even—”

Lucy cleared her throat and he glanced sideways at her, infuriated at her interruption.

“About that,” she said. “What if he works off the repairs here?”

Ben looked up at that and his hope was palpable.

“Don’t get excited, buddy,” he muttered. “There’s no way you’re working here.”

“Wait, Jeremiah, hear me out.” She stepped toward him, the long dark locks of hair that had fallen from the messy knot on top of her head reaching out toward him on the breeze. The lines of weariness around her eyes didn’t make her any less pretty and he felt like a jackass even noticing that.

“Ben, go wait for me in the truck.” Like a criminal out on parole, the boy took off for the truck and Jeremiah watched him go, gathering up what was left of his composure. When he felt as if he could speak like an adult he turned back to Lucy and held up his hand. “The kid is in some kind of crisis,” he said. “And he doesn’t need to be coddled. He needs to understand he’s done something wrong—”

“I’m not arguing with you, Jeremiah,” she said. “But…look, something isn’t working between you and Ben. It’s obvious.”

Jeremiah felt his ears get hot. She was right. So painfully right.

“You’re not sticking around, why would you want to have Ben here?”

“Mom and I are staying at least three more weeks. And I’m just…I’m just offering you a chance to try something new with him. Something different. So, you know, you don’t have to always be the bad guy.”

“And you’re going to be the bad guy?”

Lucy bristled at his sarcasm and took a step back.

“I’m just trying to help.”

“Yeah, and I appreciate it, but this is family stuff. And we’ll handle it.”

Reese approached, looking like death warmed over in last night’s clothes. “I think I’m going to have to get the car fixed here. There’s no way I can drive it back to Fort Worth.”

Jeremiah swore and kept on swearing.

“Come on, man,” Reese said, his smile bright despite the black circles under his eyes. “It’s not that bad.”

“It is,” he said, honest because he couldn’t pretend anymore. “Because it takes time to fix this.” Just saying that made him feel better, made him feel like he was pulling this family away from rock bottom. First, he had to get Reese off his damn couch. Life would be easier without this living reminder of the old days drinking beer and snoring in his living room.

And then, maybe, it would be time to break the family code of silence. Get Ben some help.

* * *

WALTER STARED AT the bright noon sky out the window of his bedroom and contemplated the long walk to the bathroom. Hard on a good day, impossible with the cast on his foot.

He rolled as best he could to the side of his bed looking for an empty bottle. Or a coffee cup. Anything. But Sandra’s presence in this house was all too obvious these days.

Clutter didn’t stand a chance against Sandra.

He pressed fists to his eyes. And neither do I.

A month ago he’d been so excited to have Sandra back in his house. Like righting a terrible wrong in the world, bringing Sandra back to the Rocky M was his best effort at repairing the mess he’d made years ago when A.J. died, his best friend, foreman and Sandra’s husband.

All with the benefit of being able to see her every day. Being near her again—Sandra of the warm heart and the joyful laugh. Sandra, whom he’d always loved. Deeply. Secretly.

Yeah, and how did that work out for you?

“You are a sorry man, Walter. I thought I could come back here and feel nothing, but I have twenty-five years of living in these walls and if I’d had my way I would have died here and been buried right beside my husband, and you robbed me of that.”

That’s what she’d said two weeks ago, shattering all those delusions that he was doing Sandra a favor bringing her back here.

Her fury with him, rooted in disappointment, went deep. And he had no idea what it would take to change it. If he even could.

Damn, where was a bottle when he needed one? For being the room of a degenerate alcoholic, his room sure was devoid of the evidence.

No choice but to do this on his own.

Taking a deep breath, he swung his body up over the side of the bed and reached out to grab the crutch beside the bedside table. Carefully, holding his breath against the pain, he pushed himself up on his good leg and hopped slightly to get his balance.

Moving slowly, he made his way to the bathroom and—feeling pretty damn good—kicked the door shut behind him.

Once done, he washed his hands and hobbled back to the bedroom. Only to stumble at the sight of Sandra standing at the foot of his bed.

She wore black slacks and a bright red shirt, her long dark hair back in a ponytail that made her look like a girl. So bright, so lovely, he couldn’t look directly at her.

He fell against the doorjamb, banging his knee, and then winced when his hurt foot hit the door. Sandra started toward him as if to help, as if to touch him, and he waved her off. Breathing through the pain, he made his way past her to the chair in the small window alcove. A chair he’d never in his life sat in. Why in the world, he often wondered, did you need a chair in a bedroom? But now he was grateful for it.

Sitting on his bed—the bed he’d shared with his wife—seemed an utterly wrong thing to do in front of Sandra.

“You haven’t touched your eggs.” She pointed to the plate of eggs long gone cold, sitting on the bedside table.

“I’m not hungry,” he panted, rubbing his knee, wishing he could reach his ankle.

“You want some painkillers?”

He looked at her for a long time and realized he was at a crossroads of his own making. He’d been responsible for planting the idea in his son’s mind. But now it was time for her to leave. And Lucy had been right last night—Sandra wasn’t going to leave him when he was in need like this. Not unless he forced the issue.

“I want some whiskey.”

“It’s noon.”

“I’m an alcoholic, Sandra. It doesn’t much matter to me.”

“I won’t bring you booze.”

“Well, then stop bringing me eggs.”

She narrowed her eyes, an expression he’d seen on her stubborn, beautiful face more times than he could count.

“You should just leave, Sandra. There’s nothing here for you anymore. Your husband is dead. Your girls are grown—”

“I’m not leaving you when you need so much help.”

“I don’t want your help.”

“That doesn’t much matter to me.”

“A.J.—”

“Do not bring my husband into this,” she said, bristling.

“He wouldn’t like you being my nursemaid.”

“He was your best friend, Walter.” It was an accusation, a plea. The reason behind so much of their heartache. Walter had cared too much for his best friend’s wife and his own wife had seen his secret shame. His favorite torture these days was wondering if Sandra knew. He would—without a shred of exaggeration—rather die than have Sandra know how he felt about her.

“Please,” he whispered. “Just leave.”

“If you want me to go, then get better. Stop drinking.”

“Fine.” He laughed, shaky and sick because he hadn’t had a drink in fourteen hours. “I’ve stopped.”

“Until the cast comes off. You stop drinking that long, I’ll leave.”

He laughed before he thought better of it. “Three weeks without a drink?” There was no way. No point.

She lifted her chin, her eyes sparkling with a challenge. “There’s an AA meeting at the church on Sunday nights.” She slipped a piece of paper onto his dresser. “I’ve written down the information.”

“You’re wasting your time, Sandra.”

“If you love me like you think you do, stop drinking.”

His heart stopped, blood pooled in his brain.

She knew. Oh, God. She knew.

CHAPTER FIVE

IF THERE WAS ANY EASE in Jeremiah’s life, it arrived every Saturday afternoon with his dead brother-in-law’s parents. Cynthia and Larry Bilkhead were going to be seventy this year, too old to care for the boys full-time. They never contested Annie and Connor’s will, even when it was obvious that Jeremiah had no freaking clue what he was doing when it came to parenting.

But they came when he needed them as well as every Saturday afternoon, like clockwork. Like angels.

“Hi, Jeremiah, how are you doing?” Cynthia asked, stepping into the foyer to wrap him in her arms. She was small and round and smelled like cookies and pie. And there were times when he could have stood in her hug for a day.

“We’re good.” He lied, because really, what could they do with the truth? He kissed her papery, powdery cheek. “Some trouble with Ben—”

“What did that boy do now?” Larry Bilkhead stepped inside behind his wife. He was a six-foot-four-inch cowboy, who still carried himself like a man who’d won some rodeo in his day. His words might sound stern but Larry could not keep the love he had for his grandsons out of his eyes.

“I’ll let him tell you,” Jeremiah said, shaking Larry’s hand. Jeremiah had always liked the rawboned man, who wore his age and his time in a saddle with pride. Now, Jeremiah loved him like family.

“The cooler is in the van.” Cynthia put down her purse and kicked off her shoes to step into the family room. “Where are my boys?”

Upstairs there was a wild scream of “Grandma!” and the thundering of a herd of elephants running for the stairs. Casey was the first one down, followed by Aaron, who at eleven was too cool for a lot of things, but not too cool for Cynthia and Larry. Probably because Larry wasn’t like other grandpas. And Cynthia was exactly what a grandmother should be.

Jeremiah eased out the front door to grab the cooler from the back of their minivan. Every week she showed up with some casseroles for the freezer and enough cookies and cakes and brownies for a hockey team. And bags of fresh fruit and vegetables from their greenhouse.

“Ben,” he said, once he was back inside with the cooler. “You can unpack this.”

The nine-year-old had the good grace not to argue, and followed him into the kitchen meekly. Jeremiah cleaned off the kitchen table while the boy put things away and then Ben took the cooler back out to the minivan.

“He smashed up a car?” Larry asked, filling the door frame between the kitchen and the living room.

Jeremiah nodded, carefully stacking some clean glasses in the cupboard.

“What’s his punishment going to be?” Larry asked, and Jeremiah shook his head.

“I’m not sure.”

“In my day—”

“I’m not going to spank him.” Jeremiah turned to face the older man. “I know how you feel about this, but I can’t hurt that kid any more than he’s been hurt.”

Larry nodded, his cheeks red under the edge of his glasses. It was grief, not anger. Jeremiah knew Larry was just as at a loss for what to do when it came to Ben.

“I know,” he murmured. “But what are you going to do?”

“I can make him muck stalls until he’s eighty—but what good is that going to do? He’s already working hard around here. Hell, I have the five-year-old doing fence work.”

Larry just stared at him, his white hair lying smooth against his head. His blue eyes runny beneath his glasses. Larry was an old-world kind of guy. If Ben was his child, Jeremiah knew that Ben would have gotten the belt after this last stunt. Hell, maybe before then. But Jeremiah just couldn’t.

As it was, Jeremiah made Casey swear not to tell Grandpa Larry that he allowed Casey to spend half the night sleeping in his bed. The poor kid was plagued by nightmares. Jeremiah let Aaron sleep with his parents’ wedding picture under his pillow. Despite his tough words, Jeremiah was a total softy.

What these boys had been through couldn’t be fixed by work. Or more violence.

They needed help—they all needed help. He ran a thumb over the chip in the counter. He’d put that chip there himself, when as a kid he tried to get the Pop-Tarts from the top shelf.

This isn’t going to go well, he thought.

“I think Ben needs someone to talk to,” Jeremiah said, anyway.

“What do you mean, ‘talk to’?” Larry pushed off the door frame, his shoulders already tense because he knew where Jeremiah was headed. They’d been down this road before, when Ben first started acting out.

“A counsellor.”

“He already has people to talk to. Us.”

Jeremiah’s laughter was bitter in the back of his throat. “He’s not talking to me, Larry. He’s never talked to me.”

“I know, son, but Connor and Annie, they wouldn’t like this going outside of the family. They were circle-the-wagons kind of people.”

“I know.” But they’re not here, are they? It’s just me and I’m out of ideas!

He didn’t say it because it would only hurt Larry. It would only make them try harder to help and they were seventy years old. They did enough.

“Besides, he talks to Cynthia.”

Jeremiah knew Ben talked to his grandmother. After these Saturday visits Ben always seemed better. Like the kid he used to be.

“Well, try to get them to talk tonight, would you?”

“Sure thing, son. I’ll send them out for a yarrow walk.”

Jeremiah smiled. Months ago, Larry had realized that Ben and Cynthia had a special bond so he made up this sudden need for the yarrow that grew wild along the driveway. He frequently sent his wife and troubled grandson out to pick armfuls of the stuff even though he burned all of it once back at his place. But the walks did Ben some good.

“Now.” Larry’s hand landed on Jeremiah’s shoulder, heavy and warm. “You go have some fun. Don’t try to take everyone’s money.”

“Isn’t that the point of poker?”

“Well, no one likes a bad winner.”

“You forget, Larry,” he said with a smile, dropping out of reach only to pretend to land a punch to Larry’s midsection, “I’m a great winner.”

Larry laughed and put his arm over Jeremiah’s shoulders, walking him to the door, past Cynthia on the couch with all three boys piled up around her. Aaron was telling her about his goal in practice this morning. Cynthia winked as he walked by.

“We’ll be fine. Have fun,” Larry said, and then, with one last step, Jeremiah was out of the house, the door closed behind him.

On his own. For a wild second every possibility open to him flooded his brain. He could be in Las Vegas in seven hours. Fort Worth in ten. Mexico in twelve. Women and drinks and sleeping in and no kids to worry about. No ranch. No house. Just him, the truck, the road and no worries.

When the second was over, he folded up those thoughts and put them away before checking his watch. Crap. If he didn’t speed like crazy he was going to be late.

Speed like crazy, it was.

Forty minutes later he parked the truck in front of a small house in Redmen. To those who didn’t know, it just looked like every other house on the street. Pretty redbrick with flowers along the porch. There was no sign, no indication, that it was more than a house.

When he stepped inside a bell rang out over the door and Jennifer, the receptionist, looked up.

“She’s waiting for you,” Jennifer said.

“Sorry I’m late.” He took off his hat, patting down the more wild of his overlong curls. A haircut was one more thing to put on his list of things to do.

“We understand, Jeremiah.” Her pretty smile held no pity. Just the kind of firm understanding that he had come to expect from the women in this house.

He nodded in gratitude. Anxious because despite knowing how important these weekly meetings were, he still didn’t like needing them. He didn’t want to be here, but he was glad he was—a conflict that just didn’t sit well.

Jennifer led him down the hallway to the back room.

“Dr. Gilman?” she said at the closed door.

“Come in,” a voice answered, and Jennifer pushed open the door. The room was awash with end-of-day sunlight and Dr. Gilman, a sturdy woman in a denim skirt and long silver earrings, stepped out from behind a big oak desk to shake his hand.

Dr. Gilman had the firmest handshake of any woman he’d ever known. It was the handshake that convinced him to trust her six months ago when he came here desperate and worried for himself and the boys. Though at that point he would have trusted a paper bag if it promised to help him.