The Pleasure Principle

“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 sister and Marsha the next to the oldest.

“Brenda’s in Arizona for the next few weeks learning all about her uterus,” Ellie said.

“What?”

“She and Marc are finally going to give in to Granddaddy’s nagging and do the baby thing. But you know Brenda. She’s a perpetual planner. Before she even thinks of going off the pill, she wants to know everything there is to know about conception and babies. She’s at a convention given by Dr. Something or Other who wrote that book My Uterus, My Friend. Marc’s going to the workshops with her.”

“And Marsha?”

“She’s at a sales meeting in Chicago. She wants to expand the business, but Granddaddy isn’t so sure. She’s testing the waters with a few samples of next year’s line of snakeskin boots. You should see the new rattlesnake—”

“I really don’t want to talk business on an empty stomach,” their mother cut in. “You,” she said turning to Brady, “are just in time for lunch. I’ll get Dorothy to set another plate and we’ll catch up on old times. And then you two can talk about whatever you like.”

“Yes, ma’am. I see she’s still a slave driver,” he told his sister.

“What do you expect? It runs in the family.”

“Yes, but she married into the family.”

“That’s even worse. It’s a double whammy. We’re cursed.”

“Lunch,” Claire said as if keeping with her image. “Now.”

Brady managed two steps before he heard his grandfather’s voice drifting from the dining room.

“…need is a damned sheriff who knows the difference between a bull and a heifer. Why, John Macintosh is as citified as they come and only on the lookout for his own interests and those old cronies over at city hall. Damned politicians…”

The voice, so rich and deep and familiar, sent a wave of doubt through Brady and he hesitated.

He’d envisioned this moment the entire trip from Dallas. He was about to face his past, his present, his future. If Zachariah Weston could find it in his heart to forget and forgive. Or at least forgive.

“He’s still as salty as ever, but I can promise he won’t bite.”

“That’s a matter of opinion,” Ellie piped in behind them. “When I had my hair colored last month, he’d liked to have chewed me a new butthole.”

“Ellie Mae Weston. I’ll not have that kind of talk in this household.”

“Sorry, Ma, but I can’t help it if it’s true.”

“You colored your hair green. It’s understandable he had issues with it. You represent Weston Boots. I wasn’t too thrilled myself.”

“I’m stuck behind a stack of accounting ledgers and a computer screen. No one even sees me. Besides, green hair was no cause to go and write me out of your will.”

“I did no such thing and you know it.” She pinned her youngest daughter with a stern glare. “But I wouldn’t go counting your chickens yet, young lady. There’s still time, especially if you keep pushing me.”

Ellie touched the now purple tufts of hair sticking up on her head. “It’s just fashion, Ma.”

“It’s purple, for pity’s sake.” Another shake of her head and Claire Weston sighed. “I swear you’re trying to send me into an early grave.”

“Hey, I’m not stupid.” Ellie winked at Brady. “Can’t give her a chance to change the will, now, can I?”

“Ellie Mae Weston!”

“Sorry, Ma.”

Claire shook her head and turned back to Brady. “Pay her no nevermind. Your grandfather is as ornery as ever, that’s true. But he’s missed you. We all have.”

“I’ve missed you all, too.”

“Now.” She hooked her arm through his. “Let’s go in and say hello.” Before he could protest, she ushered him forward, steering him down the hall and into the dining room. “Look who’s joining us for lunch,” she announced as they walked into the room.

“If it’s that freeloading Slim Cadbury from the VFW, just tell him to go find his own apple pie. I don’t care how nice he is, he isn’t getting so much as a whiff. Why, the man’s only interested in you for your food, Claire. Don’t I keep telling you that—” The old man’s words stumbled to a halt as his gaze lit on Brady.

Time seemed to stand still for Zachariah Brady Weston for the next several moments as he stared at his only grandson, his gaze as black, as unreadable, as Brady remembered.

His first instinct was to turn and run. He’d always felt that way whenever he’d been under his grandfather’s inspection. Every Sunday morning before church. Every afternoon at the boot factory. Every Friday night after one of his high school hockey games.

And he’d always reacted the same. He’d simply stood his ground and waited for the criticism to come, praying for the approval. More often than not he’d received the first, but on occasion, the old man had smiled and congratulated him on a job well done.

This didn’t seem to be one of those occasions.

Rather than dwell on the doubts raging inside him, Brady took the time to notice the changes eleven years had wrought.

His grandfather’s hair had gone from a salt-and-pepper shade to snow-white. The lines around his eyes seemed deeper, the wrinkles etching his forehead more pronounced and plentiful. He looked older, yet his eyes were as blue and as bright as they’d always been. Brady knew then that eleven years might have aged the elder Weston on the surface but, deep down, he was the same man he’d been way back when.

Unease rolled through Brady and he had the urge to turn and walk away again. Now. Before he put his pride on the line and subjected himself to his grandfather’s rejection—again.

Brady forced a deep breath and met the older man’s penetrating stare. He wasn’t going anywhere. He’d waited for this moment for much too long. Dreamt of it when his life had been less than perfect and he’d regretted leaving in the first place. He couldn’t turn back now. He wasn’t going to, no matter the outcome.

Brady’s gaze clashed with blue eyes so much like his own and if he hadn’t known better, he would have sworn he actually saw joy in the old man’s eyes. The same joy he’d seen time and time again when he’d been younger, following his grandfather around the boot plant or the pasture or the barn.

Brady had always followed, at least when it came to his family. Among the rest of Cadillac, he’d been a leader, but at home he’d let others lead, content in knowing that one day he would have his chance to step up to the plate and bat.

He’d been a good, obedient grandson until he’d thrown it all away that one fateful day and gone against his family’s wishes. All in the name of love. A no-no as far as Zachariah Weston had been concerned.

“There ain’t room in a man’s life for both work and family. Take your daddy for instance. He tried to have it all and worked himself into an early grave. You’ve got plenty of time to have a wife and family. Now’s the time for work. For focus,” he’d said.

“Aren’t you going to say something, Zach?” Claire prodded, disrupting Brady’s thoughts. “Brady’s come all this way to see us.”

The man reached for his napkin and tucked it in at his neck. “When are we going to eat?” he asked Claire.

She planted her hands on her hips the way Brady remembered from his childhood. While she held the same values as her father-in-law, she’d never been quite as obedient as he’d wanted when it came to standing up for what she thought was right. And, of course, she’d distracted Brady’s father at a time when he should have been focused on the company.

“Is that all you have to say?” Claire asked.

“What are we eating?”

Claire growled. “You’re stubborn, you know that?”

“I’m hungry, that’s what I am. Call it what you like.”

She eyed him a few moments more. Then, as if she’d decided on a new approach, her expression softened and she smiled. “Doesn’t Brady look good? Thanks to those Weston genes, of course.”

Brady stood stock-still beneath his grandfather’s disapproving gaze as the man swept him from head to toe. He knew what the elder Weston thought of his attire—the silk dress shirt. The expensive slacks. Yuppie, that’s what Zachariah Weston was thinking. His only grandson had turned into a yuppie.

The sad truth was, he was right. Eleven years had taken their toll.

But no more, Brady vowed for the umpteenth time. He was shedding his image and getting back to his roots. His past. His family.

The old man’s gaze dropped to the dusty cowboy boots Brady had unearthed the day before he’d left Dallas.

“Those are Weston boots,” he told Claire, obviously intent on giving Brady the silent treatment. “They’re my boots.” While Brady had inherited his sense of duty from his grandfather, he’d also inherited his mother’s spunk. “You gave them to me, remember?”

“Tell this young man that, of course, I remember. I ain’t that old.” He eyed the boots again. “They’re still Weston boots.”

“And I’m a Weston.”

Zachariah didn’t say anything for a long moment. He simply stared and thought. Brady could practically see the wheels spinning as the old man decided his grandson’s fate in those next few tense moments.

“Well, don’t just stand there,” the man finally barked at Claire. “Get the boy a seat. He’s here. He might as well eat.”

Brady let out the breath he hadn’t even realized he’d been holding, and the tension eased. Zachariah Weston didn’t eat with strangers. He only broke bread with friends, loved ones, family.

A warmth filled Brady as he slid into a nearby seat, followed by a swell of regret. Regret for all the lunches he’d missed. For the family he’d missed.

But he was home, and he was going to make up for lost time starting right now.

“DOROTHY REALLY OUTDID herself.” Zachariah leaned back in his chair and puffed on his pipe. “Never had apples that tender.”

“They were good,” Brady commented, but his grandfather didn’t so much as spare him a glance. He kept his gaze trained on his daughter-in-law.

“Ask him why he left Dallas.”

“Why don’t you ask him? He’s sitting right in front of you.”

“I don’t belong there,” Brady spoke up before his mother could give the old man a piece of her mind. And she would. Claire Weston had never had trouble standing up to her husband when he’d been alive and the same went for his ornery father. “I never did.”

His gramps didn’t say anything for a long moment. He simply puffed on his pipe and stared at Brady.

“Ask him what his plans are,” he told his daughter-in-law.

“Listen, old man, I’m not your puppet—”

“I was thinking I might like to try my hands at making boots again,” Brady cut in.

“Did you hear that?” Claire leveled a frown at Zachariah. “Or do you need to turn your hearing aid up?”

“I don’t wear a hearing aid, little lady, and you’d do well to remember who you’re talking to.” He waved his pipe at her. “I can’t imagine he still knows anything about making boots or that he’s ready to give it his all.”

“Just like riding a horse,” Brady said. “Once you’ve climbed into the saddle and taken a good ride, you never forget and I wouldn’t give anything less.”

“Horse riding,” Claire paraphrased, obviously tiring of arguing with the old man. “You never forget and he’s dedicated.”

The old man nodded and puffed a few more times before a thoughtful look crept over his expression. “I could use an extra pair of hands down at the factory. Not for some frou-frou position, mind you.” He motioned to Brady’s silk shirt. “I’ve got Ellie running the office and she doesn’t need a bit of help. She’s a whiz with numbers and loves every minute.”

“I’m not an accountant,” Brady told his grandfather, who didn’t so much as spare him a glance. “I’m an ad man.” Was an ad man.

“Tell him I ain’t got room for one of those either.”

“Good.” Brady spoke up before his mother could open her mouth. “Because that’s not the type of position I’m interested in.”

“It takes focus, not to mention he’s liable to get his hands dirty,” Granddaddy warned.

“Just the way I like them.”

“We’ll see,” Zachariah said as he puffed on his pipe and gave his only grandson one long, slow look. “We surely will.”

“THIS IS BULLSHIT,” Ellie declared later that afternoon as she pulled her Jeep Wrangler into the parking lot and braked to a halt. “You should be in charge of operations instead of hammering soles onto a bunch of cowboy boots. Hammering, of all things. I can’t believe he’s starting you out at the bottom. You might as well be just another—”

“—guy off the street,” he finished for her. “Right now, I am. He doesn’t trust me and I can’t say as I blame him.”

“What?”

“I betrayed him.”

“You stood up to him. There’s a big difference.”

“Not to him, and until I prove myself again, then this is the way it’s going to be. Lots of hammering and lots of silence.”

“And that’s another thing. Have you ever seen anything so juvenile as him talking to you through other people? He’s crazy. That’s all I have to say. And mean. And I have every intention of telling him so. Not that he’ll listen to me either, but I’m going to do it anyway.”

“Let it go, Ellie. If putting me through my paces and giving me the silent treatment will make him feel better, then that’s what I’ll let him do.”

“You’ve got a college degree, for Pete’s sake.”

“And he’s got a lot of resentment towards me. He needs to vent.”

“So you’re going to be his whipping boy until he comes to his senses, is that it?”

“I’ll do what I have to do. I knew what I was facing when I left Dallas.” And he’d been eager to get back anyway. To escape the daily grind and put the past eleven years behind him.

“But it’s still not right,” she persisted. “You shouldn’t be doing something you hate. No one should.” A faraway look crossed her eyes and Brady had the distinct impression that she’d died her hair green, then purple, not to make a fashion statement, but to make a personal one. Namely that she wasn’t as happy hiding behind those ledger books as his grandfather apparently thought.

“Maybe not.” But it felt right. Brady had worked in the hammering department as a teenager and he knew the work. What’s more, he liked it. The heavy weight of the hammer in his hands and the scent of leather in his nostrils. “Trust me, I’m looking forward to every minute. You don’t know how much I missed this place.” He stared through the windshield at the large brown building that sat on the far edge of the Weston Ranch.

Once a barn, the structure had been expanded throughout the years and bricked over to accommodate the growing boot company. A small gravel parking lot sat to the right of the building. Brady trained his eyes on the patch of trees just beyond and glimpsed a large corral in the distance. He didn’t need a closer look to know that the place stood empty. Gone were the animals that had once put muscle behind the large machinery used in the leather process when Brady had been a small boy. He’d been barely four when his grandfather had converted to the much cheaper and more convenient electricity. The massive tanning machines operated at the flick of a switch. Ovens that had once been fired up every morning by hand now had temperature knobs.

His grandfather had been determined to keep Weston Boots competitive in the ever-changing market place. Factories pumped out more and more and so the man had been hellbent on doing what he could to compete. And he’d succeeded. Somewhat.

The company was holding its own, but it wasn’t moving. Ellie’s books had indicated a steady profit over the past six years and while the numbers weren’t dropping, they weren’t increasing to represent the changing economy. The company needed a boost. He pushed the thought aside, however appealing. He wasn’t an ad man. He made cowboy boots. End of story.

“Don’t get me wrong.” Ellie’s voice pushed past his thoughts and drew his full attention. “I’m glad you’re home. Damned glad. But after living in Dallas all these years, I wouldn’t be surprised to see you go stir crazy over the next few days. This place is hardly the Exxon Towers.”

“No,” he agreed, “it’s not even close.” Which was the point exactly. The fading structure was completely opposite from the sixteen stories of steel and concrete he’d grown accustomed to. “Accustomed,” as in tolerant. But he’d never developed a true liking for the skyscraper, much less the surrounding big city.

This he liked. The smell of grass. The sight of trees. The feel of the sun beating down on him, making sweat run in trickles from beneath the brim of his faded Resistol.

A smile tilted his lips as he climbed from the passenger seat and followed his sister toward the building. Familiarity rushed through him as he touched the rusted wagon wheel that hung on the front door of the building—the same wheel that had been hanging on the door since Weston Boots first opened back in the late 1800s.

“I keep telling Granddaddy to get rid of that,” Ellie said as she came up behind him. “But you know better than anyone how stubborn he can be.” She drew in a deep breath. “We’re running with a skeleton crew since it’s Saturday—Granddaddy’s only day off—so you’re not likely to get the real feel until the place is packed and all departments are up and operational. That’ll be first thing Monday.”

“That’s okay. It’ll give me a chance to get the feel of things again without worrying about slowing down production.” He pushed open the door for his sister, then followed her inside.

“No problem, but do it fast because I’ve got a surprise planned for later.”