Chapter 22
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Gideon
I staggered toward Mae’s house. My legs and ass—hell, my entire core—were sore in a way they hadn’t been in my entire memory.
I was both stiff from the previous day and sore from a fresh ten hours in the saddle.
The pastures today had had a lot more brush, and a couple of those infuriating hunks of living leather liked to hide.
Tate slapped me on the back. He was just as uptight when he worked, yet there was a casual air about him now. He was serious, diligent, but the ranch was his element. It was likely the same at the distillery. It’d been me and the sale issue that had made him tenser than normal.
I had that effect at my job too.
Except for today. No one had treated me differently than anyone else. When a cow had charged through a copse of trees and I’d gone in after it, getting bitch-slapped by dried branches, they’d had a good laugh. And likewise for me when it had happened to them.
Tate said we’d be done tomorrow. One more day. Then I’d have work from sunup until sundown at my laptop. As if on cue, my phone buzzed. I checked the message just in case it was from Autumn. She’d sent one earlier, saying the plan for the pizza party was still on and she’d be home late.
The new message was from Taya. Seriously. Can you just fucking call? It’s sort of about work.
Sort of about work? That was new, but it still didn’t answer why she couldn’t email. Since she’d given me a tidbit, I gave her a partial answer. I’m wrapped up in something. I’ll call when I can.
I tucked my phone in my pocket and followed the crew inside. Myles and Wynter weren’t out today. Scarlett had brought the kids to Mae’s. When the door opened, the shouts that came out sounded like ten kids were in the house instead of three.
“Grandma?” Chance said, his voice cracking. I barely remembered that age or the whole puberty thing. My mom had just died and the time period was a fog of doing what needed to be done with an increasingly self-pitying dad. “Where do you want this?”
When I entered and the crowd cleared, I found Chance helping Mae put food on the table.
She waved us in. “Come, come. The little ones were ready to charge the table. Chance would’ve led the way.”
Yes. I recalled those days. The constant hunger among the dwindling supply of groceries. Roaming the kitchen while my stomach gnawed at me. And then waking up, only to scrape the remnants of peanut butter out of the jar to cobble together another PB&J.
When Mom had been alive, our kitchen had smelled like this—savory meats and spices. Our house had been warm like this. Though with only three of us, there hadn’t been this hustle and bustle.
This was . . . nice. A lot nicer than coming home to a dark apartment lit by the Vegas skyline.
I took off my cowboy hat and shrugged out of my coat. Both looked like I’d been wearing them for years instead of days.
Mae sidled up to me, a bowl of steaming peas in her hands. “Do you mind if I make a plate for your dad? Would you be able to drop it off?”
Confusion sparked before my natural resistance to seeing my dad followed. Since we’d helped him the night of the AA meeting, I hadn’t seen him. “You don’t have to. I’m sure he’s eaten already.”
I had no fucking idea.
Her smile was kind, but a hint of obstinance glinted in her eyes. “I made a ton, and with the leftovers from last night, I’m going to be eating pasta and pork chops for weeks. I can also send leftovers for you and Autumn for lunches.” She squeezed my elbow. “Come. Let’s eat.”
She hadn’t taken my subtle no for an answer. I’d get a shitload of food and that would be that.
I sat at the empty seat at the table by Tenor.
Teller was across from him. Tate and Chance were closer to Mae, who was flanked by Brinley and Darin.
Cruz and Lane took the seats at the end by me.
Dishes were passed counterclockwise and I filled my plate.
Tate updated his mom about the day, and Tenor and Teller joined in with a story or two to make her laugh. I laughed along with them.
Then Tate asked Chance about school. The other guys peppered the kids with questions. Teller bet Brinley she couldn’t eat more peas than him. She won, but I suspected Teller threw the game.
When was the last time I’d smiled this much? I was nothing but a spectator, yet I felt like part of the group. When the meal wrapped up, I helped clear the table and do the dishes.
Mae dug various plastic containers out of the cupboards and filled those along with a thick paper plate. “Thank you for doing this, Gideon.”
Lane clapped me on the back. “She says it like you have a choice.”
“Hey now.” She shot him a playful glare. “Don’t be selling my secrets.” She patted me on the shoulder. “Tell your dad I said hi.”
I only nodded, dreading the task.
I left on a wave of “See ya tomorrow” and “Bright and early.” I tossed my cowboy hat in the back seat.
The food in my stomach molded itself into a bowling ball.
How the hell did Mae talk me into this without really discussing it?
My headlights lit the familiar stretch of road.
A few snow flurries melted on the windshield.
They were supposed to add up to nothing, but then later this week, we’d get measurable snow.
The house came into view. A porch light shone in the dark along with the glow from the living room.
I parked in front of the walk and stared at the food containers.
I’d get this over with and leave. I got out.
When I reached the front door, I hesitated.
The old wood smell of the porch surrounded me, along with the crisp promise of snow on the breeze. Nostalgia poured into my brain.
“Mom! Dad! Pickles had kittens!”
Pickles had been my favorite barn cat. She’d disappeared one day, and we’d assumed she’d become food for a larger animal. I’d been distraught, and Dad had taken me fishing.
My throat grew thick. Those memories did me no good. I rapped three times on the door. It swung open on the last knock. The door didn’t make a sound. He’d fixed that too. He was fixing everything but the relationship between us.
Dad’s lined face looked older with his hat off. His hair was trimmed short and mostly gray. He kept his mustache and beard trimmed. I’d gotten much of my looks from my mom, but I could see myself in the sweep of his shoulders and the shape of his face.
“I was wondering if that was you.” His gaze dropped to the plate.
“Mae claims she made too much food.”
His eyes lit up. “Did she now?” He turned away and left the door open. “Come on in.”
“No, I gotta—”
“That Mae. She’s a good cook.” He looked over his shoulder as he went up the stairs. “You eat yet?”
I was still holding the food. I’d be a real dick if I just left with the goods.
Stepping over the threshold, I steeled myself against the feelings washing over me. “Yeah,” I said gruffly.
The smell was different. I had prepared for a stale-beer smell.
A dried, dead yeast smell that was so unlike the thriving fermentation scents of the distillery.
Instead, I was hit with a soft cinnamon aroma, so faint it was barely noticeable.
The carpets were the same, everything I could see was the same, but it was . . . clean.
I hadn’t grown up in filth after Mom had died, but we hadn’t been worried about total cleanliness. Things had been grungy. It was one of the reasons I’d been drawn to my immaculate penthouse.
“I had a light dinner,” Dad said, taking the stairs up. “That’s about all I have these days.”
He went to the kitchen and I followed. The living room hadn’t changed other than a couch that might’ve been new ten years ago.
Same with the recliner. A flat-screen TV was newer, but still a few years old.
He had a show paused. On the far wall was our old family picture.
Look at all of us smiling. Memories of that day threatened to intrude. I blocked them out.
I shifted my focus to the kitchen. Nothing had been updated in the kitchen other than the appliances. What had he sold to pay for those?
A tiny tendril of shame spiraled through me. Would I rather he squat in a house with no working fridge or stove and threadbare furniture that smelled like bachelor funk and stale beer?
Maybe I would’ve said yes weeks ago, but for the moment, I was more grateful that he’d kept the house in fairly recognizable condition. I was glad he’d had things to keep him afloat until he had to make the final decision to sell. Him wanting to move to town wasn’t my issue.
He got a second plate and fork out. Then he filled a mug from a drying rack with some coffee from a pot and sat at the table.
“There’s no way I can eat all this.” His chuckle was self-deprecating.
“I don’t require too much these days, but sandwiches do get old.
” He made a delighted noise. “Pork chops! Want half?”
“No, thanks. Save it for lunch tomorrow.” He was only going to eat half a pork chop?
I studied him with a more critical eye. He was healthier than I’d seen him last, like I’d thought when Autumn and I had first stopped by, but he was no longer a towering man.
The years of alcoholism might’ve done their damage, but he also wasn’t farming and ranching anymore.
He was just existing in a house that used to be filled with love and laughter.
“You’ve been helping the Baileys?” he asked around a mouthful of food.
“For a few days. Figured it didn’t hurt to show them I’m not some city asshole.”
“Not all city folk are assholes.”
I grunted. “A lot of them are.”
He chuckled and stabbed a hunk of fried potato. “Same with country folk.”