Chapter Four
The smell of roast beef settles thick and warm in the house, the kind that transports you to your childhood and tells you you’re home—whether you want to be there or not.
I sit at the long oak table I grew up eating at. Ruby’s perched beside me on a booster seat Momma must’ve dug out of storage. Her legs swing beneath the table, socked feet bumping the chair in an off rhythm that makes me smile despite the tightness in my chest.
Momma moves between the kitchen stove and the table, laying down serving dishes like she’s performed this ritual every Sunday of her life—which, as far as I recall, she has.
Roast beef, sliced thin and glistening with juices.
A bowl of potatoes, mashed smooth and loaded with butter.
Green beans, cooked soft, but not limp. A smaller bowl of stewed cabbage that still smells sharp and faintly of vinegar.
A basket of biscuits, wrapped in a cloth napkin to keep them warm.
Pop sits at the head of the table, hands folded, posture straight as a fence post. He hasn’t said much since we sat down. He doesn’t have to. I can feel his eyes on me.
The tension is thick as molasses, but Momma is choosing to ignore it, and Ruby doesn’t seem to notice at all.
I begin to load Ruby’s plate, cutting into the roast beef, sawing carefully, making each piece small—tiny enough that she won’t choke.
I line them up in neat little piles without really thinking about it, like I have the last few months of dinners eaten out of takeout containers, distracted, tired, trying to do everything right because there was no one there to tell me what to do.
Ruby watches me with serious concentration.
“All done?” she asks.
“Almost, kiddo,” I say, sliding the knife aside and turning my attention to the vegetables. I spear a green bean, then another, then a third and set them near the beef and do the same with the cabbage, ignoring the way my stomach rolls at the smell. I hated cabbage as a kid. Still not my favorite.
Ruby wrinkles her nose. “What’s that?”
“Green beans and cabbage.”
“I don’t like those.”
Pop’s fork pauses midair. Momma smiles to herself, pretending not to listen while absolutely listening.
I keep my voice calm. “You haven’t tried ’em yet.”
She peers at the cabbage like it might bite her. “It’s yucky, green, and squishy.”
“It is a little squishy,” I agree. “But it’s good for you. Has all the good stuff in it to make you grow big and strong.”
“I like being little,” she says.
Pop snorts and then grabs his glass of water and takes a big gulp. “You don’t wanna be little forever, do you?”
She nods enthusiastically, and I have to hide my chuckle.
“Okay. Here’s the deal. You try three bites of each of the green beans and cabbage. If you do it without complaining, you can have dessert,” I say.
Her eyes flick up. “Dessert?”
Momma smiles softly. “I made a homemade apple pie. People say it’s the best in the county.”
Ruby’s mouth forms a small O. “With ice cream?”
“If you eat your dinner and try everything, like your daddy asked,” Momma says.
Ruby considers this, gaze bouncing between me and her plate. “Three bites?”
“Three,” I say. “You’ll never know what you do or don’t like if you don’t taste everything.”
Pop leans forward. “He’s right, you know. I thought I didn’t like sweet potatoes until I tried them. Now they’re my favorite.”
“Potatoes aren’t sweet, silly,” Ruby says.
“That’s just what you call orange and purple potatoes,” I tell her.
Her eyes go wide. “There are orange and purple ones?”
“There are indeed. In fact, I have some growing in my garden. You can help me dig some up and make them for supper tomorrow … if you eat your green beans and cabbage,” Momma offers.
My heart sinks. She’s had very little variety in her short life. We’ve lived on takeout and cheap snacks the past few months, and God only knows what she survived on before that. Her little body is finally gonna get the nourishment it needs here with Priscilla Ludlow in charge of meals.
Ruby stabs a green bean and brings it to her lips like she’s preparing for battle. She pops it into her mouth and chews, slow and deliberate.
“One,” she announces.
“Good job,” Momma praises.
She eats two more, making faces, but not whining. Then she turns to the cabbage, hesitates, and finally takes a bite.
“Okay,” she says after the third bite, shrugging. “All done.”
“What did you think?” I ask.
“The beans were okay, but I don’t like the squishy stuff.”
“That’s fair,” I say. “But you tried it like a big girl. I’m proud of you.”
Pop clears his throat. “That was always the rule for your daddy too,” he says, voice gruff. “Three bites. No fussing.”
I glance over at him. Our eyes meet, and for a brief second, the years fall away. I’m eight again, stubborn and hungry and convinced the cabbage is punishment.
“Yeah,” I say quietly, “I remember.”
Dinner moves on in a way that feels almost normal.
Ruby chatters about the horses we saw earlier this afternoon; the one with the white spot on its nose was her favorite.
Momma listens like it’s the most important thing in the world, nodding and asking questions.
Pop eats methodically, occasionally offering a comment or correction about the horses.
Facts that go over a four-year-old’s head, but that Ruby accepts as gospel.
I eat my beef and potatoes, barely tasting them, and my shoulders don’t relax until Ruby asks for a second biscuit and Momma passes her another.
Dessert is served after plates are cleared. Momma brings out the apple pie, the crust golden and flaky, the filling bubbling just slightly over the woven crown. She places a slice on Ruby’s plate and tops it with a big scoop of vanilla ice cream, and Ruby’s eyes go wide.
“This is the best supper ever,” Ruby declares.
I smile, but the knot in my chest tightens when I catch my mother’s expression—soft, tearful, already attached.
Halfway through the pie, I clear my throat. “Caison wants to meet up for a beer tonight.”
Pop’s gaze snaps to mine. “Tonight?”
“Yeah,” I say. “He wants to go down to Ten Points Tavern.”
He narrows his eyes. “You think it’s wise to go out tonight?”
“We aren’t gonna be closing the place down, Pop. He just wants to grab one or two. Catch up.”
Momma doesn’t miss a beat. “Your father and I would be more than happy to keep Ruby.”
Ruby looks between them. “I’m gonna stay here with Nana and Papa?”
“If that’s okay with you,” I say.
She’s only known them for half a day. Giving them titles doesn’t make them any less strangers.
Ruby grins. “Can we watch cartoons in our pajamas?”
Momma beams. “I’d love that.”
Then her big blue eyes look back to me. “You’re coming back?”
It’s the same question she asked every single time I left her to go to work. Every time I left her sight the past two months. Like she’s afraid I’ll walk out the door and she’ll never see me again, just like her momma did.
Shit. Maybe I shouldn’t go.
“I’ll always come back, kiddo. Besides, we’re going riding in the morning, remember?”
She saw the horses in the pasture as soon as we made the turn into the Ironhorse gate.
Horses are all she’s been able to talk about for days, ever since I started packing our things.
I explained to her that we were moving to a ranch—a place where cows, horses, and real cowboys lived.
And she made me promise I’d teach her how to ride one.
When dinner is done, Momma and Ruby head to the kitchen together. Ruby drags one of the island stools across the floor so she can reach the sink. Their voices drift to the table—Momma instructing, Ruby repeating every word.
Pop and I settle into the living room, the air shifting the moment we’re alone. He sits in his armchair, hands braced on his knees, and I drop onto the couch, elbows on my thighs. And wait.
“Go ahead,” I say. “I know you’re dying to grill me, so let’s get this over with.”
He studies me for a long moment. “You think it’s a good idea to go out drinking tonight?”
I bristle. “I told you, I’m just gonna have a couple of beers.”
“A couple,” he repeats.
“Yes.”
“With everything going on?”
“Everything?”
“Yeah, everything, specifically that little girl in there.”
I straighten. “I’ve got it under control.”
Pop doesn’t raise his voice. He never has to. “You sure about that, son?”
I exhale sharply. “I’m not gonna get wasted when I have Ruby to take care of.”
“I didn’t say you were.”
“You implied it.”
“I asked a question.”
I drag a hand through my hair. “I’ll be fine. It’s Caison.”
He nods once. “True.”
And something in me tightens. My word isn’t good enough, but of course he trusts Caison.
He leans back. “Now tell me why your mother and I are finding out about our granddaughter the same day she walks through our front door.”
There it is.
I look over my shoulder back toward the kitchen, where Ruby’s laughter rings out. My jaw tightens.
“Do we have to do this now?” I ask, turning back to face him.
“You think we don’t deserve an explanation?” he asks. “Eight years, Waylon. Eight years, and then you show up out of the blue with a four-year-old child you’ve never mentioned. No wife or girlfriend in sight. Who’s her mother? Where is she?”
I don’t want to tell him shit. Every instinct in my body screams to shut down, to deflect, to walk out. But I need this place. Need a job. More than that, Ruby needs stability.
So, I swallow my pride, hard.
“Her mom’s a dancer,” I say and bring my eyes to his. “In Vegas.”
He nods. His eyes saying what he doesn’t. Figures.
“We spent a weekend together,” I go on. “One of those weekends where everything’s a blur. I didn’t know if her name was real. I didn’t care.”
“And then?”
“And then four years later, she shows up,” I say. “At my apartment. With Ruby.”
I pause, jaw tightening as I remember the day.
“She looked rough,” I continue. “Both of ’em. Like they hadn’t bathed in weeks. They were filthy. Hungry.”
Momma’s voice drifts faintly from the kitchen, and I stop to make sure Ruby can’t hear me. When she joins in on Momma’s song, I force myself to keep talking.
“She told me Ruby was mine. Said they’d been evicted some time ago. So, I let them bathe, and I fed ’em.”
Pop’s face hardens. “And you believed her?”
“It was pretty fucking obvious they weren’t staying at the Ritz, Pop,” I snap.
“I mean, did you believe Ruby was yours?”
“No,” I admit. “Not at first. But I couldn’t let them leave. The woman was dope sick, Pop. I could see it. Shaking. Sweating.”
“She was a junkie you didn’t even know.”
I shake my head. “She wasn’t when I met her. She was sweet and fun …”
“And a stripper.”
My eyes snap to his. “That’s awfully judgmental, but you’ve always been good at that, haven’t you?”
His nostrils flare at the accusation, but he doesn’t deny it.
“Dancing was just her job. Not everyone comes from a place of stability. People do what they can to survive. Doesn’t make them bad or less than,” I say.
“I don’t know what her demons were, but I know we all have them.
And whatever she went through in those four years caused her to go down a dark path, but she loved Ruby.
I saw it. She was sick, and she did the only thing she knew to do, and that was to bring her to me. To ask for help.”
“So, what did you do?”
“I gave her the money I had in my pocket,” I admit. “She said if I did, I could keep Ruby. She waited until Ruby was asleep, and she left. I could hear her wailing through the walls as she took off down the street.”
He stands abruptly. “Are you crazy? You just took in some stranger’s kid?”
“I took my kid,” I snap, rising too. “I just didn’t know it for sure then. Or hell, maybe I did. In my gut.”
Silence stretches between us, thick and crackling.
“I went to the clinic and got us both tested,” I continue, quieter now. “Swabbed. And lo and behold … she’s definitely mine.”
Pop sinks back into his chair, stunned.
“I knew I had to get my life straight,” I say. “I couldn’t keep working nights at the casinos. Couldn’t keep leaving her with a neighbor I barely knew. That wasn’t a life. Not for her.”
“So, you came here,” Pop says.
“I came home,” I correct. “I’m asking for a job. Not a handout. I’ll shovel horse shit if I have to. I just need a safe place for my daughter.”
He looks at me for a long time. Then he nods once.
“We’ll talk,” he says. “I’m sure Caison can find something for you.”
I let out the breath I was holding.
From the kitchen, Ruby’s voice floats in as her feet come padding down the hall. “Daddy. Papa! Come see. Nana says I did a really good job!”
He stands, heading toward the sound. “I bet you did, Peanut,” he calls back.
Peanut. I haven’t heard that term of endearment leave his lips for over seventeen years. And it guts me.
I stay planted on the couch a moment longer, chest heavy, heart pounding. That went better than expected. I was sure he was gonna make me grovel. And I would have.
It would have killed me, but I’d have done it all the same.