“If you’re unmarried, dear, it’s by your own choice.”
“Exactly. So, stay out of it. Please.”
Ignoring that, Coralee picked up her tray of shadows and went to work on her eyes. Her slightly wrinkled, aging eyes. “I’m not scheming. I’m planning. With KD starting Officer Training School soon, it might be months—years, even—before the five of us can be at the ranch at the same time.” She paused to dab a spot of turquoise to the outside corners of her upper lids to bring out the blue of her eyes. “I thought we might make a festive occasion of it.”
“Such as?” Raney gave her a wary look.
“We could start with a nice chat to catch up on all the news, then dinner, followed by wine on the back veranda. What do you think?” She checked her eyes, thought they looked trashy, and wiped the color off.
“I think it’ll be cold out there,” Raney said.
“We can light a fire.” Coralee tried basic, unimaginative taupe. Boring, but better. “And drop the shades if it’s windy.” Which it invariably was in spring in northwest Texas. And when they were all comfy and mellowed by wine, she would make her announcement. Hopefully, by then, she would know what that announcement would be. At this point, all that was certain was she needed to do something different. Refocus. Make herself her next project. If she explained whatever it was clearly and calmly, maybe they could avoid the drama that characterized most of their family gatherings.
“You said ‘change.’ What kind of change? Nothing involving me, I hope.”
Where had her daughter gotten such a suspicious nature?
“I haven’t decided.” A faint ding from her watch saved Coralee from further explanation. “Mercy! KD’s plane has landed and you haven’t even left yet.”
“That’s what I came in to tell you.” Raney rose from the bed. “Len and Joss are picking her up on their way from Dallas.”
“Wonderful!” A last fluff of her hair and Coralee rose from the dressing table. “I’d best help Maria get the hors d’oeuvres ready.” She paused to scan Raney’s outfit—her usual baseball cap and ponytail, jeans, boots, and plaid shirt over a tank top. Why did she insist on downplaying her fine figure and beauty by dressing like a lumberjack? She would never attract a man dressed like that, unless he was as horse-crazy as she was. “You are planning to change your clothes, aren’t you?”
“They’re my sisters. What do they care?”
“I care. Please, dear. It’s my birthday. And hurry along. They’ll be here soon.”
* * *
* * *
Later that afternoon, Dalton Cardwell stepped off the bus at the crossroads in Rough Creek. It was as if nothing had changed in his eighteen-month absence. Same dusty storefronts, same beat-up trucks in front of the Roughneck Bar, same galvanized water troughs and cattle feeders stacked outside the feed store. The only things different were the weather and the plants in the baskets hanging outside Mellie’s Diner. It had been September when he’d left. Now it was early spring and Mellie’s flowers were just starting to bud. That sense of sameness was both comforting and disturbing. He liked the constancy of things that had been part of his life for all of his thirty-two years. But he was surprised that nothing had changed in a year and a half. He certainly had.
His stomach rumbled, reminding him that other than a vending machine snack when he’d changed buses in Dallas, his last meal had been almost fourteen hours earlier. Since he hadn’t told his parents when he would arrive and it didn’t seem right to show up and expect to be fed right off, he crossed to the diner. He figured he’d earned a last unhurried meal before facing his old life and reassessing the burdens it represented. If he’d learned anything while he was in prison, it was that he was done taking orders and having every move dictated by the schedules of others. He’d been doing that for most of his life, from working beside his father on their small cattle ranch, to his stint in the army, to the regimented directives of his time in prison. He was ready for a change.
Other than a waitress refilling ketchup bottles, and a couple of Hispanic ranch hands at the counter talking to the cook through the serving window into the kitchen, the diner was empty. He recognized the waitress, not the workers. Crossing to a booth next to the back window, he slid into the bench against the wall when the waitress walked toward him armed with a coffeepot and mug.
“Dalton? That you?”
Warily, Dalton looked up, not sure what to expect.
Like most small towns, there were few secrets in Rough Creek. His arrest had been big news, and he wasn’t sure how many friends he had left. He had known Suze Anderson for most of his life and had even taken her out a couple of times back in high school. But he was an ex-con now, and that had a way of killing friendships.
Her friendly smile said otherwise. “When’d you get out?” she asked.
“This morning.”
“Well, welcome home, stranger.” She set the mug down in front of him and filled it with coffee. There was an awkward silence, then she said, “I never thought you did it, you know.”
He looked up at her.
She made an offhand movement with her free hand. “Yeah, I know. You confessed. But I always figured there was more to it than what the papers said.” She leaned closer and dropped her voice. “Heard the commissioner’s nephew had been drinking. If you hadn’t waived a trial, that might have gotten you off.”
He poured a packet of sugar into his cup. “Water under the bridge.” To change the subject, he added, “You look good, Suze.” And she did. Hair the color of ripe wheat, skin like clover honey, and eyes as brown as dark, rich coffee. Hell. He must be hungry if he looked at a pretty face and thought of food.
She grinned and patted her flat stomach. “Not bad for two kids. Buddy wants to try for two more. Girls, this time. But I don’t know. That’s a lot of kids.”
Buddy was Suze’s husband, and through school, had been Dalton’s closest friend. A country boy in the best sense of the words, and a good match for Suze. Solid farm folks and hard workers, totally content to stay in Rough Creek forever. At one time, Dalton had thought that would be enough for him, too.
She gave him an assessing look, her gaze flicking from his scuffed prison shoes to his overlong dark brown hair and the too-tight shirt he’d been issued on discharge. “Gotten even bigger than when you got home from Iraq, I see. Bet nobody calls you Beanpole now.”
“Not lately.” Not after months of daily two-hour workouts. Another thing he’d learned in prison. If you don’t want to fight, look like you can.
“I like it. Even with that god-awful haircut, you’re still handsome enough to turn a girl’s head.” She winked. “Even one that’s happily married.”