Fernando crossed his arms over his chest. “I insisted. Since he needed to stop by and visit his familia I asked him to go on to Leon’s to keep an eye on Dusty and Jesse.”
Add a pain in the neck to her list of aching body parts. “So Dusty’s been pushing Jesse again?”
“I only caught the end of their argument earlier. I believe it had something to do with my hija.”
“Dios!” Mona plunked her straw hat back on her head and, ignoring every aching bone in her body and the gnawing hunger in her belly, she marched down the steps and climbed into her truck.
“Miss Mona, Señor Bryson can handle them. My esposa has dinner waiting for you. You must think about the bebé.”
“I’ll grab something at Leon’s.” Mona slammed the door and revved the engine, cutting off Fernando’s protests.
Of all the pigheaded male posturing. Dusty couldn’t let it go. He knew Jesse was in love with Catalina and she wanted nothing to do with him. Why did he insist on rubbing it in? Too often, his taunting ended in fistfights. Most often when they were at Leon’s with Dusty all liquored up.
Darkness cloaked the plains. The scent of dry prairie grass blasted into the open windows of the pickup. The wind helped to keep Mona awake on the thirty-minute drive into Prairie Rock. That and a full-blown, in-your-face desire to slap someone upside the head helped to keep her adrenaline flowing and her eyes open to watch for critters crossing the empty highway.
If she could have fired Dusty, she would have. She couldn’t afford to pay her hands much and Dusty hadn’t seemed to mind the pittance she could offer him. Reed as well. Until Reed showed up, she thought she’d have to spend the last trimester of her pregnancy on night-watch duty.
Still, she considered letting Dusty go. His redneck attitude had caused more problems than he was worth. Hell, if the bank foreclosed, she’d have to let them all go.
A brick wall of depression played havoc with her emotions and she sniffed several times before she grit her teeth and pressed harder on the gas pedal. She’d be damned if she gave in to her very own pity party.
SITTING IN THE WINDOW overlooking her tiny rose garden, Grace Bryson smiled at her son. The left side of her face didn’t respond, but the light in her eyes said it all. “I’m so happy you came to see me. Today, I walked in my garden for fifteen minutes.”
Fifteen minutes. This from a woman who’d walked miles of ranchland tending the animals and working alongside her husband to make the spread work for them. Her words were halting and slurred, but she forced them out, like a climber determined to reach the top of a mountain.
As he took his mother’s hand, a lump the size of a wadded sock lodged in Reed’s throat. “That’s great, Mom.”
Her fingers curled loosely around his and she gave him a gentle squeeze. “Have you tried talking to your father?”
Reed bent close to hear her words, the slur in her speech making her difficult to understand. She’d come a long way in her recovery from the stroke over the past six months, but the doctor said she might never fully recover her speech.
Reed would take whatever he could get. This woman raised him and loved him unconditionally when his father had shown him little patience or understanding. Why should he talk to his father? They hadn’t had anything to say to each other since he’d turned eighteen and left home. “No, I haven’t spoken to him.”
“He wants to talk to you.”
If he’d been so anxious to talk to him, why had he left as soon as Reed arrived? “I’ll catch him later. It’s getting dark, do you want the light on?”
“Yes, thank you.”
He reached above her and tugged the chain for the floor lamp beside her chair.
His mother leaned back against the headrest. “You don’t have to wait here with me. William will be back soon. I could stand a little time alone.” She chuckled. “I like to take little naps now and then so that I can stay awake through my television shows.”
Reed smiled. “Okay. If you’re sure you’ll be all right.”
“I will. Don’t forget to talk to your father. He’s been meaning to speak with you since you came back. He just doesn’t know how.”
No kidding. Reed’s lips tightened. The only way he’d ever talked to Reed was to tell him everything he was doing wrong. Never a word of encouragement or love.
“Give him a chance. It’s not all his fault the way he acted when you were young. If it’s anyone’s fault, blame me.”
He leaned across and kissed her wrinkled forehead. “I couldn’t fault you for anything. You were always there for me.”
Her grip tightened on his hand and she held him close. “I made mistakes, Reed. Unfortunately, you paid for them.”
“I don’t understand.”
She closed her eyes. “Talk to William. He promised to explain for me.” Her grip loosened until her hand dropped from his onto the arm of the lounge chair.
For a long moment, Reed listened for the sound of her breathing. Until he heard her long shallow breaths he didn’t breathe himself. Grace Bryson was asleep.
After covering her with a light blanket and tipping the chair to a full recline, he let himself out of the house, locking the door behind him.
He felt strange leaving her alone, but she’d insisted she would be all right. Six months into his mother’s recovery, Reed still worried about her. What if she had another stroke?
Darkness had settled in over the town of Prairie Rock. From a distance, he could hear loud country-western music booming into the star-filled night sky. That would be his next stop for the evening. Leon’s Bar.
Fernando had insisted he should go to town and play babysitter to the two young hotheads who’d been ready to tear each other’s throats out all day. Once off the ranch, with no one to hold them back, they’d probably succeed. Part of Reed was ready to let them go at it. The other part knew Jesse was no match for the much larger and meaner Dusty, and having two of them out of commission would only add more stress. Mona needed ranch hands who could work long, hard days, not men with broken bones, laid up for the next six to eight weeks.
Reed ran a hand down his face. Being up all night had left him tired and cranky. He was used to pulling all-nighters, but they got harder the older he got.
With a sigh, he climbed into his truck and turned toward the bar. He had another reason to come to Leon’s Bar—to track a rustler.
When he pulled in front of the ramshackle building made of heavy timbers and corrugated-tin siding, he noted the dozen trucks and cars lining the parking lot. With the band playing a lively tune, the night was just getting started.
Careful not to appear too obvious, he walked in front of the heavy-duty trucks looking for signs of damage from pushing through wooden fence posts. The trucks sporting heavy front grilles all looked as if they’d been driven hard over rough terrain. Any
