began.
Jonah’s blue eyes narrowed. “Somebody’s coming up the drive.”
“It can’t be Lang?” Bret said and shook his head dubiously. “Too soon.”
Lang had said he couldn’t make it to Crystal Creek before tomorrow evening.
“No sir,” Jonah said, still staring at the driveway. Something like real joy glimmered in his eyes. “It’s Grady.”
Bret felt a stab of displeasure. It can’t be him. He wouldn’t have the guts…
But hiking up the driveway came a man in faded jeans, a blue work shirt and an open denim vest, lined with sheepskin. He wore a black Stetson pulled down over his eyes. He carried a scuffed duffel bag and walked like somebody who’d hiked a long way. Yet he somehow still managed a swagger.
Bret would know it anywhere, that air of lazy swash-buckling, that easy strut. His face went rigid as he watched the too-familiar figure approach the house.
Wide across the chest and shoulders, the man was a solid six feet tall. Although the day was chill, he wore no outer covering but the vest. His shirt was grease-stained, his black hat was dusty and he needed a shave. Still, he sauntered up to the back porch like a prince.
It’s him, all right. Grady.
With a shriveling sensation in his stomach, Bret looked on his eldest son for the first time in two years. He forgot the new neighbor. He forgot any promise to Cal. He even forgot Lang. All he could see was Grady, mounting the stairs like trouble itself getting ready to cross the threshold.
Lord in heaven, Bret thought with sorrow and bitterness, just what have I done to deserve this?
He had come to Crystal Creek to be alone. But now, as if directed by malignant forces, all three of his sons were descending on him. He had welcomed Jonah. He was determined to be hospitable to Lang. But what ill wind had driven Grady to his door—the only one of his sons who was truly charming—and truly worthless?
CHAPTER TWO
TIME AND WEATHER HAD CARVED the country around Crystal Creek into an uneven land of great hills and valleys. Some of these hills were massive enough to be called mountains, but most were low and rolling.
In some places, great sweeps of rock covered the earth, like a flow of pale, hardened lava. Soil was thin. Only what was strong could survive here.
Yet the landscape had stark beauty. Even in mid-November, the scattered oaks and elms fluttered golden leaves, and the sumac and soapwood bushes flared up from the ground like scarlet torches.
But most of the trees were the scraggly, twisted ones that Lynn said were mesquite and their branches were nearly bare. They looked tough enough to suck nourishment straight from stone.
Ahead, the flashing red of Lynn’s taillights signaled that she was turning from the highway to a dirt road. Tara followed. The road led up and was so badly rutted that her truck rattled and swayed. The way grew steeper and rougher, jolting her bones.
Then, suddenly, the road leveled off, and the two trucks were halfway up a hill big enough, to Tara’s mind, to qualify as a mountain.
And there it was—their house.
She had seen pictures, but she was not prepared for the impact of the real thing. It was, she thought, magnificent. Magnificent yet sad, because it had been both neglected and abused. But she had come to change all that.
The house was a long one-story sweep of limestone that glimmered so brightly in the sun it seemed almost white. It angled into a wide V shape so it could command views of the valley beneath it and the tall hills rambling into the distance in the west.
It had once had decks and sun porches, but they’d been torn off, leaving bare patches of concrete and raw slashes on the face of the stones. Concrete blocks, stacked unevenly, formed three jerry-built steps to the back door.
An enclosed walkway attached the house to a triple garage. A vandal with a can of red spray paint had scrawled graffiti on both stone and wood. Tara bit her lip in resentment, already feeling protective toward the house.
“What do those words say?” Del ask, squinting at them in curiosity.
“Nothing,” she said. “Foolishness.”
Among the obscenities and insults, one message stood out: Fabian Go Home!!! Brian Fabian was the man who’d recently owned the property. It was he who’d had the porches torn down and most of the outbuildings razed. Gavin had told her the outline of the story, but not the details.
Lynn parked in the graveled driveway, and Tara pulled in behind her, pebbles rattling under her tires. Both women got out, and Tara unfastened Del from his seat. “Is this our new house?” he asked in a small voice.
“Yes,” Tara said. “And it’s going to be a very nice house.”
He stared uncertainly at the ruined porches. “It’s broke.”
“Yes. But we’ll fix it.”
She went to the back of the truck and unlocked the door of the kennel box. Lono bounded out, sniffed the ground with enthusiasm and lifted his leg at a cactus. He was clearly pleased with the surroundings.
Del was not. He frowned in worry. “Why’d somebody write on our garage?”
“Sometimes people do bad things. I’ll paint over it.”
He didn’t seem reassured. He put his thumb into his mouth, something he did when he was tired or anxious, and she could tell he was both. For once she didn’t tell him not to suck his thumb. Instead she picked him up, and he leaned on her shoulder, yawning in exhaustion.
Lynn nodded ruefully at the defaced garage doors. “Sorry about the graffiti. Sam was going to paint over it last Sunday, but we had an emergency. All three dogs met a skunk. Yuck.”
“It’s all right,” Tara said. “I’ll take care of it. You’ve done more than enough for us.”
“You may not feel so charitable when you see your decor.” Lynn rolled her eyes. “It’s only a mix of cast-offs and garage-sale bargains.”
Tara patted Del’s back and smiled. “It’ll be fine.”
She’d sold most of the furniture she’d had in California. She didn’t want the memories.
But the few good pieces she’d kept were coming, and their books, kitchen things, odds and ends. The man at the moving company said it was such a small lot, he’d have to squeeze it onto a truck headed that way with other loads, other stops. In the meantime, their possessions were in storage and might not arrive for weeks.
Tara didn’t mind. She’d lived in nearly bare houses before. She’d told Del it would be like camping out. He’d thought it sounded like fun—then.
Her horse and Del’s pony, their saddles and tack, would be brought by a man who moved horses for his living, Garth Gardner. Tara had known him for years and trusted him implicitly. But he, too, had a full schedule, and the horses were not due to arrive for almost
