accident wasn’t an accident. He’d been murdered by Leland Haven, Clint’s lawyer. Leland had been stealing from Clint for years and when Nate had found out, Leland had decided to get rid of him. Nate Cantrell’s name had been cleared, but sometimes the old-timers, like his dad, seemed to forget that.
“Now Homestead is giving away the damn land. Never heard of such shenanigans. And a woman mayor. Never heard of that either—not in my kind of Texas.”
“Miranda’s doing a lot for Homestead,” Wade felt a need to say.
“Hmmph.”
“Take a look around you. Homestead was on the verge on becoming a ghost town. Now people are coming back. We have kids enrolling for school and that builds our tax base. That’s good. Miranda had nothing to do with the failure of the consortium so cut her some slack.”
“My grandson should be here,” Jock muttered in a broken voice. “Our boy should be here.” A tear rolled from his eye.
Wade’s throat closed up and he didn’t respond. He couldn’t. It had happened four years ago but it felt like yesterday that he’d gotten a hysterical call from his wife, Kim, telling him their son had been rushed to the emergency room. But they’d been too late. Zach was dead.
At twelve, Zach had wanted to go to a party a friend from school was giving. Wade and Kim didn’t know the boy all that well and they’d been hesitant. In the end, they had relented because Zach had wanted to go so badly. There had been drugs at the party and, after a lot of teasing and egging from the older boys, Zach had tried the stuff. He’d had an allergic reaction to the drug and had died thirty minutes later. Just like that, his young life was gone.
Wade and Kim had blamed each other, the boys at the party and the world in general. But placing blame didn’t ease it or accomplish anything besides creating more guilt.
He and Kim had been high-school sweethearts and they’d become parents when they were seventeen. So young, but they’d thought their love would last forever. With their parent’s help, they’d continued with their education and Kim had become a teacher and Wade a police detective in Houston. They’d been through so many trials, but they couldn’t get through the death of their son. At least not together. Kim had moved to Phoenix to live with her sister and Wade had returned to Homestead.
His father had retired and Miranda had encouraged Wade to run for the job. He had and being here in the slow, easy pace of Homestead was helping the wounds to heal. Until his father said things like he just did. Then the blame and the guilt came back tenfold.
And the grief.
IN SILENCE, WADE CROSSED the cattle guard to Spring Creek Ranch. The property consisted of the house, the barns and five hundred acres. The rest of the land Jock had put into the consortium that had failed. The city now owned it and was giving away parcels to people willing to build on it and make their home in Homestead. That was a hard pill for Jock to swallow.
Board fences flanked the road that led to the three-bedroom brick house Jock had built for his wife, Lila. She’d died ten years ago and Jock’s life had never been the same. He’d started to make bad decisions, bad choices.
As Wade drove to the back of the house, Poncho and Tex Alvarez came toward them, two Mexican brothers in their fifties who ran the ranch and watched out for Jock. They’d been here for thirty years and lived in the old home place below the hill. Tex’s wife, Yolanda, helped out in the house.
“Wonder why he no come back from town,” Tex said to Wade. Tex, a short, thin cowboy with a protruding beer belly, loved his beer and could ride a horse better than anyone Wade had ever seen. There wasn’t anything he didn’t know about cattle. Poncho, taller and heavier, had cowboying in his blood, too.
“He’s had a little too much to drink at the Lone Wolf.” Wade walked around to the passenger’s side to help his father.
Jock stumbled out. “Don’t need no damn help,” he muttered.
Wade nodded to Poncho, who wrapped an arm around Jock’s waist. “C’mon, Mr. Jock, that old sofa’s just waitin’ for ya.”
They slowly made their way to the back door.
Yolanda held it open, frowning. Short and plump, she had a quick tongue and she and Jock often had days where they screamed at each other. Yo would swear she wasn’t coming back, but in a couple of days she’d return to do the cleaning and cooking. “Lawdy, Mister Jock, ain’t you got no sense?”
“Don’t preach to me you sassy bitch.”
Yo’s black eyes flared. “You talk like that and I’ll knock you out with a frying pan. It’ll be swift and sure, not slow like that filthy stuff you drink.”
“Yeah, yeah.”
Yo grabbed his arm and Jock wobbled meekly into the den. Wade was grateful for small miracles, but when Jock was drunk he did more damage with his mouth than his fist. He’d have to do something about his father and soon. What? He wasn’t quite sure.
“He went to town for a load of feed.” Tex broke into his thoughts.
“His truck and the feed are at the Lone Wolf. You can ride with me and bring it back.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Pop, I’m going back to the office. Be back later.” Wade knew that Tex and his family could handle Jock. He’d probably sleep until morning anyway, then they’d talk.
“Hmmph,” was the only response he got.
Wade and Tex walked to his car. As Wade opened his door, he saw Lucky in the pasture, a buckskin mare that Jock had given to Zach on his tenth birthday. How Zack had loved to ride that horse. Wade felt a catch in his throat. No one had ridden her since his death. He thought of Brittany and her desire to ride a horse. Maybe it was time.
But could he stand to see another child on that horse?
CHAPTER THREE
CALLIE SIGNED THE NECESSARY papers and everything that had happened seemed real for the first time. She and the kids would be living in Homestead and hopefully Nigel would never find them, or at least not until her lawyer had procured a hearing.
Her main concern was sleeping arrangements for the night. Miranda wanted them to stay with her and her mom until the house was ready, but Callie couldn’t intrude or involve Miranda any further in her situation. She had to make a home for the kids.
Miranda said the feed store carried sleeping bags, so after Callie unloaded the car she planned to go there. As she drove up to her house, she noticed an old tan truck parked in front. A rack was on the back with lumber. This had to be the carpenter—June Bug.
They got out and saw two men, somewhere in their thirties, inspecting the rotting column. One was tall and heavy-set, the other short and wiry. The short one walked toward her with quick steps. He wore jeans, a T-shirt and a baseball cap that read Dallas Cowboys. As he reached her side, she realized he was shorter than her. He couldn’t be more than five feet two inches tall.
“Howdy, ma’am. I’m June Bug Stromiski. Miss Miranda said you need some carpenter work done.” He talked fast, not even taking a breath.
“Yes,
