“BRADY’S HOME!” The shout preceded the frantic embrace of Brady’s youngest sister. Before he could so much as get in a hello, she opened the front door, threw herself into his arms and held on for dear life.
For the next few moments, Brady forgot his doubts and simply relished the feeling. It had been a long time since he’d been hugged so fiercely…since he’d wanted to hug so fiercely.
“You’re here,” his sister murmured into his shoulder. “You’re really here.” Another quick squeeze and she pulled back enough to give him a scolding look. “It’s about damned time.”
“Ellie Jane Weston.” The admonishment came from a tall, slender, sixtyish woman with silvery hair and stern blue eyes who appeared in the entryway behind Ellie. “You watch your language.”
“Sorry, Ma. Brady’s home,” Ellie announced to the woman.
“I heard. Why, I wouldn’t be surprised if every one of the surrounding counties heard.” Claire Weston eyed her only son for a long moment, before her gaze softened. “It’s about damned time,” she finally declared, moving past her daughter to pull her son into her arms. “It’s been much too long.”
“I wanted to come home sooner, but I didn’t—”
“It doesn’t matter.” She shook her head. “You’re here now. That’s all that matters.” Another hug and she pulled away.
Surprisingly, her eyes glistened with tears and something shifted inside of Brady. While growing up, he’d seen his mother cry only once and that had been at his father’s funeral. Claire Weston, as strong as the 150-year-old oak tree growing in the backyard, had buried relatives, seen her family through many trials, and not once had she lost control of her emotions, a character trait that no doubt pleased her father-in-law. Tears were for the weak, and there wasn’t anything weak about the Westons.
One hundred years ago, Miles Weston had started Weston Boots all by himself. He’d handtooled leather from sunup to sundown, using little more than a makeshift tin shack out behind his barn as a workshop. He’d started something that generations after had continued. The Westons were hard workers, diligent, persistent, strong.
“It’s good to see you,” Brady said, giving his mother a warm smile.
“I hope this means what I think it means,” she told him.
“That depends.”
“I don’t care what the old man says, you’re staying.”
“We’ll see.” He smiled and wiped at a stray tear gliding down her cheek. “You’re looking as sexy as ever.”
She sniffled and gathered her composure. “I see you’ve still got a fresh mouth.”
“And you’re still the prettiest woman in Cadillac.” A loud cough and he turned toward his sister. “One of the prettiest women.” Ellie rewarded him with a smile. “And speaking of pretty women, where are Brenda and Marsha?” Brenda was his oldest sister and Marsha the next to the oldest.
“Brenda’s in Arizona for the next few weeks learning all about her uterus,” Ellie said.
“What?”
“She and Marc are finally going to give in to Granddaddy’s nagging and do the baby thing. But you know Brenda. She’s a perpetual planner. Before she even thinks of going off the pill, she wants to know everything there is to know about conception and babies. She’s at a convention given by Dr. Something or Other who wrote that book My Uterus, My Friend. Marc’s going to the workshops with her.”
“And Marsha?”
“She’s at a sales meeting in Chicago. She wants to expand the business, but Granddaddy isn’t so sure. She’s testing the waters with a few samples of next year’s line of snakeskin boots. You should see the new rattlesnake—”
“I really don’t want to talk business on an empty stomach,” their mother cut in. “You,” she said turning to Brady, “are just in time for lunch. I’ll get Dorothy to set another plate and we’ll catch up on old times. And then you two can talk about whatever you like.”
“Yes, ma’am. I see she’s still a slave driver,” he told his sister.
“What do you expect? It runs in the family.”
“Yes, but she married into the family.”
“That’s even worse. It’s a double whammy. We’re cursed.”
“Lunch,” Claire said as if keeping with her image. “Now.”
Brady managed two steps before he heard his grandfather’s voice drifting from the dining room.
“…need is a damned sheriff who knows the difference between a bull and a heifer. Why, John Macintosh is as citified as they come and only on the lookout for his own interests and those old cronies over at city hall. Damned politicians…”
The voice, so rich and deep and familiar, sent a wave of doubt through Brady and he hesitated.
He’d envisioned this moment the entire trip from Dallas. He was about to face his past, his present, his future. If Zachariah Weston could find it in his heart to forget and forgive. Or at least forgive.
“He’s still as salty as ever, but I can promise he won’t bite.”
“That’s a matter of opinion,” Ellie piped in behind them. “When I had my hair colored last month, he’d liked to have chewed me a new butthole.”
“Ellie Mae Weston. I’ll not have that kind of talk in this household.”
“Sorry, Ma, but I can’t help it if it’s true.”
“You colored your hair green. It’s understandable he had issues with it. You represent Weston Boots. I wasn’t too thrilled myself.”
“I’m stuck behind a stack of accounting ledgers and a computer screen. No one even sees me. Besides, green hair was no cause to go and write me out of your will.”
“I did no such thing and you know it.” She pinned her youngest daughter with a stern glare. “But I wouldn’t go counting your chickens yet, young lady. There’s still time, especially if you keep pushing me.”
Ellie touched the now purple tufts of hair sticking up on her head. “It’s just fashion, Ma.”
“It’s purple, for pity’s sake.” Another shake of her head and Claire Weston sighed. “I swear you’re trying to send me into an early grave.”
“Hey, I’m not stupid.” Ellie winked at Brady. “Can’t give her a chance to change the will, now, can I?”
“Ellie Mae Weston!”
“Sorry, Ma.”
Claire shook her head and turned back to Brady. “Pay her no nevermind. Your grandfather is as ornery as ever, that’s true. But he’s missed you. We all have.”
