have some, too,” Ross chimed in. “Looking down the road, we’d have to hire and pay a cook and provide maid service.”
Encouraged, Carson said, “No matter what, we’ll have to start out small.”
“Their moms will have to bring them.”
“You’re right, Buck. How long should they come for?”
“This is a bit of an experiment, so how about we try a week with one family and see how it goes?”
“For working mothers, I think a week sounds about right,” Ross theorized. “One thing we can do is help the kids if they need to talk about death, since we’ve been through a lot of grief counseling ourselves.”
“Good point. That’s one thing we know how to do. What ages are we talking about?”
“I’m thinking about my nieces and nephews,” Buck murmured. “How about little guys who are really missing their dads? Like six on up to maybe ten.”
Carson nodded. “That sounds about right. They’d be school age. Younger than six might be too young.”
“Agreed,” they all concurred.
Before long, enthusiasm for the project they envisioned wouldn’t let them alone. They soon found themselves plotting to turn Carson’s ranch into a dude ranch where tourists could come along with the families of fatherless children. They would establish a fund to take care of the costs. If their pilot program went well through the summer, they’d talk about keeping it open year-round.
Their plan was a good one and sounded feasible, except for one thing. None of them had gone home yet. Anything could happen when Buck and Ross were reunited with their families. Their parents had dreams for them when their beloved sons returned to their former lives. For that reason, Carson wasn’t holding his breath—what little he had at the moment. He had to admit the inhalers were helping. When he’d first been brought in, he’d been gasping for every breath and thought each was his last.
Of the three men, Carson was the only one who didn’t have living family. The grandfather who’d raised him had passed away five months ago of a surprise heart attack, leaving the ranch and its problems to him. Not even his grandfather’s doctor had seen it coming. Carson had flown home on emergency family leave to bury him.
In that regard, he wouldn’t have to run their brainchild past the older man he’d abandoned when he’d entered the military. At the time he hadn’t seen it as abandonment. They’d corresponded and phoned whenever possible, but in the end Carson wasn’t there for his grandfather when the chips were down. Now it was too late to make it up to the man he’d loved.
“Tomorrow’s the big day, guys.” Once they were all discharged from the hospital in the morning, he knew anything could happen to change his friends’ focus.
Buck nodded. “I’ll join you before the week is out.”
Maybe. But knowing Buck was the oldest son in a large, close-knit family who wanted and needed him back in the construction business, maybe not. “Give me a call and I’ll pick you up at the airport. What about you, Ross?”
“Three days at the most.”
“You think?”
He eyed him narrowly. “I know.”
Put like that, Carson could believe him, but his family who’d made their mark in oil for generations would have its way of pressuring the favorite son who’d made it home from the war. His politician father had long laid hopes for him set in stone. Time would tell if their master plan would get off the ground.
“I can hear the carts arriving with our dinner. Let’s get back to the room and eat before our final session with the shrink.”
It couldn’t come soon enough for any of them. The war had been their world for a long time. Tomorrow they’d leave it forever. But fear clutched him in the gut that it would never leave them.
MAY 2
Sandusky, Ohio
AT THREE O’CLOCK, Tracy Baretta left her office to pick up Johnny from elementary school. When she joined the line of cars waiting for the kids to come out, she hoped she’d see Clara Brewster. Her son, Nate, was a cute boy who’d invited Johnny to his birthday party last month. Johnny hadn’t wanted to go, but Tracy had made him.
Maybe Nate would like to come home with her and Johnny to play, but she didn’t see him or his mom. Her disappointment changed to a dull pain when she had to wait until all the kids had been picked up before her skinny, dark-haired first grader exited the school doors alone.
He purposely hung back from the others. His behavior had her worried sick. She’d been setting up some playdates with a few of the other boys in his first-grade class, but they hadn’t worked out well.
Johnny preferred to be alone and stay home with her after school. He’d become a very quiet child since Tony’s death and was way too attached to her. The psychologist told her to keep finding ways to get him to interact with other kids and not take no for an answer, but she wasn’t gaining ground.
He got in the rear seat with his backpack and strapped himself in. She looked over her shoulder at him. “How was school today, honey?”
“We had a substitute.”
“Was she fun?”
“It was a man. I didn’t like him.”
She eyed him in the rearview mirror. “Why do you say that?”
“He made me sit with Danny.”
“Isn’t he a nice boy?”
“He calls me squirt.”
His tear-filled voice brought out every savage maternal instinct to protect him. Praying for inspiration she said, “Do you want to know something?”
“What?”
“Your father was one of the shortest kids in his class when he was your age. By high school he was five feet ten.” The perfect size for Tracy. “That’ll happen to you, too. Do you think your father was a squirt?”
“No,” he muttered.
“Then forget what Danny said. When we go to Grandma’s house, she’ll show you lots of pictures to make you feel better.”
Of course Johnny couldn’t forget. Silence filled the car for the rest of the drive home to their small rental house. She parked in front of the garage. While he scrambled out of the back, she retrieved the mail and they entered through the front door.
Once inside, he raced for the kitchen. “Wash your hands before you eat anything!” He was always hungry for sweets after school.
While her six-year-old grumbled and ran into the bathroom, Tracy went to the kitchen and poured him a glass of milk before she sorted through the mail, mostly ads and bills. Among the assortment she saw a handwritten envelope addressed to Mrs. Anthony Baretta. It had a Jackson, Wyoming, postmark.
She
