gear. “Now that we’re going to stay put, we’ll unpack that picture you like so much, and you can keep it in your room.”
Matt nodded, mercifully distracted by the dog, and the two of them—kid and critter—ran wildly around in the tall grass for a while, letting off steam.
Steven carried the kibble into the tour bus and stowed it in the little room where the stacking washer and dryer kept a hot-water tank company. He spent the next twenty minutes carrying suitcases and dry goods and a few boxes containing pots and pans from the house to the bus, keeping an eye on Matt and Zeke as they explored.
“Stay away from the barn,” Steven ordered. “There are bound to be some rusty nails, and if you step on one, it means a tetanus shot.”
Matt made a face. “No shots!” he decreed, setting his hands on his hips.
Zeke barked happily, as if to back up the assertion.
Without answering, Steven went inside, filled a bowl with water and brought it outside.
Zeke rushed over, drank noisily until he’d had his fill.
That done, he proceeded to lift his leg against one of the bus tires.
“That’s good, isn’t it?” Matt asked, observing. “He’s going outside.”
Steven chuckled. “It’s good,” he confirmed. “How about some supper?”
Matt liked the idea, and he and Zeke followed Steven back into the bus. Steven opened the kibble sack, and Matt filled a saucepan and set it down on the floor for the dog.
While Zeke crunched and munched, Steven scrubbed his hands and forearms at the sink, plucked a tin of beef ravioli from the stash of groceries he and Matt had brought along on the road trip, used a can opener and scooped two portions out onto plates, shoved the first one into the microwave oven.
“Time to wash up,” he told Matt.
“What about the picture of Mommy and Daddy?”
“We’ll find it after supper, Tex. A man’s got to eat, if he’s going to run a ranch.”
Matt rushed off to the bathroom; Steven heard water running. Grinned.
By the time Matt returned and took his place at the booth-type table next to the partition that separated the cab of the bus from the living quarters, Steven was taking the second plate of ravioli out of the oven.
“Ravioli again? Yum!” Matt said, picking up his plastic fork and digging in with obvious relish.
“Yeah,” Steven admitted, joining the boy at the table. “It’s good.”
I might have to expand my culinary repertoire, though, he thought. Couldn’t expect the kid to grow up on processed food, even if it was quick and tasty.
Maybe they’d plant a garden.
Chewing, Steven recalled all the weeding, watering, hoeing and shoveling he’d done every summer when he came home to the ranch in Colorado. Kim, his dad’s wife, always grew a lot of vegetables—tomatoes and corn, lettuce and green beans, onions and spuds and a whole slew of other things—freezing and canning the excess.
The work had been never-ending.
Maybe they wouldn’t plant a garden, he decided.
Zeke, meanwhile, having finished his kibble, curled up on the rug in front of the door with a big canine sigh, rested his muzzle on his forelegs and closed his eyes for a snooze.
Matt eyed the animal fondly. “Thanks,” he said, when he was facing Steven again. “I really wanted a dog.”
“I think I knew that,” Steven teased. “And you’re welcome.”
Matt finished his ravioli and pushed his plate away.
Steven added milk to a mental grocery list.
“Can Zeke go to day camp with me?” Matt asked, a few minutes later, when Steven was washing off their plates at the sink.
“No,” Steven answered. “Probably not.”
Matt looked worried. “What will he do all day?”
“He can come to the office with me,” Steven heard himself say.
Fatherhood. Maybe, in spite of the ravioli supper, he was getting the hang of it.
CHAPTER FOUR
VELDA RELAYED THE parole officer’s remarks to Melissa, after saying goodbye and shutting the phone.
“Byron got out this morning,” she said, the cell resting on her lap now, her gaze fixed on something well beyond the windshield of Melissa’s quirky little car. “Just like he was supposed to. He had a ticket back to Stone Creek, and somebody dropped him off at the bus station, right on schedule.”
Parked at a stop sign, Melissa didn’t move until the driver behind her honked impatiently. Then she made a right, pulled up to the curb and stopped the car. “Maybe he decided to get off in Flagstaff or somewhere,” she said. With permission from the authorities, Byron could settle anyplace in the state, after all—except that he would have needed his parole officer’s permission to do that.
Color flared in Velda’s otherwise pale cheeks. “You’d like that, wouldn’t you?” she snapped, glaring over at Melissa. “If Byron didn’t come back to Stone Creek, I mean? That way, you wouldn’t have to think about him, now would you? You or anybody else in this crappy town!”
Melissa sighed. “Velda, calm down. I’m only trying to help you figure out what’s going on here and find Byron.”
But Velda shoved her door open and practically leaped out of the car. “If you really wanted to help,” she accused, “you wouldn’t have pushed so hard for my boy to do time!”
“A girl died,” Melissa said quietly.
The reminder fell on deaf ears, apparently. Maybe it was just too much for Velda to face, the reality that her only child had caused someone’s death.
“Do you know what he did while he was in jail, Melissa?” Velda ranted on, standing on the shady sidewalk and trembling even though it was warm out. “Do you know what Byron Cahill, the horrible criminal, did every day, while he was locked up?”
Melissa swallowed, shook her head, braced for some dreadful prison story.
“He helped train dogs from the shelters to be service animals. Search-and-rescue, seeing-eye dogs, dogs to help deaf people, too. He’s a good boy, dammit!”
“Velda,” Melissa said, after nodding to acknowledge that Byron Cahill might actually have an admirable side, like just about everybody else on the planet, “let me take you home. Maybe Byron’s there. Maybe he caught a ride with somebody instead of getting on the bus, or something like that.”
But Velda shook her head. A tear slipped down her right cheek. Then she pivoted on the worn heel of one flip-flop and
