The Cowboy (24 page)

“It sounds like Mr. Blackthorne is a very kind and helpful man,” she said.

“He was mean!” Eli said. “He yelled at me.”

Trace would have argued the point. He’d spoken sternly; he hadn’t yelled.

“You know he was right to make you wear your seat belt,” Mrs. Creed said. “And if he asked you to stay in the truck, I imagine he’s probably wondering where you are.”

Trace and Callie stepped through the doorway.

“Hi, Mom,” Callie said.

“How’s Sam?” her mother asked.

“Hanging in there. The doctor says we’ll know more by tomorrow morning.”

Trace watched as the two women exchanged a look. He could see that Mrs. Creed realized the seriousness of Sam’s situation.

Trace was surprised at how healthy Callie’s mother appeared. One arm was tied in a white sling against her chest, but she was wearing a pretty robin’s-egg-blue robe, and her long auburn hair was tied up in a youthful ponytail that left soft curls framing her face. She looked much younger and prettier than he remembered.

And now she was a single woman.

For an instant, he wondered whether his father would ever consider divorcing his mother to marry this woman. He would give his eyeteeth to know what had happened between Lauren Creed and his father all those years ago. Could the tie that had once bound them really have survived all these years? Then he thought of himself and Callie, and realized that the ties of the past could survive a great deal.

“Good afternoon, Trace,” Mrs. Creed said with a welcoming smile that seemed genuine. “I hope you haven’t been searching for these two scamps for very long.”

“Callie and I figured out pretty quickly where they must have gone,” Trace said.

“We thank you for your help,” she said in a voice that told him he had her permission to leave now. She tightened her hold on the little girl, who was cuddled up next to her.

Eli slid off the bed and turned to confront him. “Why did you come up here? We don’t want you here!”

He looked at Mrs. Creed as he explained to Eli, “Your mom is worn out. I’ll be arranging for someone to come and stay with you and your sister, while she gets some rest.”

Eli’s jaw dropped. He quickly backed up toward the head of the bed and reached for his grandmother’s hand. “You can’t do that? Can he, Gram?”

“What’s wrong with Callie?” Mrs. Creed asked, her gray-green eyes wide with alarm as she surveyed her daughter.

Callie rolled her eyes again. “Nothing’s wrong with me that a good night’s sleep won’t cure.”

“She fainted downstairs,” Trace countered.

Callie glared at him.

“Is that true, Callie?” her mother asked.

“I was just tired, Mom.”

“She needs a break,” Trace said, pressing his advantage. “And I intend to see that she gets it. I have a hunting cabin where Callie can have some peace and quiet and get all the sleep she needs.”

“What is it you plan to do with my daughter’s children while she’s getting some rest?” Mrs. Creed asked.

Trace cleared his throat. “I figured I’d take them home to Three Oaks and … uh … I thought I’d ask Rosalita—the Mexican woman who took care of me when I was growing up—to come over and stay with them.”

“My son Luke can take care of them.”

“That may be true, ma’am,” Trace said. “But he wasn’t home when we left. And won’t he have school during the day? Somebody’ll have to take care of the little girl while he’s gone.”

“How long did you plan to keep my daughter away from home?” Callie’s mother asked.

“A night or two, I suppose.”

“Mom, this is ridiculous,” Callie protested. “I can sleep at home!”

“But apparently you haven’t been sleeping,” her mother said sharply. “You look exhausted. Someone has to make you take better care of yourself. Trace’s plan sounds like the perfect solution.”

“But, Mom—”

“What will happen to us if you fall ill, Callie? I think two days of rest sounds entirely reasonable.”

Callie’s chin jutted mulishly, but she finally said, “Fine.”

“You can wait here with your mother while I take Eli and Hannah home,” Trace said to Callie. “I’ll be back to pick you up later.”

Before Callie could object, her mother said, “Good. That’ll give Callie and me a chance to catch up.”

“I want Mom to come home with us!” Eli said, grabbing hold of the headrail of the bed with both hands. “Otherwise, I’m not leaving.”

Mrs. Creed turned to Eli and said, “I need you to keep an eye on Hannah while your mother gets some rest.”

“But, Gram—”

“We do what must be done, Eli, whether we like it or not,” Mrs. Creed said. “You and Hannah have to give up a little of your mother’s time and attention so that she can regain her strength. You don’t want her to get sick, do you?”

Trace saw the stricken look on Eli’s face as his gaze shifted to his mother’s drawn features. “All right, Gram,” he said at last.

Mrs. Creed gave Hannah a kiss on the forehead, smoothed her golden curls, and said, “Go with Mr. Blackthorne, Hannah.”

Trace took the few steps necessary to put him close enough to reach Hannah. The little girl never hesitated; she simply reached her arms out to Trace as he picked her up. She clung to him like a possum, her arms surrounding his neck, her legs wrapped around his waist.

Hannah murmured, “Bye, Mommy,” against Trace’s throat.

Trace turned to the recalcitrant boy and said, “Come on, Eli. Time to go.”

Eli let go of the rail and hugged his grandmother around the neck. “When are you coming home?” he asked her plaintively.

“Soon,” she promised. “Very soon.”

“You won’t be gone long, will you, Mom?” the boy asked, turning to Callie.

“I’ll be home tomorrow,” Callie said, brushing at Eli’s stubborn cowlick.

“Day after tomorrow,” Trace corrected.

“Day after tomorrow,” Callie conceded after a glance at her mother’s pursed lips.

The boy headed for the doorway without looking at Trace. “I’ll meet you at the truck,” he said sullenly. He slipped past Trace, then galloped down the hall.

Trace had already turned to leave, when Callie stopped him.

“Trace.”

He turned his head to meet her gaze and said, “Yes, Callie?”

“Take good care of my children.”

“Like they were my own.”

Trace saw a flicker of some emotion in her eyes, but it was gone before he could identify it.

Eli was not only sitting in the pickup by the time Trace got there, he was already buckled in. Trace slid Hannah in from the driver’s side, buckled her in, and headed the pickup back toward Three Oaks. He used his cell phone to call Rosalita, who still lived in a house at Bitter Creek, though she had long since retired. She was delighted to hear from him and more than willing to stay with the
children. But she was baby-sitting her own grandchildren at the moment.

“As soon as my daughter comes home, I will have her drop me off there. She promised not to be late,” Rosalita said. “But she isn’t always on time.”

Trace disconnected the call feeling both relieved and anxious. He glanced at Eli and Hannah. If Luke wasn’t home when he got to Three Oaks, he was going to end up doing some baby-sitting himself. He called Callie and advised her about the possible delay. She told him she thought she might spend some time sitting with Sam, and that he should look for her there, if she wasn’t still with her mother.

“Do you have any idea how we can get hold of your uncle Luke?” he asked Eli.

“He’s probably home by now,” Eli said.

Using his cell phone, Trace called the number for Three Oaks that Eli gave him, but there was no answer. Trace figured he’d better give Luke some warning of the situation he’d find when he did get home, so he wasn’t scared out of his wits.

“Any other suggestions where I might find him?”

Eli was silent for a moment before he said, “He stayed with a friend last night.”

“What’s his friend’s name?”

A hesitation, then, “Jeff.”

This was harder than pulling nails from oak. “Jeff who?” Trace asked, working hard to keep the irritation out of his voice.

“I don’t know his last name,” Eli said.

Trace gave up. If Luke didn’t arrive home before
Rosalita showed up, Trace would leave instructions with Rosalita to have the boy call his grandmother.

Callie had left the house unlocked, a remnant of range hospitality from the days when no stranger was turned away without a cup of coffee and the offer of a night’s lodging. Eli let himself in and headed straight upstairs to his room. Trace let him go.

“I’m hungry,” Hannah said.

Trace looked at his watch. It was long past suppertime. He set Hannah down in the kitchen and said, “What should we fix for supper?”

“Blueberry pancakes,” Hannah said without hesitation.

He didn’t argue, because it sounded simple—except for the blueberry part—unless Callie was the sort who made pancakes from scratch. “Where does your mom keep the pancake mix?” he asked.

Hannah pointed to a cupboard next to the refrigerator.

Trace opened the cupboard and couldn’t believe his luck. On the shelf stood a box of Krusteaz blueberry pancake mix that said on the front, “Complete. Just Add Water.”

“Thank the Lord for small favors,” he murmured.

“I can help,” Hannah said, crossing to a drawer to take out a set of aluminum measuring cups. “I can measure the water.”

“You bet. Uh. Where’s a bowl?”

Hannah pointed him to the correct cupboard. While he was retrieving a bowl, she pulled a kitchen chair over to the counter next to the sink and climbed up on it.

“Let’s see,” Trace said, looking at the directions on the back. “How many pancakes should we make?”

“The most,” Hannah said with a grin. “I like pancakes.”

Trace found himself grinning back at her. “So do I.” He found the recipe for twenty-one to twenty-three four-inch pancakes, quickly measured out three cups of pancake mix, then said to Hannah, “We need two and one-quarter cups of water.”

He turned on the faucet, then helped keep Hannah from losing her balance as she held the measuring cup under the water long enough to fill it. She spilled a bit of it before it got into the mix and looked up at him to see his reaction.

“No problem,” he said. “We’ll just add a little more at the end.”

“Hmmm,” he said after they’d added the water. “It says to use a wire whisk. Wonder where we might find one of those.”

“I know!” Hannah said. She clambered down from the chair and crossed to a drawer beside the refrigerator, then pulled it open and rummaged through until she found a wire whisk. She held it up to him, beaming. “Here it is!”

Once the batter was whipped, Trace realized he hadn’t heated up a skillet. “How are we going to cook these pancakes?” he asked Hannah.

She pointed to the top of the refrigerator, where he saw an electric skillet.

“Aha!” he said, retrieving it. “How about something to keep the pancakes from sticking to the pan?”

“Mommy uses the stuff with 433 servings per can,” Hannah said.

“Wow! That many.” Trace couldn’t imagine a can that contained 433 servings of anything that would fit in one
of the small wooden cupboards. “All right. I give up. What stuff?”

Hannah giggled. “PAM!”

Trace thought she was kidding. When he found the PAM in the cupboard where Hannah told him to look, it did, indeed, contain 433 servings—of a one-third-second spray. He generously sprayed the electric skillet with fifteen servings of PAM.

Trace was just dripping batter into the skillet from a large spoon, when Luke stepped into the kitchen. He automatically stuck his hat on a horseshoe hat rack inside the door, then stopped dead and stared. “What are you doing here?” he demanded.

Trace turned to face him, batter still dripping off the spoon, and said, “Your brother Sam’s in the hospital with alcohol poisoning. Your sister’s there with him and your mother. I’m baby-sitting.”

“Is Sam going to be all right?” Luke asked.

“The doctor won’t know for sure until tomorrow morning.”

“You spilled some!” Hannah announced, pointing to the pool of blueberry pancake batter on the hardwood floor.

Trace set the spoon down, tore a paper towel off the roll attached under the cupboard, and handed it to Hannah. “Would you clean it up for me?”

“Okay,” Hannah said, sitting down and sliding off the chair. She swiped at the batter, but her efforts merely spread it into a wider mess on the floor.

Luke crossed and bent down on one knee to help her. He stood with the paper towel in his hand and confronted
Trace. “You can leave now. I can handle things from here.”

“There’s a woman named Rosalita coming over to take care of the kids. She shouldn’t be too late,” Trace said.

“Tell her not to come,” Luke said. “I can take care of things around here.”

“What about tomorrow?”

Luke stared at him, uncomprehending.

“When you go to school,” Trace said. “Who’s going to take care of Hannah?”

“Callie should be home by then.”

“Callie’s taking a break for a couple of days to get some rest. Your mom insisted on it,” he said when Luke opened his mouth to argue. “She won’t be back until day after tomorrow.”

“I can stay home from school tomorrow,” Luke said stubbornly.

Hannah was back on her chair and announced, “The pancakes are burning.”

“We forgot the spatula,” Trace said to Hannah.

Luke grabbed a spatula from the drawer next to the sink, then stepped up to the skillet and flipped the pancakes. When he was done, he turned, holding the spatula as though it were a knife, to keep Trace at bay. “I said leave, and I mean it.”

When Trace looked at the teenage boy, he didn’t see the fisted hands posed aggressively or the narrow shoulders squared for action. He saw the freckles on his nose and the fear in his eyes.

Before he could insist on staying till Rosalita showed up, Eli stepped into the kitchen from the hallway.

“I thought I heard your voice,” Eli said to Luke. “I’m
glad you’re home. I was afraid this guy was going to hang around all night.”

“I’m staying till Rosalita shows up,” Trace said quietly. “To make sure she’s welcomed when she gets here.”