It wasn't about facing everything alone. It was about having the courage to let others help carry the load.
"Thank you," she whispered. "All of you."
Lyle pressed a kiss to her temple. "Always, Firefly. Always."
Before Heather could respond, another car pulled into the driveway, this one a fancy Corvette.
“Looks like you’ll need to set another place for supper, Mike,” Lyle commented. “Gramps is here.”
The older man headed toward the back door, scooping Charlotte into his arms on the way. The little girl was chattering a mile a minute as Pudge trailed behind.
“She’s really starting to act like a happy-go-lucky six-year-old,” Heather said. “You guys are doing a great job with her.”
“You’ve had a lot to do with that,” Lyle said, his gaze tender as he brushed a lock of dark hair behind her ear.
They straightened away from the window as Quentin Watkins came through the back door. The man was tall and thick and filled the room, not just with his stature, but with his personality.
“Heard tell there was some goings on out here other than dude ranching.” He set Charlotte down and she immediately scooped up Pudge, sitting down at the table with the cat.
“Hey, Grandpa,” Mike said, clapping the older man on the back. “You’re just in time for supper.” He gave Charlotte a raised-brow look and she reluctantly got up to put the cat away and wash her hands.
“Durn right I am. I’ve always got great timing.”
Joe laughed. “Too bad you don’t have a care for the shocks on that Vette. Your pickup in the shop or something?” He, too gave his grandfather a brief, masculine hug.
“Naw. Felt like having a little ride through the country with the top down.”
“Well, it’s a good evening for it,” Lyle agreed, next in line to greet Quentin with a one-arm hug.
Kenny gave an affectionate nod in his grandfather’s direction. “Grampa,” he acknowledged.
“And, how are you doing, missy?” Quentin asked, turning to Heather.
“Stirring things up, I’m afraid.”
“So I heard. Nothing we can’t handle. What’s for supper, Mike?”
“Roasted chicken. Although it’s probably cooked to rubber by now.”
“That’s my fault,” Heather said. “Sorry about that.”
“No need for apologies,” Quentin said. “The day Mike serves a meal that resembles rubber will probably be the day after the good Lord calls us home.”
For a bare instant, the Watkins men were silent, each thinking that the Good Lord had indeed called their parents home. And Charlotte’s parents.
Lyle might have had a rocky relationship with his father, but he’d give anything to have one more meal with him. Rubbery or not.
Quentin recovered quick enough. “Let’s sit and eat and catch up.” Chairs scraped against the wood floor and dishes clattered as they all settled around the table. “Anybody want to fill me in on the latest?”
Lyle’s brows rose. “Just how up to date are you?”
“Probably up until the visit from the folks I passed on my way in.”
Lyle looked at Joe and he shrugged. Quentin made a point of talking to his grandsons daily. Lyle realized Joe would have been conversing with him. Because if Joe didn’t have a contact, Quentin surely would. Old family money and oil investments had created a wealthy, far-reaching dynasty in the Watkins family, with Quentin at the helm.
They spent a few moments going over the highlights of the FBI visit, then wrapped it up as Charlotte came back to the table, no sign of the cat this time.
“Tell me what you need from me,” Quentin said, looking from Heather to Lyle.
