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“Sure.” She stood to walk out but stopped at the door. “Thanks for being here, Buck. We need you more than you know.”
After she left, I rolled over and punched the single pillow on my old twin bed. I got the feeling that both Port and Flynn expected me to stay a hell of a lot longer than I intended to.
When I woke up, the sun was high in the sky. I got out of bed, hit the bathroom, and walked into the kitchen. The house was quiet, which meant everyone was probably out doing morning chores.
After I made another pot of coffee, I went outside and sat on the porch. Crested Butte, Colorado, where the ranch was located, was close to nine thousand feet in elevation. That meant it rarely got above eighty even on the hottest summer days. It felt warmer than that today, though.
“Heard you landed last night,” I heard another of my brothers, Cord, say from behind me. I stood and hugged him. Of everyone, he was the most like me. Where Porter was the clean-cut cowboy, Cord and I let our hair grow past our shoulders, only shaved when there was a damn good reason for it, and always volunteered to handle the chores on Sunday so we could get out of going to church.
I put my hands on his shoulders and looked into the same blue eyes I saw every day in the mirror. “How are you?”
Cord shrugged. “Better now that you’re here.”
I’d seen three of my siblings, and each one had said the same thing—better now that I was here.
“I’m not sure how long I will be.”
Cord cocked his head and took a breath as if he was about to say something when the last of my brothers walked out the front door.
“Buck,” said Holt, pulling me into a tight hug. “You sure as hell are a sight for these sore eyes of mine.”
He was the youngest boy but two years older than Flynn, who was the baby of the family and had just turned twenty-one.
Our mom had five kids inside ten years. No wonder she had a damn heart attack before her thirty-fifth birthday.
“You better get yourself cleaned up for the visitation later,” said Cord, looking me up and down. “Looks like you just rolled out of bed.”
I took a drink of coffee. “That’s because I did. Port and I didn’t get back from the airport until almost three in the morning.”
“Where is Port anyway?” asked Holt.
“I’m right here.” He walked out of the same door the other two had. “We’ll need to leave in thirty minutes to go meet with the pastor.”
I thought about begging off, but wasn’t that what I’d been doing for the last few years? The least I could do was stand beside my siblings as we buried the old son of a bitch.
As I walked past Porter to go in and shower, I was struck by how much older he looked. I hadn’t noticed it as much last night, but by the light of day, he looked ten years olde
r than me with another twenty years’ worth of worry piled on top of the age.
As it turned out, Porter and I were merely bookends for our younger sister, who had our father’s funeral service planned out to the final note of the last hymn. I wondered how much the old man had done himself, but wouldn’t ask her. Like Port had said, Flynn was stoic, and if that’s what she had to do to hold it together, I wasn’t about to shatter the walls she’d put around her heart.
The minister walked us out and said he’d see us later, at the visitation. I shook his hand and was about to get into my brother’s truck when I heard someone calling my name. I turned and shielded my eyes from the sun.
“Hey, Buck. I was hoping I’d see you before tonight.”
Bethany Strom—the girl who took my virginity—walked up and put her arms around me.
“Hey, Beth.” When she held me tight and kissed my cheek, I had to admit I appreciated the comfort.
I watched as her eyes briefly met Porter’s before he got in the truck, slammed the door, and she turned her focus back on me. “Whatever you need, Buck. I’m here.”
I leaned forward and kissed her forehead. “Thanks, sweetheart. I’ll see you later.”
Arrangements had been made for the visitation to take place in the town’s art center. I’d thought it was overkill until we drove up twenty minutes before it was scheduled to begin and there were already people lined up, waiting to get in.
If they only knew what the bastard had really been like, I doubted five people would’ve showed up. Then again, they weren’t here for him. They were here for our family, who had been part of the Crested Butte community for almost one hundred and fifty years, and for my brothers, sister, and me.
An hour felt like ten as we stood side by side, thanking those who came, listening as they told stories about our father, our mother, or both.
