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“Oh. I…what—”
“You fainted, Mom,” Iris said, and didn’t mean the accusation in her voice. Fraser squeezed her hand.
Jenny looked at her husband, then at Fraser, Iris. “I don’t know what…I’m fine. Just fine.”
“Like hell you are,” her father said.
Fraser raised an eyebrow.
“Go warm up the car, son,” her father said.
Fraser headed for the door.
Then her father leaned down and simply picked up their mother in his arms, afghan and all.
“Garrett—”
“That’s enough, Jenny. Enough trying to be tough. You’re going to the ER.”
She sighed, then suddenly seemed to fold into her husband, as if tired. “Yes,” she said softly. “It’s time.”
It’s time?
Iris stood, frozen.
“Would someone please turn off the eggs?” her mother said as their father carried her out the door.
* * *
Maybe Hudson shouldn’t have run.But Iris’s words had sat in his brain all night—Everything is exactly as it should be.
Which was her going back to her life. Alone.
And he’d never felt so kicked in the gut as he had then.
Which was why, thirty-six hours later, he found himself perusing the late-afternoon lunch menu at the Gray Pony Bar and Grill outside Mercy Falls, waiting for his brother Harry, and maybe his parents, to walk through the doors.
The place oozed Western, with the barrel tables, the stage up front, and in the next room, a mechanical bull, a couple pool tables, darts. The sign outside boasted the best barbecue in western Montana, with live music every night.
Sure, he could have gone home, but frankly, he wasn’t sure where that was right now. His parents lived in a fifth wheel and parked it close to his father’s current gigs, so this seemed as good a place as any for him to check in.
“Can I get you anything besides water?” The cute waitress, with her amber-blonde hair, wearing a black Gray Pony T-shirt, low jeans and boots, the name Audrey on her name tag, set the water down on the table.
“Maybe some of those potato skins with the jalapeños and bacon?”
“You’ll love them. Anyone joining you?” She reached for the silverware rolls to remove them, but he put his hand out.
“Yes, hopefully.” He’d called Harry on his way through North Dakota yesterday, before he’d stopped in Billings last night for some shut-eye. Harry had said he’d reach out to their parents.
And no, Hud didn’t know how long he’d be in town. Maybe twenty-four hours, because his coach had texted him, wondering if he’d be at practice in Amsterdam in roughly forty hours.
Probably. Because what else did he have?
Onstage, a cowboy-slash-musician was warming up, testing the mic, playing a couple riffs on his electric acoustic guitar, singing a sad chorus of some ballad. Good-looking guy, he wore jeans and boots, stood almost six foot, with brown hair, pale blue eyes. He wore a half beard and seemed exactly the part of a swoony country singer.
Hud had been here once before, a few years back after his parents moved closer to Mercy Falls. His dad worked for a couple ranches in the area during branding and roundup, and hired on to ride fence during the winter or run feed out to the cattle in remote places. It was easier to live locally.
The door opened, and the late-afternoon sun blurred the image entering. Hudson held up his hand to the light and made out the outline of his older brother Harry. Not quite as tall as Hud, darker hair, Harry could still hold his own on the field—or the pitch, as his preferred sport had always been rugby.
