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“You think I’m here for lunch?” Cal asked incredulously.
“I think it’s lunchtime and we’re about to eat and whatever it is you came to say can wait.”
What. The. Fuck.
His father acted as if the past was long gone. As if his actions and words no longer mattered. As if fifteen years and a whole lotta hurt didn’t stand between them. He opened his mouth, a retort hot on his tongue, but his brother walked in from the back, arms laden with chopped wood. He hadn’t spied Cal yet and was busy trying to step out of his boots.
The boy has grown.
Cal figured he was nearly as tall as himself, pushing six-four, if he wasn’t mistaken. He was filled out enough for a young man his age, long lean lines that still needed some weight. But the bones were there, and if he kept at it, Cal was pretty sure Ryland would be taller than any Bridgestone he knew. Boots successfully off, Ryland glanced up, and damned if it wasn’t like looking into a mirror. Eyes the color of cobalt stared back at him, set in a handsome face with high cheekbones, a square jaw, and a generous mouth. A mustache brushed over his upper lip and his hair, while on the long side, was swept back in a carefree manner to curl around the collar of his jacket.
Warmth bloomed in his chest, and Cal cleared his throat, suddenly off-kilter. He felt like an outsider. “Hey, kid,” Cal managed quietly.
Ryland nodded, then crossed the room and deposited the wood into a bin by the fireplace. Penny followed him and, once assured that things were good, settled her large body on the bed, though the wolf never took her eyes off Cal.
“What are you doing here?” Ryland asked, darting a look to their father. “Bent’s all good, right? Nothing changed?”
Cal found himself nodding. “Yes, he’s on the mend.”
“So, you’re leaving again?” The kid’s chin thrust up. Cal sensed some anger, and maybe a little something else. It seemed as if his father wasn’t the only one with some bridges to cross.
“Not right away.”
“But you’ll be leaving.”
“Eventually, I guess.”
Ryland all but snorted. “We don’t need you here, Cal. You don’t gotta stay.”
More than a little taken aback by his younger brother’s attitude, Cal had to take a moment. “I’m here as long as Bent needs me.”
Ry didn’t bother to hide his eye-roll, though he didn’t get a chance to throw another verbal dart at Cal, because their father placed three bowls on the kitchen table. He didn’t look at either of them when he spoke.
“We’ve got plumbing up here now, so both of you wash up. Bathroom’s through there.” He pointed to a small hall Cal hadn’t noticed before. Not bothering to hide his displeasure, Ryland walked past him and disappeared.
Cal stared after his brother, more than a little pissed off himself.
“There’s soap in the kitchen too.”
Manley had pulled fresh garlic bread from the oven and placed it on the table. He glanced up at Cal. “I don’t figure you came all this way to up and leave without your say. You’ll get your chance when we’re done eating.”
“I came here for Ry. I don’t have anything to say to you.”
“Well, maybe I’ve got some things to square away, son. Maybe you need to give me the chance to say them.”
Surprise, the kind he hadn’t felt in years, had his blood burning hot. He didn’t get a chance to respond because Ryland appeared and without a word took a seat at the table. Off balance and feeling more than a little out of place, Cal shrugged out of his jacket and hung it on a hook beside the door. He figured his best option was to make nice and break bread with his old man. He’d ease into the school thing with his brother in a way that wouldn’t spook the kid. It’s what an adult would do.
Cal decided to keep a cool head and play nice. He had no interest in hearing anything his father had to say. He’d seen him clean up, dry out, and then fall back to the bottom of a whiskey bottle more times than he could count. This was a movie he knew well, and the ending was always the same.
He slid his butt onto a chair across from his brother and, in spite of himself, felt his mouth water at the smell of food. He hadn’t eaten this morning, so he ladled a generous amount of hot chili into his bowl. Grabbing two slices of garlic toast, he dug in, surprised at how good it was.
Tastes like memory.
He almost said the words aloud as an image of his mother standing over the stove danced in his mind. She’d always made the best chili in the dead of winter. The kind that would stick to bones and fill bellies after a long day of ranching.
He glanced up and caught his dad’s eyes on him. He wondered if the old man was thinking the same thing.
The three of them ate in a silence broken only by the occasional snore coming from the mountain of fur that was fully relaxed on the bed by the fireplace. Cal glanced at the wolf—he had questions about the animal.
