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Otis and I complete one more chore, and by dinnertime, I’m famished. Lloyd is gone for the day, but not before preparing our family a delicious chicken paprikash, his mother’s Hungarian recipe. I can’t help wondering how much Porter must miss his mom’s cooking, let alone her company. Another thing that weighs on me where he’s concerned. And just another thing for Porter to resent me about. I have my parents—both of them—and given the chance, he won’t let me forget it.
That thought stuck in my mind, I welcome the stiff drink my father offers me afterward in front of a warm fire. We catch up on the day and discuss the upcoming cattle auction, where we’ll let some of our best go, hopefully not for less than market value.
“Maybe we should weigh the bulls before the sale?” I say. “See where we stand and what we might get for them?”
“Good idea. Heard the Colemans’ ranch got a pretty penny for one of their bulls last month.”
That’s when I hear Mom’s voice in the kitchen. “Now, you know I’m a miserable cook, but I still love to bake.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Porter replies, and I stiffen.
“This sweet-potato pie is your mother’s recipe. I thought you might enjoy a slice.”
There’s no response as I stand and make my way to the kitchen. What was Mom thinking?
When I enter the room, Porter is seated at the table, blinking at the slice of pie in front of him, as if lost in some memory.
“What’s going on?” I ask in a tight voice.
“Hi, honey. This just came out of the oven, and when I saw Porter through the window, I waved him inside.”
He won’t meet my eyes, so I don’t know if he’s upset or simply speechless. He’s always been quiet around my parents, or maybe uncomfortable is the better word.
“Mrs. Dixon would make this pie after every fall harvest.”
“I remember,” Porter says in a rough voice. “And she’d bring one home for us too.”
I step forward. “Maybe it wasn’t such a good idea?—”
Porter cuts me off. “No, it’s all right. I appreciate the gesture. Just haven’t thought about my momma’s cooking in a long time.”
When I reply, “She was the best,” his gaze softens briefly.
Mom bites her bottom lip, suddenly seeming unsure. “I didn’t mean to overstep. I just thought… I miss your momma something awful, and I…” She props herself against the counter. “Well, I don’t rightly know. We haven’t spoken properly since you returned, and I hoped we could have a good chat over your momma’s pie.”
There are warring emotions in Porter’s eyes. I can’t tell if he wants to flee or stay put, and it occurs to me that my presence is not making his decision any easier.
I turn toward the living room. “I’ll leave you to it, then.”
I walk numbly toward the fireplace and sink down in the wingback chair across from my father.
He reaches forward with the decanter to top off my whiskey. “Is that Porter in the kitchen?”
“Yeah. Mom made Mrs. Dixon’s sweet-potato pie and invited him to have a slice.”
He winces. “She means well.”
“I know.” I take a slow sip, and it burns going down. “I think he does too.”
“He’s a hard worker, damn good with the stock horses, and seems to be getting along fine with the other hands.”
Except Randy, I want to say. But I don’t have the energy. Instead, I grow silent and get lost in the murmurs coming from the other room.
If I close my eyes, I can pretend it’s just like old times.
Before everything went to shit.
Chapter 16
