“For real, I mean?”
“For real,” Zane said.
“Did you ride bulls?” Nash was double-stepping alongside as Zane strode out of the barn and into the sunlight.
“No,” Zane answered. “Broncs.”
“Were you any good?”
“I collected my share of prize money,” Zane said, smiling again, thinking that maybe—just maybe—this whole crazy idea might work, after all, him and the boy living under the same roof on a permanent basis, forging some semblance of a family.
It was a nice thought, and Zane almost immediately shied away from it. This was the real world, he reminded himself, not some movie guaranteed to have a happy ending. Nash had problems. He had problems. Solving them wouldn’t just take effort, it would require luck, too. And lots of it.
“And buckles?” Nash pressed. “Did you win any of those?” He didn’t wait for Zane to answer, but rushed right on, carried away by his enthusiasm. “I watch rodeo on ESPN sometimes,” he blurted, “and some of those buckles are so fancy you can’t believe it.”
Zane grinned, called to the dog as they drew nearer the house. “I might have a buckle or two,” he said. In truth, he’d lost count of how many he’d won over the years, before he got suckered into the Hollywood scene. The only good thing that had come out of that was money. More money than he knew what to do with, actually.
“Can I see them? The buckles, I mean?”
“Sure,” Zane said. “Right now, though, they’re still at my place in California.”
They’d reached the ramshackle porch and, instead of going inside, by some tacit agreement, they sat down on the steps. Slim nuzzled up close to Nash, and the boy stroked the dog’s back, though his attention was still fixed on Zane. “I guess you must be planning to go back there,” the kid speculated, with all the subtlety he could manage, which didn’t amount to a whole lot. “If you didn’t bring your stuff with you or anything.”
Zane felt another twinge of sympathy for the boy, one he was careful to hide. “Stuff is stuff,” he said. “I can live without most of it.”
Nash frowned, thinking hard. “If you go back to California,” he finally asked, “what happens to me?”
“I’m not planning to go back there—not to stay, anyhow,” Zane answered gently. “If—when—I go to L.A. to tie up some loose ends, you can go with me. Unless it’s during the school term, that is.”
Skepticism and hope did battle in Nash’s earnest face, and there was no telling which of them won, because an expression of studied disinterest fell like a mask over his features. “And if school is on, I have to stay here, all by myself?”
“Cleo will be around,” Zane reminded his kid brother lightly. A silence took shape between them, both of them gazing toward the horizon. “You spend a lot of time by yourself, Nash?” Zane asked, at some length.
Nash shrugged his narrow shoulders. “Once in a while, Dad stashed me someplace where he figured I’d be all right on my own for a few days. It wasn’t any big deal, though.”
“What kind of ‘someplace’?” Zane persisted quietly.
“You said it yourself, before,” Nash said, with a note of defiance in his voice, indicating the house behind them with a nod of his head. “Shelters. Juvie, once or twice. One time, I spent a whole week in this really cruddy motel on the outskirts of St. Louis, but Dad left me money for the vending machine, so I didn’t go hungry or anything.”
Zane turned back to the horizon, not wanting the boy to see the look on his face. “Good old Pop,” he murmured. “Always keeping his bases covered.”
“To hear Dad tell it,” Nash retorted defensively, “you and Landry didn’t have it all that good living with your mom, so don’t go acting all superior, okay?”
Zane felt a surge of rage, rage that had nothing to do with Nash and everything to do with Jess Sutton. “Things were tough when we were kids,” he conceded, still keeping
“For real,” Zane said.
“Did you ride bulls?” Nash was double-stepping alongside as Zane strode out of the barn and into the sunlight.
“No,” Zane answered. “Broncs.”
“Were you any good?”
“I collected my share of prize money,” Zane said, smiling again, thinking that maybe—just maybe—this whole crazy idea might work, after all, him and the boy living under the same roof on a permanent basis, forging some semblance of a family.
It was a nice thought, and Zane almost immediately shied away from it. This was the real world, he reminded himself, not some movie guaranteed to have a happy ending. Nash had problems. He had problems. Solving them wouldn’t just take effort, it would require luck, too. And lots of it.
“And buckles?” Nash pressed. “Did you win any of those?” He didn’t wait for Zane to answer, but rushed right on, carried away by his enthusiasm. “I watch rodeo on ESPN sometimes,” he blurted, “and some of those buckles are so fancy you can’t believe it.”
Zane grinned, called to the dog as they drew nearer the house. “I might have a buckle or two,” he said. In truth, he’d lost count of how many he’d won over the years, before he got suckered into the Hollywood scene. The only good thing that had come out of that was money. More money than he knew what to do with, actually.
“Can I see them? The buckles, I mean?”
“Sure,” Zane said. “Right now, though, they’re still at my place in California.”
They’d reached the ramshackle porch and, instead of going inside, by some tacit agreement, they sat down on the steps. Slim nuzzled up close to Nash, and the boy stroked the dog’s back, though his attention was still fixed on Zane. “I guess you must be planning to go back there,” the kid speculated, with all the subtlety he could manage, which didn’t amount to a whole lot. “If you didn’t bring your stuff with you or anything.”
Zane felt another twinge of sympathy for the boy, one he was careful to hide. “Stuff is stuff,” he said. “I can live without most of it.”
Nash frowned, thinking hard. “If you go back to California,” he finally asked, “what happens to me?”
“I’m not planning to go back there—not to stay, anyhow,” Zane answered gently. “If—when—I go to L.A. to tie up some loose ends, you can go with me. Unless it’s during the school term, that is.”
Skepticism and hope did battle in Nash’s earnest face, and there was no telling which of them won, because an expression of studied disinterest fell like a mask over his features. “And if school is on, I have to stay here, all by myself?”
“Cleo will be around,” Zane reminded his kid brother lightly. A silence took shape between them, both of them gazing toward the horizon. “You spend a lot of time by yourself, Nash?” Zane asked, at some length.
Nash shrugged his narrow shoulders. “Once in a while, Dad stashed me someplace where he figured I’d be all right on my own for a few days. It wasn’t any big deal, though.”
“What kind of ‘someplace’?” Zane persisted quietly.
“You said it yourself, before,” Nash said, with a note of defiance in his voice, indicating the house behind them with a nod of his head. “Shelters. Juvie, once or twice. One time, I spent a whole week in this really cruddy motel on the outskirts of St. Louis, but Dad left me money for the vending machine, so I didn’t go hungry or anything.”
Zane turned back to the horizon, not wanting the boy to see the look on his face. “Good old Pop,” he murmured. “Always keeping his bases covered.”
“To hear Dad tell it,” Nash retorted defensively, “you and Landry didn’t have it all that good living with your mom, so don’t go acting all superior, okay?”
Zane felt a surge of rage, rage that had nothing to do with Nash and everything to do with Jess Sutton. “Things were tough when we were kids,” he conceded, still keeping
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