little bastard to tell us what he’s done.”
That promise gave Hugh the feeling his world was turning right-side-up again.
The worst was over now.
There had been a satisfying irony in watching Billy Crosby mend the fence lines he’d gone to so much trouble to cut, and even more satisfaction in making him pick up the cow he’d killed. Revenge was a vicious cycle, Hugh Senior mused as he stood in the field with the rain falling a little harder by the minute. The cycle never stopped turning unless somebody made the decision to stop. But then he assured himself that his own words and actions weren’t about revenge. He was taking sensible, businesslike precautions by moving quickly to excise a cancer from his ranch.
He got into his truck and headed for the barn to pick up the lame horse. Doing anything less would have made him a hypocrite in his own eyes. He couldn’t condemn Billy Crosby for mistreating animals if he didn’t care enough about a horse he owned to relieve its pain.
My oldest boy is a better man than I am, he thought, not for the first time.
He felt his heart swell with love for the boy, even if that was a sentiment he might never speak aloud.
“Going on five o’clock,” he said to himself.
If he was going to get that horse in to the vet, he’d better get going.
It had been a bad day, but it was already better, or it was if you weren’t trying to grow corn.
O N HER DRIVE into Rose to try to salvage her son’s marriage, Annabelle realized she might need to slide in sideways rather than launch a frontal attack. She needed to dangle a lure in front of her daughter-in-law in the same way she offered apples to her horse to get him to come to her from far out in a pasture. As she drove through the flat landscape, for some reason it made her think of mountains, which gave her an idea, an expensive one that she thought might work with Laurie—especially with luxury-loving Laurie.
Feeling hopeful of her bright idea, she stopped first at Belle’s museum in the former bank to use the phone to call ahead. As she stood in front of the nineteenth-century limestone building and glanced up at the corner gargoyles, she realized she might use this opportunity to mend fences with her grumpy daughter while the men mended fences at the ranch. The gargoyles looked no more welcoming than Belle was likely to be, but she loved them, just as she loved her most difficult child—just as she loved all of her currently difficult children.
She raised an eyebrow at a stone gargoyle that glared back.
“Oh, come on,” she said to it, “look on the bright side.”
Since the ugly old thing presided over a failed bank, that seemed unlikely.
She pushed open the elegant front door, with its huge brass knob and murky leaded glass panes.
A brass bell rang over her head, announcing her arrival.
“Who’s that?” her daughter’s voice called from the back.
“Your mother! Are you in the vault?”
“Yes,” came the unwelcoming response.
She walked past the line of filigreed teller cages that lined one wall, wonderful remnants of bank transactions of old, now waiting for Belle to figure out how to use them in her museum. She inhaled, imagining she could smell old money, hear the bustle of commerce, the voices, the clink of coins, the slap of cash on marble.
On her way toward the cavernous bank vault that Belle used as her office, she glanced at black-and-white photos of sod houses, cattle drives, oil wells, stone fence posts, the pictures all lying on tables until Belle could frame and hang them. Despite her own and Hugh’s skepticism about the enterprise, she found herself drawn to the photos. When she stopped to look more closely at one, she found herself wanting to look at the next one, leading her to wonder if maybe, just maybe, other people would find them fascinating, too. She looked up at the molded tin ceiling. It really was a wonderful old building.
Tell her so , Annabelle reminded herself.
She hoped she
That promise gave Hugh the feeling his world was turning right-side-up again.
The worst was over now.
There had been a satisfying irony in watching Billy Crosby mend the fence lines he’d gone to so much trouble to cut, and even more satisfaction in making him pick up the cow he’d killed. Revenge was a vicious cycle, Hugh Senior mused as he stood in the field with the rain falling a little harder by the minute. The cycle never stopped turning unless somebody made the decision to stop. But then he assured himself that his own words and actions weren’t about revenge. He was taking sensible, businesslike precautions by moving quickly to excise a cancer from his ranch.
He got into his truck and headed for the barn to pick up the lame horse. Doing anything less would have made him a hypocrite in his own eyes. He couldn’t condemn Billy Crosby for mistreating animals if he didn’t care enough about a horse he owned to relieve its pain.
My oldest boy is a better man than I am, he thought, not for the first time.
He felt his heart swell with love for the boy, even if that was a sentiment he might never speak aloud.
“Going on five o’clock,” he said to himself.
If he was going to get that horse in to the vet, he’d better get going.
It had been a bad day, but it was already better, or it was if you weren’t trying to grow corn.
O N HER DRIVE into Rose to try to salvage her son’s marriage, Annabelle realized she might need to slide in sideways rather than launch a frontal attack. She needed to dangle a lure in front of her daughter-in-law in the same way she offered apples to her horse to get him to come to her from far out in a pasture. As she drove through the flat landscape, for some reason it made her think of mountains, which gave her an idea, an expensive one that she thought might work with Laurie—especially with luxury-loving Laurie.
Feeling hopeful of her bright idea, she stopped first at Belle’s museum in the former bank to use the phone to call ahead. As she stood in front of the nineteenth-century limestone building and glanced up at the corner gargoyles, she realized she might use this opportunity to mend fences with her grumpy daughter while the men mended fences at the ranch. The gargoyles looked no more welcoming than Belle was likely to be, but she loved them, just as she loved her most difficult child—just as she loved all of her currently difficult children.
She raised an eyebrow at a stone gargoyle that glared back.
“Oh, come on,” she said to it, “look on the bright side.”
Since the ugly old thing presided over a failed bank, that seemed unlikely.
She pushed open the elegant front door, with its huge brass knob and murky leaded glass panes.
A brass bell rang over her head, announcing her arrival.
“Who’s that?” her daughter’s voice called from the back.
“Your mother! Are you in the vault?”
“Yes,” came the unwelcoming response.
She walked past the line of filigreed teller cages that lined one wall, wonderful remnants of bank transactions of old, now waiting for Belle to figure out how to use them in her museum. She inhaled, imagining she could smell old money, hear the bustle of commerce, the voices, the clink of coins, the slap of cash on marble.
On her way toward the cavernous bank vault that Belle used as her office, she glanced at black-and-white photos of sod houses, cattle drives, oil wells, stone fence posts, the pictures all lying on tables until Belle could frame and hang them. Despite her own and Hugh’s skepticism about the enterprise, she found herself drawn to the photos. When she stopped to look more closely at one, she found herself wanting to look at the next one, leading her to wonder if maybe, just maybe, other people would find them fascinating, too. She looked up at the molded tin ceiling. It really was a wonderful old building.
Tell her so , Annabelle reminded herself.
She hoped she
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