might be.
He could have Sammy arrested, but he didn't want his father to know how low his brother had fallen. Thomas was not only struggling with the weakness his injuries had left behind, he was also suffering from the loss of his beloved wife.
The last thing Clay wanted to do was add to his father's heartache. But he also wasn't willing to just let this ride. Uncle or not, Sammy had to know he'd stepped over a line and in the process had lost any respect Clay might have had for him.
What Clay really wanted to do was drive a fist through Sammy's face. He wanted to rant and scream, yell and curse at the man who would do such a thing as steal from his missing sister-in-law. Clay wanted Sammy to pay for raising his hopes, even for just a little while, as he'd driven to the pawnshop.
His parents' ranch house was located on the outskirts of town, not far from the
Cherokee
Cultural
Center
that had been such a big part of Rita's life.
The sprawling ranch had not only been where Clay had grown up, but also the place for many a town gathering. There was nothing his parents had enjoyed more than impromptu barbecues and parties with half the town of Cherokee Corners invited.
As he pulled up front and parked, he wondered if there would ever again be a party out here, if he would ever again see his mother act as gracious, fun-loving hostess for her neighbors and friends.
A light shone from the living room window and Clay assumed Sammy was probably watching a little late-night television. How nice, Clay thought, his anger once again knocking around inside him. Sammy was sitting on his father and mother's sofa, eating their food, watching their television, enjoying the comforts of their home after stealing and pawning jewelry that belonged to Clay's mom.
Long, determined strides carried Clay from his car to the front door. He wanted to hammer on the door, but knowing his father might be asleep, he held his control and knocked softly.
To his surprise it was his father who answered. "Clay … son." Thomas's features twisted into a mask of fear. "Is it … is there news?"
"No, no, Dad." Clay cursed himself. He should have known at this time of night his father would mistake his presence here for something official. "There's no news." The fear that had twisted his father's features left his face. "I just need to talk to Uncle Sammy … privately."
Thomas studied his son's face for a long moment, then turned and called over his shoulder. "Sammy, it's Clay and he wants to talk to you outside."
There was a long pause, then Sammy appeared in the doorway. "Clay. What's up?"
Samuel James was still a handsome man despite the fact that he was pushing sixty years old. He had a baby face, relatively unlined and thick black hair that Clay suspected he colored to keep away the gray.
His eyes were blue … guileless as a young boy's, but Clay wasn't fooled by the innocence radiating from those blue depths.
"Come on out here where we can talk," Clay said and stepped off the porch. He felt his blood boiling and reminded himself that punching his uncle might make him feel better, but would upset his father and wouldn't solve anything. Still, the thought of fist connecting with jaw was appealing.
"What's going on, Clay?" Sammy left the porch and stood in front of Clay, his expression as innocent as a newborn babe. "Is something wrong?"
"I took a little drive to Shadow Hills tonight." Clay watched his uncle's face closely. A flash of something crossed Sammy's eyes. "Visited a place called Lucky's. Ever heard of it?"
Sammy sighed and swiped a hand through his hair as he took two steps backward from Clay. "Clay … I needed the money. I owed some people and they weren't willing to wait."
It enraged Clay that the first words out of Sammy's mouth wasn't an apology, but rather a rationalization for his crime. Unable to help himself, he stepped forward and punched Sammy with a finger in the chest. "What were you thinking? How could you have stolen
He could have Sammy arrested, but he didn't want his father to know how low his brother had fallen. Thomas was not only struggling with the weakness his injuries had left behind, he was also suffering from the loss of his beloved wife.
The last thing Clay wanted to do was add to his father's heartache. But he also wasn't willing to just let this ride. Uncle or not, Sammy had to know he'd stepped over a line and in the process had lost any respect Clay might have had for him.
What Clay really wanted to do was drive a fist through Sammy's face. He wanted to rant and scream, yell and curse at the man who would do such a thing as steal from his missing sister-in-law. Clay wanted Sammy to pay for raising his hopes, even for just a little while, as he'd driven to the pawnshop.
His parents' ranch house was located on the outskirts of town, not far from the
Cherokee
Cultural
Center
that had been such a big part of Rita's life.
The sprawling ranch had not only been where Clay had grown up, but also the place for many a town gathering. There was nothing his parents had enjoyed more than impromptu barbecues and parties with half the town of Cherokee Corners invited.
As he pulled up front and parked, he wondered if there would ever again be a party out here, if he would ever again see his mother act as gracious, fun-loving hostess for her neighbors and friends.
A light shone from the living room window and Clay assumed Sammy was probably watching a little late-night television. How nice, Clay thought, his anger once again knocking around inside him. Sammy was sitting on his father and mother's sofa, eating their food, watching their television, enjoying the comforts of their home after stealing and pawning jewelry that belonged to Clay's mom.
Long, determined strides carried Clay from his car to the front door. He wanted to hammer on the door, but knowing his father might be asleep, he held his control and knocked softly.
To his surprise it was his father who answered. "Clay … son." Thomas's features twisted into a mask of fear. "Is it … is there news?"
"No, no, Dad." Clay cursed himself. He should have known at this time of night his father would mistake his presence here for something official. "There's no news." The fear that had twisted his father's features left his face. "I just need to talk to Uncle Sammy … privately."
Thomas studied his son's face for a long moment, then turned and called over his shoulder. "Sammy, it's Clay and he wants to talk to you outside."
There was a long pause, then Sammy appeared in the doorway. "Clay. What's up?"
Samuel James was still a handsome man despite the fact that he was pushing sixty years old. He had a baby face, relatively unlined and thick black hair that Clay suspected he colored to keep away the gray.
His eyes were blue … guileless as a young boy's, but Clay wasn't fooled by the innocence radiating from those blue depths.
"Come on out here where we can talk," Clay said and stepped off the porch. He felt his blood boiling and reminded himself that punching his uncle might make him feel better, but would upset his father and wouldn't solve anything. Still, the thought of fist connecting with jaw was appealing.
"What's going on, Clay?" Sammy left the porch and stood in front of Clay, his expression as innocent as a newborn babe. "Is something wrong?"
"I took a little drive to Shadow Hills tonight." Clay watched his uncle's face closely. A flash of something crossed Sammy's eyes. "Visited a place called Lucky's. Ever heard of it?"
Sammy sighed and swiped a hand through his hair as he took two steps backward from Clay. "Clay … I needed the money. I owed some people and they weren't willing to wait."
It enraged Clay that the first words out of Sammy's mouth wasn't an apology, but rather a rationalization for his crime. Unable to help himself, he stepped forward and punched Sammy with a finger in the chest. "What were you thinking? How could you have stolen
Similar Books
