Nat did nothing but hold her in his stare.
Mack filled the doorway. “Figured y’all might need a ride back.”
No one spoke.
“Air in here get any thicker, I could spoon it on a biscuit,” Mack mumbled, mostly to himself.
January pulled her gaze from Nat. She gave Mack a shoulder pat on her way out of the cabin.
“Thanks, Mack. The sooner the better.”
8
The Meier family burial plot occupied the highest elevation for a hundred miles. Before the coastal plains sank toward the Gulf, before the granite and limestone of the Texas Hill Country rose in earnest to the west, before more adventurous terrain mitigated strong, jet-stream winds that gathered out of the northern plains, there was this strip of Texas hilltop beauty. Clem used to say that God created Texas so people would be able to recognize heaven when the time came then turned up the heat to remind them there was an alternative—Oklahoma. Of course, the man who nearly stole Clem’s beloved out fro
m under him while he fought the good fight in Europe had been a Sooner.
Nat sat beneath the hilltop’s best feature—a cedar elm ninety feet tall, its spread nearly as wide—on a bench crafted from stones rumored to have been the first cleared from the land. The breeze stirred the canopy overhead into a song as familiar to him as Clem’s favorite Jerry Jeff Walker song. The only time this place was more breathtaking was during bluebonnet season when the hill became an island in an ocean of wildflowers. Three generations of Meiers stretched out before him, men and women who sacrificed everything in their lives so that he, and those who came after, could have so much more than a square of dirt to call home.
Difference was, they had each other. Nat had never felt so alone.
Willie had sent him up here when Nat nearly lost his shit in the tack room. Thought it might help him clear his head. Really, it served as a reminder that his family intended to stay here forever and that if he lost the ranch, his dearly departed loved ones would be eternal squatters on someone else’s land. And he wouldn’t even be a pin on a map.
Certainly not January’s map.
Waking in the cabin hadn’t been his finest moment. But watching her gather her belongings without confronting what had happened between them, leaving him twisting in the wind of uncertainty about her plans and any possible future, felt like an electric cattle prod to an old wound—all high voltage and low current. His every intent to steer clear of January Rose had gone south. Argentina south. Now he had to push her out of his head enough to keep this square of dirt for another year.
“Two days, Grandad. Then we’ll know for sure.”
Nat leaned forward, elbows on knees, toward a headstone whose ending date felt like a kick to the nuts most days.
“I expanded this year, like you did all those years back. Mason Dekker passed away last summer. Too many years of whiskey and Virginia leaf with you.” Nat smiled, remembering the two friends on the porch most nights, old stories and the sweet burn of honey-infused tobacco drifting straight through his window. “His kids didn’t want the ranch anymore. Seemed like the right time. East perimeter was a little short-sided, and I wanted to make you proud. Thing is, I think I made a mistake. And I’m really scared that I lost everything that you spent a lifetime building. I could really use your help.”
“You got it, brother.”
Nat’s heart slipped off-beat. The voice—that voice…
He shot to his feet and turned.
Wes stood in his sand-colored fatigues, sleeves rolled, hair sparse on his head—no beard, no hair—the way Wes hated it. The way Nat hated it, too. That close crop of jet-black hair straight from their mom’s gene pool signaled the Marines had a stronger hold over Wes than his family. Still, Nat had never been prouder to be a Meier than when he saw the name tape on his brother’s uniform.
Nat’s gut shot to his throat. “Hey, man.” He didn’t try to hide the tears in his voice, already riding high from begging the dead for assistance.
Wes closed in, always the first of the two to charge forward. Nat supposed that came from his combat training. The hero part. Nat just told cattle where to eat and crap.
They embraced, a bit longer than usual, as if Wes was afraid that Nat might detonate if he let go. Must have seen some bad shit this tour. Nat gave himself to the hold for as long as his brother needed him. Even gave him a few rough smacks on the back, a covert reminder of his sibling seniority. When they split apart, Wes’s grin was the best thing Nat had seen all day.
Well…
“Why didn’t you tell me you were coming back? I’d have met you in Houston.”
“Busy time, little brother. You don’t need to spend it at an airport.”
“I would have come. No hesitation.”
“I know. But it’s all good,” Wes said. “Willie told me I’d find you up here. Didn’t say I’d find you crying to Grandad like a pussy.”
Nat gave one appreciative bark of laughter then raised three tight fingers and peeled the outer two. “Corn stalk, man.”