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“Never mind the bugs and possible critters, how about paying to air-condition half the Hill Country?”

Explanations and possible excuses tumbled around in his head, including that he hadn’t been gone all that long even if he had left the front door open. But this was his mother, and he knew what the best course was.

“I’m sorry.”

“In a hurry, were you?”

He nodded. “I yanked it on my way out, but it must not have caught.”

“A little more care in the future, please. I’m overly fond of this door.”

Cody felt a sudden rush of that feeling he’d remembered earlier, that funny but good feeling. Because he knew about that door, that solid oak, hand-hewn and fitted door. His father had made it, and installed it, while home on leave one late summer, before heading back on deployment the first week of November.

Exactly nine months before Cody was born. Something his brothers had ragged on him about for years, calling it Cody’s door. Of course he hadn’t understood why until much later, when he knew enough to do the math. And not until much, much later had the appreciation of what his parents had had outweighed his embarrassment at the connection.

“Me, too,” he said softly.

She looked a little startled. But pleased. And he couldn’t help himself—he pulled her into his arms and hugged her. “Love you, Mom.”

“Love you back, Triple B.”

He groaned, but then laughed at the childhood appellation she’d used on him until he was about eight. Her blond baby boy. He knew it had been because he was the only one of her sons who had gotten her own blond hair.

“So,” she asked as they stepped inside, and he carefully closed the door behind them, “what’s in the shirt, and what was the big rush?”

He grimaced, undid one edge of his makeshift bundle, and pulled out the biggest surviving piece of the drone. She looked at it, frowning. “It crashed?”

“It did not,” he said, offended. “She shot it down. She freaking shot it down, with a shotgun.”

His mother’s eyes widened. She didn’t ask who—he knew she didn’t have to. Only one person wound him up like this. “Why?”

“Why? Because she hates them, and she hates them because she hates me. That’s all the reason she needs.”

Her mouth twitched, and he knew she was trying not to laugh. And right now he wasn’t in the mood to be her source of amusement for the morning. “Well,” she said in a thoughtful sort of tone he knew was put on, “she did get thrown because of one of them last spring.”

“I can’t help that. It wasn’t in her air space.” That time.

“Still, she’s bound to be a little cranky about that.”

“So she shoots down an expensive piece of equipment, which was doing a job for her family I might add, in retaliation for falling off a horse?” He couldn’t believe his mother was standing up for her.

“Britt Roth doesn’t get tossed off a horse often.”

“I know. I should have posted the video online. ‘Famous barrel racer takes a header.’” His mother went suddenly still. Her gaze sharpened. “I didn’t do it,” he reminded her, and he sounded a bit childish even to himself.

“You need to get over this whole enmity thing with her. That was a vindictive thing to even think of doing,” she said sharply. “Something like that could do real damage.”

He felt stung; his mother didn’t usually get angry with him. At most she got exasperated now and then. “She wasn’t really hurt,” he protested. “Keller saw her in town soon after and she was fine except for a bruise. And like they say, there are only riders who have been thrown, and those who are going to be.”

“I meant damage to her future plans.”

“She still won the championship after that,” he said, not sure what her point was. “And won a lot of money.”

“Her business plans,” his mother said, in that tone of patient explanation she took on when someone wasn’t getting it.

“Business plans?” This time he sounded blank even to himself.

“Yes, to train and breed barrel horses.”