Page 8 of Honky Tonk Cowboy

She heaved a big sigh. “Come on down and eat.”

“She left, did she?” he asked.

“Was fixin’ to, but Maria cajoled her into stayin’ for dessert.” Then she said, “You like her, I know you like her.”

“Whole family likes her.”

She blew like an angry bull and left him, slamming the door on the way out.

Ethan didn’t follow right away. Instead, he opened his suitcase, took out the fat folder that was right on top and opened it. There was a list of what he thought were stocks, numbers of shares, value as of close the day before.

And there, right on top, was the full deed to Manny’s Cantina, which had his name on it.

Chapter Three

Ethan sat in a rocking chair on the front porch, watching the colors of the sky deepen from blue to purple out past the rolling meadows, stunted woods, and the wooden arch over the long dirt drive.

Uncle Garrett sat in the rocker beside his, doin’ the same.

The place had cleared out an hour ago, though Lily and her dad had left early. Ethan had unpacked, and showered up, and then he’d come down, knowing where to find the man who’d raised him. His dad, in every sense of the word.

For a while they just rocked in silence.

Eventually, Garrett said, “You’re home without a holiday or party or weddin’ to attend. Must be somethin’ pretty big goin’ on.”

Garrett was as big as ever, and not a bit softer. It was only coincidence that Ethan was similarly built. He wore faded jeans, scuffed-up boots, a western shirt over a T-shirt. No sheriff’s badge was pinned to his chest, never was on the weekends, unless something happened. His bark-brown hair looked like it had taken a hard frost, and the laugh lines around his eyes were deeper every time Ethan came home.

“Yeah, I…wanted to talk with you.”

Garrett looked at him, locked eyes. “I knew somethin’ was off. You look troubled, son. Got ghosts in your eyes.”

“I was leavin’ a gig when a lawyer caught up to me in the parkin’ lot. Come to tell me de Lorean’s dead.”

Garrett’s brows rose up high. “An’ here I was expectin’ you to ask about woman problems.”

“Got no woman, so?—”

“Could have, if you were…that-a-way inclined.”

The phrase was from Good Ol’ Boys, a western they’d watched together a dozen times. Ethan sent Garrett a questioning look.

Garrett shrugged. “Accordin’ to my better half, anyway.”

“I still don’t?—”

“Lily Ellen,” Garrett said. “Dang, boy, you’re denser’n I was with your aunt Chelsea.”

So wait, Aunt Chelsea knew about the…thing between him and Lily? How? He’d never so much as kissed her. “What makes Aunt Chelsea think?—”

“She doesn’t think, she knows,” said Aunt Chelsea, coming out onto the porch with a mug in her hands. “What are we discussing?”

“Lily,” Garrett said, at the same moment Ethan said, “Nothin’.”

He pressed two fingers to his forehead and said, “It doesn’t matter. I came home partly cause I wanted to tell you to your face.” He got up from his chair and went to her, put his hands on her shoulders as she gazed up into his eyes. “The man who killed your sister died in prison.”

Chelsea dropped her mug. It split on the porch floor and Garrett jumped up and steered her around the broken ceramic and into his arms.

“Michele,” she whispered. “Oh, Michele.”