Making A Texas Cowboy (Home at Last Texas #1)

Chapter Nineteen

J ackson was having trouble deciding, as he walked down the main street of Last Stand, if people were looking at him because they knew who he was or simply because he was a stranger in their little town. Back in L.A.—funny, it had only been a week, but already he wasn’t thinking of it as “back home” anymore—he’d know, because they’d be all over him. Here, they looked, most even smiled, but nobody bothered him.

There was, of course, another possibility. That the Last Stand grapevine was not only efficient, but... kind. That seemed almost impossible to him, but then it had been the wife of the police chief who’d said she’d put the word out. Perhaps her word was law, as he suspected her husband’s was around here. After all, not every small town had a bona fide national hero working for them.

A real hero. Not an actor playing a heroic part, but the real deal. Maybe that’s why they left him alone. They knew the difference.

He kept walking, his cup of coffee from Java Time—which he found he liked better than the big chain stuff—offering a welcome warmth on this chilly morning. He’d made himself leave after dropping Jeremy off with Mrs. Baylor for his day’s lessons, to be followed by his reward of riding lessons on Pie with Nic. He was doing so well that after the first couple of days, Mrs. Baylor had said he should quit hovering. So he fought the urge to stick around and just watch the running of the ranch, the way real cowboys worked—and the way one particular cowgirl worked.

So instead he’d set out to learn this place where they’d landed. He’d been walking the side streets today. The ones that paralleled Hickory, where Tris’s duplex was, were all tree names. The cross streets that paralleled Main Street seemed to be mostly flower names, including the somewhat whimsically named Yellow Rose Road. He’d always known Texans were proud of their home state, he’d just never quite realized how deep it went.

He was passing the hardware store—named Nailed It , which made him smile—when the door opened and a boy careened into him. He managed not to spill the hot coffee on him, but barely.

“Sorry, mister,” the boy said quickly, nearly dropping the bag from the store. Jackson grabbed it with his free hand and kept it from hitting the sidewalk, which could have been a mess because he saw then it was full of nails and fasteners and other bits of hardware.

“Hey, you’re that guy! The Stonewall guy.”

The boy looked fourteen or so, maybe a little older. Not exactly the audience they aimed at, but the show had gotten so huge, who knew where the audience pool ended anymore?

“Sorry,” the boy repeated. “I know we’re not supposed to bother you.”

“You didn’t,” Jackson assured him. He looked at the bag. “Building something?”

“Yeah,” the kid said eagerly, looking up at him with a pair of big brown eyes. “A house for my new dog. He’s out in the truck. Keller—he’s pretty much my dad—is going to help me.”

Pretty much my dad?

“Lucas?”

The call came from inside, and the boy turned quickly. “Right here.”

The man who stepped outside the store then looked like his horse should be tied up out front. Head to toe, all six-plus feet of him—the man had about an inch on him, Jackson guessed—was powerful, muscled cowboy. From the well-used boots up to the black felt cowboy hat. A pair of dark-green eyes looked at him assessingly, then flicked to the boy standing there.

“Going to introduce us?” the man asked.

“Oh, sorry,” the boy said, like a kid suddenly reminded of manners he’d been taught. “This is Keller Rafferty, and I’m Lucas Brock.” Which probably explained the “pretty much my dad” part. Adopted? Stepdad? Whatever, it was clear they had a good relationship, because the boy smiled up at him happily. “And you already know who this is, since Sydney loves the show. She’s gonna be jealous we met you.”

“Sydney’s my wife,” the man explained. “And his cousin,” he added, nodding at the boy. At Jackson’s expression, he grinned. “It’s complicated, as they say.”

“But good,” the boy added.

“Yeah, it is,” Rafferty said, reaching out to ruffle the boy’s already tousled hair. Then he looked back at Jackson. “Welcome to Last Stand.”

“It’s quite a place.”

“It’s a good place.”

“I’m getting that feeling. Lots of history here.”

The other man chuckled. “You want that, you need my mom. She’s a walking encyclopedia of Last Stand history. And she can tell it in a way that makes it come alive.”

“You should come meet her,” Lucas said eagerly. “Mrs. R is great.”

“It’s really my son who’s interested.”

Lucas started to speak again, then stopped. He glanced at Rafferty, who nodded. Then the boy started again. “She told me your son’s mom was killed in a car crash.”

Jackson tensed a little, although he told himself it was hardly surprising they all knew. But the boy’s next words shocked him.

“So were my mom and dad. It was awful. Still is, sometimes.” He hesitated again, then said, “Mrs. R said maybe, if I ever met him, I could talk to him about it. How it never goes away, but it does get better. She knows, because her husband was KIA. Keller’s dad, I mean.”

Jackson’s gaze shot to the man standing beside this rather amazing kid. So his parents were dead, this man had lost his father, was married to the boy’s cousin, and Lucas apparently lived with them. It made sense now. A joining of people who understood loss.

“It’s up to you,” Rafferty said quietly. “But if you ever think it would help, the offer’s there.”

“Thank you,” he said. “It just might.”

“Bring him out to the ranch,” Lucas said. “He could meet my dog, and Mrs. R’s. And Chance’s dogs too. He rehabs military dogs.”

Jackson liked that fact that the boy felt confident enough in his new, tragically altered life to make the invitation, knowing Keller Rafferty would have his back.

And as he watched them go, he acknowledged that he was a bit uncomfortable with this aspect of his life being a topic of discussion with strangers, but he knew it came with the territory. And he had the feeling these wouldn’t be bad strangers to let in the door. Especially if they were going to be here awhile.

Between this family and the Highwaters, he was finding a lot of people to like here in Last Stand. Maybe this hadn’t just been the best idea for Jeremy, but for him too.

When he arrived back at the Baylor ranch, Jeremy was, as he’d expected, happily aboard Pie in the main corral. What he hadn’t expected was that he was still with Mrs. Baylor, only she was astride a compact, muscular bay right there in the corral with him. Nic was leaning on the fence, watching. Smiling. Widely.

He hesitated, afraid his arrival might put an end to that smile. He reminded himself they’d made peace, and she’d made that lovely apology, yet still he hesitated, not really sure why.

“Going to just stand there, or come watch?”

She hadn’t even looked, yet she knew it was him? He found himself thinking he’d like to read something into that, then laughed inwardly at himself. This was the time they’d agreed on for him to pick Jeremy up, so why should he be surprised she knew it was him without looking? He walked over to the fence.

The moment he got there, three things happened fast. Jeremy spotted him and waved. Pie sidestepped a little, making the boy wobble a little and say “Whoa” in a way that had little to do with the classic horse command. And Jackson tensed, ready to go over that fence if the pony didn’t settle. But he did, quickly, although he came to a halt as if confused.

Mrs. Baylor, ever the teacher, even here it seemed, calmly spoke to his son. “What do you think happened there, Jeremy?”

“I think I pulled on the reins when I waved to Dad,” he said. “But I was still telling him to go forward, and he got confuzzled.”

Jackson sucked in a breath at hearing the once familiar, joking combination of confused and puzzled that Leah had often used. He was sure the echo of that old pain was showing in his face, so he lowered his gaze to his hands where they rested on the top railing. He was aware the two riders had begun again, but couldn’t look up just yet.

“It’s okay. He’s fine,” Nic said.

“I know,” he said without looking up. “It’s just... his mother used to use that word a lot.”

“It’s a great word, on three levels. The definition of each, and then the combination that illustrates the very thing it’s describing.” He raised his head and looked at her, a little startled. She smiled rather impishly. “What can I say? I’m the daughter of a teacher.”

He smiled back at her. “And a great teacher. I’ve never heard Jeremy so excited about what he’s learning, even after only three days.”

“She’s the best,” Nic said simply. Then, with another of those smiles, added, “Well, her and Mrs. Valencia.”

“Second time I’ve heard that name come up. She must be something.”

“She was one of those teachers who was legendary.” She gave him a rather pointed look. “She retired to help her daughter look after her grandson, after his father was killed in action overseas.”

He couldn’t miss the point she was making, but he didn’t think it fit. Again, that was something actually heroic, not a safely conducted representation of it. Or maybe that was her point.

“Of course, now her daughter’s married to a police detective, Sean Highwater. I guess some people are just attracted to... some people.”

She looked away hastily, and he wondered why. But then Mrs. Baylor and Jeremy were heading for the gate, the riding lesson apparently over for the day. Jeremy was chattering, actually chattering, and Jackson didn’t think he’d ever tire of hearing that enjoyment in his son’s voice.

And that as much as anything decided him.

“As soon as you get him taken care of,” he said, nodding at the flashy pony, “I need your help.”

Jeremy blinked. “My help?”

“Yeah. We need to give your aunt her office back, so I thought we’d start looking for a place of our own.”

His son’s eyes widened, so full of hope Jackson thought his heart might have missed a beat. “Here? In Last Stand?”

“That sound good to you?”

Jeremy nodded so fiercely Jackson wanted to hug him. But he knew that would embarrass the boy in front of his teacher—his two teachers—so he didn’t.

But it was a close thing.