Saving the Cowboy’s Christmas (Rowdy Ranch #12)

Chapter 29

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

R ance loved Christmas at the Buffalo. Tyra and Clint went all out with lights and decorations, the band played holiday favorites and customers ordered festive drinks. It was his favorite time to be a bartender.

Not today.

But he was a professional and their clientele didn’t need to be exposed to his crappy mood. He laughed and joked with everyone, including his brother Clint, who kept an eye on the bar and pitched in whenever the orders got out of control.

Clint saw through his act, of course, although he didn’t say so. The occasional brotherly hand on his shoulder or a knowing glance sent his way said more than words that he understood the anxiety masked by his outward cheer.

His big brother had no idea. He likely thought Irving Quick’s arrival was the problem. But his shitty dad was the least of his concerns. He’d thought he had his life figured out, and last night the whole structure had collapsed like an Eiffel Tower made of popsicle sticks.

He'd been through some bad patches in his life, most recently with Lucky back in February. They’d almost come to blows and now they were tighter than ever. February had been a watershed month. He’d emerged a changed man, one with exciting prospects that had a good chance of materializing.

Or so he’d thought. Oh, he’d been transformed, all right. He’d always been something of an idiot, or eejit, as Kieran would say. But he’d been a happy one. Not anymore. Things couldn’t possibly get any worse.

Then his father strolled into the bar.

Wrong again.

Hard to miss the guy. That black turtleneck and leather jacket must be part of his brand. He could have walked right off the back of his book cover. Pretension, thy name is Irving Quick.

He sailed right past the wooden mascot as if he heard talking buffalos every day of the week.

Rance’s lip curled. He might have even snarled.

“Easy, bro.” Clint had silently moved to stand beside him. “Don’t let this loser get to you.”

“He was mean to Mom.”

“I know, and he won’t ever have the opportunity again.”

“Damn straight. D’ya think he knows I’m here?”

“I think you’re why he’s here.”

“Mom told him?”

“Doubt it. My guess is he hasn’t been out there yet. All he had to do was stop someone on the street. Everybody in town knows Rance McLintock.”

That comment put a little more starch in his spine. He didn’t always wear his Stetson while working behind the bar, but today he had. He tugged down the brim and straightened his shoulders.

Clint chuckled. “Attaboy.”

He didn’t want to look at the jerk, but he couldn’t help it. This would be him in thirty years. There was no mistaking they were father and son.

Bile rose in his throat. He didn’t want to look like this piece of trash. Tomorrow he’d shave his head and grow a mustache.

His dear old dad seemed equally fascinated with him. He paused a few feet away and openly stared. “It’s like looking in a mirror.”

“In a fun house,” Rance muttered under his breath. Then he pasted a smile on his face. “Can I help you, sir?”

“You don’t recognize me?”

“Can’t say I do.”

He blew out a breath, clearly annoyed. “Of course you do. You had to know I was coming. I’m your father.”

“Oh, that’s right. Mom did say something about it. What’s your name again?”

Clint snorted and went to take a drink order.

“I’m Irving Quick.” He took a hardback out of a satchel. “I brought you a book. It’s autographed.”

“Thanks, but I don’t read that stuff. You could donate it to the local library, though. They’re always happy to promote struggling new authors.”

“I’m not a—okay, cut the crap. You know damn well who I am. You’re just pissed at me, and I get that. Let’s start over.”

“No can do. It’s water under the dam and over the bridge.”

“Oh, you’re my son, all right. I was a smart-mouthed kid, too, always had the last word. You’re a chip?—

“Complete that sentence and I’m coming across this bar. I’m the son of Desiree McLintock and you’re nothing but a sperm donor. Got it?”

Applause erupted from a nearby table. He glanced over. In his misery he hadn’t noticed several of the Wenches were having lunch at the Buffalo today. Coincidence? Likely not.

Irving didn’t look pleased. Evidently he’d expected a different reception. Oh, well.

“Coming in here while you’re working was a bad idea.”

“Figured that out, didja?”

“Do you have a break coming up?”

“Not anytime soon.”

“When does your shift end?”

“It depends.”

“I haven’t been out to the ranch yet and I… I was hoping before I go we could talk, man to man, maybe clear the air.”

“Oh, I see. You want to absolve yourself with a ten-minute chat. What a self-absorbed concept.” He turned away and picked up a bar rag. “I have work to do, so?—”

“Are you writing?”

He froze. Had somebody squealed on him? No. His family wouldn’t have told. Had to be a wild guess on Irving’s part.

“You are! My God, that makes me happy. You have no idea. Neither of my other—well, that’s not important. You’re writing. That’s amazing. What are you writing? No, it doesn’t really matter, does it? Just the fact that?—”

“Hey, Rance.” Clint approached, phone in hand. “I just texted Tyra. She’s coming out to help behind the bar. She’ll leave the office open. You can use?—”

“Thanks, but I’ll pass on that offer.”

Clint turned his back to Irving and lowered his voice. “You should talk to him.”

“Don’t want to.”

“Do it anyway. It’s like lancing a boil. Keeps it from festering.”

“Clint…”

“It’s what Mom would say.”

“Damn you.”

“I’ll take that rag. Go make us proud.”

Chest tight, he handed over the bar rag and faced Irving. “Clint’s letting us use the office.” Opening the hinged portion of the bar, he walked through the opening. “Follow me.”

“Clint?” Irving glanced over his shoulder. “That’s Clint? I never would have guessed. He and Cheyenne were such toothpicks.”

“Bret and Gil’s dad brought us all weights and showed us how to train. Everyone’s been working out for years.”

“I see.”

“Marsh lets us use his punching bag whenever we want. He’s into kickboxing. Damn good at it, too. So’s his wife.” He gave Tyra a salute as she passed them headed for the bar.

“And all you kids still live out there, I gather.”

“We do. We’re a tight group. One for all and all for one.”

“If you’re trying to scare the shit out of me, you’re doing a bang-up job.”

“Just telling it like it is. Don’t be expecting a welcome banner strung across the front porch. Nobody’s happy about your visit and some are openly hostile.”

“Like you, for instance.”

“You picked up on that? And here I thought I was being subtle.” He paused beside the open door and gestured for Irving to go in first.

He hesitated before crossing the threshold.

Rance followed him in and closed the door. “Afraid I’ll take this opportunity to work you over?”

“It crossed my mind. You have thirty-two years on me plus all that weight training. With the band playing nobody would be the wiser. I couldn’t hear what Clint said to you. For all I know he gave you permission to beat me to a pulp.”

“I would love to, but I’m a McLintock. That’s not how I was raised. Bret and Gil’s dad taught us how to defend ourselves, but our mother taught us to use physical force as a last resort. Have a seat.”

The small office had a desk against the wall on either side and the chairs were back-to-back in the middle. Irving rolled out the one on the right and spun it around. Rance did the same with the one on the left. They faced each other with only a couple of feet between them.

“Okay.” Rance swept a hand in Irving’s direction. “Talk.”

“Did your mother tell you I had a heart attack?”

“Yes.”

“It was a bad one. I’m lucky I made it. My dad died from a heart attack when he was a year younger than I am. He was a writer, historical fiction. My grandfather, who also died of a heart attack relatively young, wrote mysteries. My great-grandfather was a newspaper man.”

Would have been nice to hear about his literary ancestors before now, wouldn’t it? Anger simmered in his belly. Maybe if he’d known he came from a long line of writers he’d have started sooner.

“My father loved that we had this tradition going. He kept hoping one of my kids would show an aptitude so we’d have five generations of writers. Neither of them have any interest at all. He died thinking the line would end with me.”

“It did.”

“No, it didn’t! There’s you! I don’t know what you’re writing, but that’s not important. What’s important is?—”

“That I’m a McLintock.”

“Doesn’t matter! You’re my son!”

“Not in any way that counts.” His jaw clenched. “My talent comes from my mother. She nurtured my creativity and fostered my ambition. You don’t get to claim any of that. Do you hear me?”

“I do. The two of you get all the credit. I don’t care what name’s on the book.”

“Who says there will be a book?”

“Oh, there will be. You just said you have talent and ambition, which means there will be a book, probably several books. Tell me, are any of your siblings writing?”

Damn. He’d said too much. If he refused to answer, that would be an answer. “Not yet.”

Irving smiled and folded his hands.

“Doesn’t mean what you think it does. They could start any day now.”

“You don’t want to believe my genes had any part in it, and that’s fine. But I’ll take comfort in knowing I didn’t utterly fail. The chain is not broken, after all.”

“Is that the only reason you’re here?”

“No, but it’s a big part of it. I told myself it didn’t matter, but after my heart attack, suddenly it did. And you were my only hope.”

“So basically you’re here to satisfy your ego needs? To confirm that you passed on your fabulous writing genes to the next generation?”

Irving gazed at him, his brown eyes gleaming with what looked suspiciously like respect. “That would be a bit narcissistic, wouldn’t it?”

“It sure as hell would.”

“Well, my therapist happens to agree with you. He was against me telling my wife and kids about you, against me coming here and disrupting your family’s Christmas.”

“I thought therapists were all about confronting your past.”

“They usually are, but this guy knows me pretty well by now. I have a borderline personality disorder. At sixty-one, I’m not likely to change.”

“Then you really don’t care if folks around you get upset. If you hurt them.” That was both repulsive and fascinating.

“Not as much as you would. Or your mother. I’m not very emotional. But when I called Desiree to tell her I wanted to come, something weird happened. I started crying. I never cry. It was embarrassing.”

“You felt sorry for yourself. Big deal. She told me you cried on the phone. I figured it was an act.”

“It wasn’t. Something about hearing her voice?—”

“Listen, she’s happily married, so if you think for one minute?—”

“No, no, nothing like that. I enjoy my life. I’ll do my best to make this up to my family. I’m not great at apologizing but I’m hoping they’ll forgive me. They’ve put up with me so far.”

“Do you want my mother to forgive you?”

“Yes.” He looked down at his clasped hands. “I haven’t admitted that to myself until now, but I want her forgiveness. I suppose it’s an ego thing, too.” He glanced up. “And yours, Rance. I want your forgiveness.”

To soothe his ego? Not in a million years. “Let me save you some time and effort, Irv, old boy. There’s nothing you can do that will make me forgive you for twenty-nine years of silence.”

He nodded. “I’ll keep that in mind.”