CHAPTER THREE
BOTH THE BOYS were sound asleep in their safety seats when Boone finally pulled up in his own rutted driveway around eight that night, shut off the truck engine and gazed bleakly into his immediate future. A concrete plan for the long term would have been good, a to-do list of specific actions guaranteed to carry Griffin and Fletcher from where they were right now—confused and scared—right on through to healthy, productive manhood.
Boone sighed. One step at a time, he reminded himself silently. Just put one foot in front of the other and keep on keeping on. For now, he only had to think about getting his sons inside and bedded down for the night. After that, he’d take a quick shower and call to let Molly know that he and the kids had arrived home safely. Then, if it wasn’t too late, he’d give Hutch a ring, too, and tell him his truck was still in one piece, offer to drop it off at Whisper Creek before he went on to work in the morning.
Work. Inconvenient as it was, Boone was still sheriff, with a whole county full of good people depending on him, and a few bad apples to keep an eye on, too, and that meant he’d be in his office first thing tomorrow, with his boys tagging along, since he had yet to make any kind of child-care arrangements.
Just then, things seemed patently overwhelming. One step, he reiterated to himself, and then another.
Glad to be out of a moving vehicle and standing on his own two feet, Boone opened one of the rear doors and woke Griffin first with a gentle prod to the shoulder. The boy yawned and blinked his eyes and then grinned at Boone in the dim glow of the interior lights. “Are we there?” the kid asked, sounding hopeful.
Boone’s heart caught. “We’re there,” he confirmed with a nod, then unfastened Fletcher from the safety seat. Griffin scrambled out of the truck on his own, but the little guy didn’t even wake up. He just stirred slightly, his arms loose around Boone’s neck, his head resting on his shoulder.
For all Boone’s trepidation about getting the dad thing right, it felt good to be holding that boy. Real good.
They started toward the double-wide, slogging through tall grass. The trailer was pretty sorry-looking in broad daylight, and darkness made it look even worse, like a gloomy hulk, lurking and waiting to pounce. Why hadn’t he thought to leave a light burning before he took off for Missoula in such an all-fired hurry?
“I bet Fletch peed his pants,” Griffin said sagely, trekking along beside Boone with his small suitcase in one hand. “He stinks.”
Sure enough, the seat of Fletcher’s impossibly small Wranglers felt soggy against Boone’s forearm, and there was a smell, but it wasn’t a big deal to a man who’d spent whole nights guarding some drunken miscreant at the county jail.
Boone spoke quietly to Griffin, man-to-man. “Let’s not rag on him about that, okay? He’s still pretty little, and there’s a lot to get used to—for both of you.”
Griffin nodded. “Okay,” he agreed solemnly.
They climbed the steps to the rickety porch, Boone going first, and once he’d gotten the door open and stepped inside, he flipped the light switch.
They were in the kitchen, but in that first moment Boone almost didn’t recognize the room. The dishes he’d left piled in the sink had been done up and put away. The linoleum floor didn’t exactly shine, being so worn, with the tar showing through in some places, but it glowed a little, just the same.
The effect was almost homey.
“Do we sleep where we did when we visited before?” Griffin asked. He sounded like a very small man, visiting a foreign country and eager to fit into the culture without breaking any taboos.
Still carrying Fletcher, who was beginning to wriggle around a bit now, Boone nodded a distracted yes and, having spotted the note propped between the sugar shaker and the jar of powdered coffee creamer in the middle of the table, zeroed in on it.
Griffin marched off to inspect the cubbyhole he and Fletcher would be staying in while Boone picked up the note. It was written in Opal Dennison’s distinctive, loopy handwriting, and he smiled as he read it. Although she kept house for Slade and Joslyn Barlow, Opal was definitely a free agent, working where she wanted to work, when she wanted to work.
Hutch called and said your boys
were coming home for a spell, and you’d all probably get in tonight, so I
let myself in and spruced the place up a mite. There’s food in the
refrigerator and I put clean sheets on the beds and some fresh towels in the
bathroom. I’ll be over first thing tomorrow morning to look after those kids
while you’re working, and don’t even think about telling me you can manage
on your own, Boone Taylor, because I didn’t just fall off the turnip
truck.
She’d signed the message with a large O.
Boone set the slip of paper back on the table and carried a now-wakeful Fletch into the one and only bathroom. He set the boy on the lid of the toilet seat and started water running into the tub, which, thanks to Opal, was well scrubbed. Boone always showered, and that seemed like a self-cleaning type of operation, so he rarely bothered with the tub.
Fletch, realizing where he was, and with whom, rubbed both eyes with small grubby fists and immediately started to cry again.
“Hey,” Boone said quietly, turning to crouch in front of him the way he’d done earlier, in Molly’s kitchen. “Everything’s going to be all right, Fletcher. After a bath and a good night’s sleep, you’ll feel a whole lot better about stuff, I promise.”
He’d told the boys, during the first part of the drive back from Missoula, that their uncle Bob, hurt the way he was, would need lots of care from their aunt Molly and the cousins, so that was why they were going back to Parable to bunk in with him for a while. It was the best way they could help, he’d explained.
Griff hadn’t said anything at all in response to his father’s short and halting discourse. He’d just looked out the window and kept his thoughts to himself, which, in some ways, concerned Boone more than Fletcher’s intermittent outbursts. The littlest boy had exclaimed fiercely that he wanted to go back and help take care of Uncle Bob for real, and would Boone just turn around the truck right now, because Missoula was home, not Parable. When Boone had replied that he couldn’t do that, Fletch had cried as if his heart had been broken—and maybe it had.
After quite a while, during which Boone felt three kinds of useless and just kept driving because he knew the kid would have resisted any kind of fatherly move, like stopping the truck and taking him into his arms for a few minutes, Fletcher’s sobs gradually turned to hiccups. That went on for a long time, too, like the crying, before he finally fell into a fitful sleep, exhausted by the singular despair of being five years old with no control over his own fate.
Now, in this run-down bathroom, with the finish peeling away from the sides of a tub hardly big enough to accommodate a garden gnome, and the door off the cupboard under the sink letting the goosenecked pipe and bedraggled cleaning supplies show, Boone waited, still sitting on his haunches, for Fletcher’s response to the tentative promise he’d made moments before.
It wasn’t long in coming. “Everything won’t be all right,” Fletcher argued. “You’re not my dad—I don’t care what Griff says—Uncle Bob is my dad—and I’m not staying here, because I hate you!”
This was a scared kid talking, Boone reflected, but the words hurt just the same, like a hard punch to the gut.
“I can see why you’d feel that way,” he answered calmly, reasonably, catching a glimpse of Griffin out of the corner of his eye. The boy huddled in the bathroom doorway, looking on worriedly, so small in his jeans and striped T-shirt, with his shoulders hunched slightly forward, putting Boone in mind of a fledgling bird not quite trusting its wings. “But we’re going to have to make the best of things, you and Griff and me.”
Fletcher glared rebelliously at Boone and slowly shook his head from side to side.
“Dad?” Griff interceded softly. “I can help Fletcher with his bath, get him ready for bed and everything, if you want me to.”
Boone sighed as he rose to his full height. “Maybe that would be a good idea,” he said, shoving a hand through his hair, which was probably creased from wearing the baseball cap all day. He was still in the clothes he’d put on to go fishing early that morning, too, and he felt sweaty and tired and sad.
“He’s got pajamas in the suitcase,” Griffin said helpfully. “You could get them out—they’re the ones with the cartoon train on the front....”
Boone smiled down at his older son and executed an affable if lazy salute. “Check,” he said, starting down the short hallway to follow through on the errand assigned. As he walked away, he could hear Griff talking quietly to his little brother, telling him he’d like living here, if he’d just give it a chance.
Griffin was clearly having none of it.
Boone went outside, retrieved the suitcases and brought them in, opening the smaller one after setting both bags on the built-in bed that took up most of the nook of a bedroom reserved for the boys. Back in Missoula, they shared a room four times that size, with twin beds and comforters that matched the curtains and even a modest flat-screen TV on the wall.
He sighed again, bent over the suitcase and rooted through for the pajamas Griff had described. He found them, plus a couple toothbrushes in plastic cases, each one labeled with a name.
He took the lot back to the bathroom and rapped lightly on the now-closed door. “Pajama delivery,” he said, in the jocular tone of a room-service person.
There was some splashing in the background, and Griff opened the bathroom door far enough to reach for the things Boone was holding, grinning sympathetically.
“Thanks, Dad,” Griff said in a hushed voice.
Boone nodded in acknowledgment, turned away and wandered back into the kitchen, where he picked up the receiver from the wall phone and called Molly and Bob’s home number.
Molly answered right away. “Boone?” she said.
“Yep,” Boone replied. “We got home just fine.”
“Good,” Molly responded. “How are they doing? Griffin and Fletcher, I mean?”
“As well as can be expected, I guess,” Boone said, as another wave of weariness swept over him. “How’s Bob?”
“He’s probably asleep by now,” Molly answered. “He goes into surgery at six tomorrow morning.” She paused, though not long enough for Boone to wedge in a reply. “Are they in bed already? Griffin and Fletcher, I mean? Did they brush their teeth? Say their prayers?”
“Fletch is in the tub, mother hen,” Boone told his frazzled sister, with a smile in his voice. “We’ll get around to the rest of it later.”
Molly gasped, instantly horrified. “Fletcher is in the tub by himself?”
Boone frowned as it came home to him, yet again, how much he didn’t know about bringing up kids. “Griff is with him,” he said.
“Oh,” said Molly, clearly relieved.
“So things are pretty much okay on your end?” Boone asked. He was out of practice as a father, and every part of him ached, from the heart out. Bob was in for some serious pain and a long, rigorous recovery, and Molly, Ted, Jessica and Cate had no choice but to go along for the ride.
“We’re doing all right,” she said. “Not great, but all right.”
“You’ll let me know if there’s anything you need?”
“You know I will,” Molly answered. She paused a beat before going on. “Can we stay in touch by text and email for a while? I’m not sure I’m going to have enough energy for the telephone right at first, and I’m afraid every time I hear the boys’ voices, I’ll burst into tears and scare the heck out of them. I already miss them so much.”
Boone’s reply came out sounding hoarse. “Do whatever works best for you,” he said. “I’ll look after the boys, Molly. I’ll figure all this fathering stuff out. In the meantime, try to stop worrying about us, okay? Take care of yourself, or you’ll be no good to Bob and the kids. In other words, get some rest.”
“I’ll try,” she said, and he knew she was smiling, although she was probably dead on her feet after the day she’d put in. “You’re a good brother, Boone. And I love you.”
“Flattery will get you everywhere,” Boone answered. “And I love you, too. I’ll text or email tomorrow.”
“Me, too,” Molly said. “Bob will be out of surgery around noon.”
They said their goodbyes and rang off.
Boone glanced at the wall clock, decided it was still early enough to call Hutch and punched in the numbers for his friend’s landline.
Hutch answered on the second ring. “Back home?” he asked, instead of saying hello. Thanks to caller ID, people tended to skip the preliminaries these days and launch right into the conversation at hand.
“Yep,” Boone answered.
“How are Molly and Bob?”
“About as well as can be expected,” Boone said truthfully. “Bob’s having surgery in the morning.”
Hutch sighed. “That’s a hassle,” he said.
Boone chuckled ruefully. “Amen to that, old buddy,” he said, remembering how Hutch and Slade had stood by him during Corrie’s illness and after her death, notwithstanding that the two of them, half brothers though they were, hadn’t gotten along at the time. Hutch had resented Slade for being living proof that dear old Dad slept around, and Slade, the unacknowledged son, born of an affair that still scandalized some folks even now, must have felt like an outsider, looking in. He was the prodigal who hadn’t actually gone anywhere.
“We’re a phone call away if you need us,” Hutch said.
“Thanks,” Boone replied. Yet another inadequate word. “Listen, about the truck—I’d like to run it through the car wash and fill the tank before I bring it back to you, unless you need it right away.”
“Never mind all that,” Hutch answered. “We’ve got plenty of rigs around here. Just bring it by when you can, and we’ll make the switch.”
Boone grinned. Folks probably hadn’t even noticed that Hutch was driving an old junker instead of his pricey new truck; for years, he’d used any rattletrap ranch pickup that would run to get where he was going, provided it wasn’t already in use. He had land and plenty of money, Hutch did, but he’d never given two hoots and a holler about appearances, and that hadn’t changed. “I guess the old beater didn’t quit on you,” he said.
“I kept it going, but it took some spit, duct tape and elbow grease,” Hutch joked. “You ought to spring for something a little more dependable, now that you’re going to be hauling a couple of kids around most everywhere you go.”
“That’s a distinct possibility,” Boone admitted. “They like riding in the squad car, but that’ll probably wear thin sooner or later.”
Hutch laughed. “I’m thinking sooner,” he said.
“Dad?” The voice was Griff’s.
Boone turned, saw his boys standing side by side just inside the kitchen, both of them pajama-clad, with their teeth gleaming so white they must have already brushed. Fletcher stood as close to his brother as he could without climbing right up on his shoulders.
Another pang struck Boone, partly sorrow but mostly love.
“Gotta go,” he told Hutch, probably sounding a touch more confident than he really felt. “My boys are about to turn in, and I’ve had a hell of a day myself.”
Hutch said goodbye and they both hung up.
Griff’s expression was earnest. “Fletcher wants to know if we can sleep with you tonight,” he said bravely. “He says he won’t pee the bed if you let us.”
Boone wanted to grin at the proffered bargain, but he didn’t. “Fletcher’s gone mute all of a sudden?” he asked, though not unkindly. “He can’t speak for himself?”
“It’s more like he won’t,” Griff said seriously.
“Yeah,” Boone agreed. “It’s more like that.”
“Can we? Sleep with you?” It was Griff who asked, but the answer seemed important to both of them. Fletcher’s eyes looked enormous in his small face.
“I don’t see why not,” Boone replied offhandedly. He didn’t want them to make a habit of bunking in with him, but this was their first night home, after all, and Fletcher was pretty shaken up. Griff might have been, too, but if so, he was hiding it better.
Both of them looked relieved. Evidently, Fletcher didn’t think his dad was a complete monster.
“Go on,” Boone said, his voice gone gruff again. “Hit the sack. I’ll be with you in a minute or two.”
Griff nodded, and the two of them turned and scampered for Boone’s room, which was only slightly bigger than their own, landing on the mattress with a ruckus audible from the kitchen. In the trailer, which wasn’t nearly as well made as some of its modern counterparts, sound carried.
Boone shook his head, smiled and waited for them to settle down a little before he went to tuck them in and get out a pair of sweatpants to put on after his shower. He found them crowded together on the side of that bed that had once been Corrie’s, with the covers pulled up to their noses and their eyes round.
“Guys?” Boone said huskily. “I love you, like it or not.”
“I like it,” Griff said.
“I don’t,” Fletcher clarified. He was a man who knew his own mind.
Boone laughed and went off to take his shower.
When he returned to the bedroom half an hour later, both boys were sleeping, Fletcher spooned close against his brother’s back.
Boone switched out the light but lingered in the doorway for a few moments, just looking at them. Corrie, he said silently, help me get this right. Please.
After that, he crawled into his side of the bed, closed his eyes and thought what a strange and unfair thing it was that something bad had to happen to Bob and Molly and their kids for something so good to happen to him.
Griffin and Fletcher were home with him, where they belonged. Tired as he was, as sorry as he felt for Bob and Molly and the kids, something inside him soared in celebration because, finally, he had his kids back.
Soon, he fell into a sound sleep and didn’t wake up until the wee small hours, when he rolled over into a wet spot in the middle of the bed.
* * *
JAMES’S TEXT DIDN’T come in until late that night, long after Kendra and Joslyn had paid their visit to Tara, consumed their lemonade and heard the whole story, from the day Tara met James to that day’s phone call.
Kendra, with pregnancy hormones running amok in her system and her empathy meter hitting the red zone, had teared up as she reached across the table to squeeze Tara’s hand. “It must have been the hardest thing in the world to leave those children,” she’d said. “I can’t even imagine being separated from Madison.”
Madison, a precocious, copper-haired five-year-old, was the biological daughter of Kendra’s late ex-husband, Jeffrey Chamberlain, and the classic Other Woman he’d fooled around with while he and Kendra were still married. That hadn’t stopped Kendra from adopting the child as her very own and loving her completely; in fact, Madison had the distinction of being adopted twice. Soon after Kendra and Hutch were married, Madison had officially become a Carmody, too.
Moved by Kendra’s understanding, Tara had cried then, too, letting down the last of her guard, she supposed, and nodded in agreement. “It’s been worse than hard,” she admitted.
Joslyn had seemed a little miffed in the beginning, because Tara had kept such a secret from her two closest friends for all this time, but she got over that fast, knowing that Tara had barely been able to think about parting with the children she’d loved as much as if they’d been born to her, let alone talk about it, even with the people she trusted most.
The evening ended around nine that night.
Tara saw her friends to their cars, waved them out of sight as they drove away, and then went back into the house to check her cell phone for the umpteenth time.
No message from James.
Sleeping was impossible—had her famously temperamental ex changed his mind about sending Elle and Erin to her? Had he ever intended to put them on a westward-bound airplane at all? It would be like him to set up Tara for a disappointment like this. He was a man with a score to settle, in his own opinion at least, and he could be ruthless at times.
No, her sensible side argued, as she locked doors and put away the pitcher of lemonade in the refrigerator. This visit from the children wasn’t something James was doing for Tara’s sake, certainly, or even for that of his daughters. The whole thing was all about him, what he wanted. And that was some “alone-time”—read: lots of impromptu sex—with this Bethany person. The deal was simple enough: if he didn’t send the twins to Tara in Montana, he wouldn’t get that.
Calmer now, Tara fed Lucy, let her outside, let her back in again. She watched the news on her small kitchen TV, the only set in the house, and shut it off when, after fifteen minutes or so, the programming looped back around to the beginning.
Tara retreated to her study, keeping her cell phone close at hand, and logged on to her computer to check her email. Nothing from James, nothing from the twins. She frowned, worried in spite of all her best reasoning.
Lucy, curled up on the hooked rug in front of the bookcase, gave a little whimper of shared concern. She was just one big fur-covered heart, that dog.
Finally, the phone made a familiar ting sound, signaling an incoming message.
Tara fumbled for the device, holding her breath, and peered at the screen. Sorry it took so long to get back to you, James had texted, but Bethany managed to book the kids’ flights, and here’s the info. The name of the airline followed, along with departure and arrival times.
There was nothing about the return trip, and Tara tried not to read anything into that. She couldn’t afford to hope for further miracles, because the letdown would be crushing. This was a visit, not a homecoming, she reminded herself firmly, and Elle and Erin would be going back to New York.
For now, though, it was enough to know that James hadn’t pulled out the proverbial rug from under her as she’d feared he would, and this wonderful gift of a thing was actually going to happen. She was about to see them again, Elle and Erin, the daughters of her heart if not her body, the very next morning. They’d arrive in Missoula at eleven-fifteen and come out through the security gate a few minutes later, and she would hug them and hug them, and then she would bring them home with her and treasure every moment spent in their company.
Tears of joy and relief filled Tara’s eyes, and her hand trembled so that she nearly dropped the phone before she managed to text back, I’ll be there to meet them and make sure they call you right away. Thank you, James.
He didn’t respond, being James. Problem solved, on to the next challenge.
Elle and Erin were as good as on their way, and that was all that mattered to Tara.
She swiveled around her office chair, phone still in hand, and saw that Lucy was sitting up now, watching her, totally alert to every nuance.
Tara laughed and reached out to ruffle the dog’s silky ears. “You’re going to love the twins,” she said, knowing it was true, “and they’re going to love you right back.”
Lucy seemed to take her at her word, wagging her tail and donning a dog grin.
It took a long time to get to sleep that night—every time Tara closed her eyes, she thought of something fun she and the girls and Lucy could do together, or something she wanted to remember to tell them, or ask them, and then she was wide-awake again.
She got up once for a drink of water and found herself at the bedroom window once more, looking across the narrow, moon-streaked finger of Big Sky River. There was a light on in Boone’s trailer. What was he doing up at this hour?
Of course she knew it was none of her business what Boone Taylor was doing over there in his ramshackle double-wide in the middle of the night, but something kept her at the window just the same, and for a long time.
When the light eventually blinked out, Tara went back to bed, and this time, she slept.
* * *
AS GOOD AS HER WORD, Opal was on Boone’s doorstep bright and early that first morning after the boys came home, wearing one of her flowery homemade dresses, clutching her big faux patent-leather purse to her ample bosom and grinning wide.
Yawning, still clad in the backup sweatpants he’d put on after Fletcher’s bed-wetting episode, though he’d pulled on a T-shirt to answer the door, Boone let her in. Opening the door always reminded him that the inside of the double-wide was a kind of vacuum—there was a faint whoosh, more feeling than sound, whenever anybody came or went. It was a little like living in a refrigerator, except warm.
“Is there coffee?” Opal immediately wanted to know. Her eyes were bright with purpose, like her smile.
“Not yet,” Boone said, yawning again, smoothing down his sleep-rumpled hair with a motion of one hand. The boys were still out of commission, this time in their own bed. The three of them had had to vacate his, of course, and he’d washed and dried the sheets during the night, and crashed on the couch while he was waiting for the last cycle to finish.
Opal made a tsk-tsk sound. “I declare,” she fussed good-naturedly, heading resolutely for the coffeemaker. “How do you get through a single day on your own?”
When Boone noticed her purple high-top sneakers, he couldn’t help grinning. Then he remembered that Bob was under the knife at that very moment, and a lot of hard things would happen before his good and inherently decent brother-in-law got back to normal, that Molly and the kids would suffer, too, by extension.
“I depend on the kindness of strangers,” Boone said cheerfully. He knew Opal’s question hadn’t really required an answer—she’d merely been reminding him that he needed a wife.
Opal thought every single man in the world needed a wife.
As for how he managed, well, he got through his days the way most everybody else did, he reckoned—by showing up and doing his best with what he had.
“I’m no stranger, Boone Taylor,” Opal objected sweetly, starting the coffee brewing. “I’m your second mama. I just happen to be black, that’s all.”
He chuckled and once again shoved a hand through his hair, wondered if he ought to wake up the boys or let them sleep for a while longer. They’d met Opal before, on their brief visits to Parable, and he knew they liked her a lot. They liked Hutch and Kendra, too, and Slade and Joslyn. He was the one they tended to be skittish around.
He sobered, remembering. “Molly’s husband shattered his knee yesterday,” he said very quietly.
Opal immediately stepped away from the counter and crossed the sagging floor of that tiny kitchen to put her arms around Boone, gave him a hard motherly squeeze and then stepped back to look up at him through the lenses of her old-fashioned glasses. The frames resembled a pair of jaunty wings, and they were studded with tiny rhinestones.
“Bless your heart, honey, I know all about that,” she said. “Hutch told me. I won’t pretend I’m not glad the boys are back home, but I am so sorry it had to happen like this.” She paused then, squared her broad shoulders and shook a finger under his nose. “Times like now, prayer’s the ticket. It makes everything easier.”
No prayers had made Corrie’s passing easier, not one whit, for her or for him, but he didn’t say that. Boone numbered himself among the former believers of the world, the disgruntled and doubtful ones, but that didn’t mean he could go around raining on Opal’s parade, so he kept his opinion to himself. After all, Opal was a churchgoing woman, and she did seem to get a lot of prayers answered. There was a rumor floating around that she might just marry up with the new pastor, Dr. Walter Beaumont, the two of them joining forces against the devil. They’d been seen fishing together and sharing a pancake special over at the Butter Biscuit Café, and just the other day, Slade had said he and Joslyn were on the lookout for another housekeeper.
“I guess so,” Boone finally said, because he knew his old friend was waiting for an answer to her brief but inspirational message. “You’re an angel, Opal. Moving was a shock to my boys, sudden as it was, and they’re worried about their uncle, of course. It’ll make them feel better having you here.”
She smiled and patted his cheek. “Let me just get breakfast on the stove,” she said. “There’ll be coffee in a few minutes, and you look like a man who needs some sustenance, pronto.”
Boone nodded gratefully and went off to grab a shower and get dressed in his usual go-to-work getup of jeans, a cotton shirt cut Western-style and a decent pair of boots. He’d put on his badge and his service revolver later, he decided. Most of the time, he didn’t need either one, since everybody in Parable County knew who he was and no one was likely to behave in a way that would require shooting them.
When he got back to the kitchen, Opal handed him the promised cup of coffee, and he inhaled the rich scent of it before he took a sip, savoring it as he took in the sight of his boys, sitting at the table in their cartoon pajamas, their feet bare and their eyes still puffy from sleeping hard and deep.
“Are you mad at me?” Fletcher asked, right out of the chute, leveling a look at Boone. A blush pulsed in his freckled cheeks, and his voice dropped to a near whisper, as though Opal and Griff weren’t right there to hear every word. “For wetting the bed, I mean?”
Boone shook his head. “Nope,” he said, taking another sip of his coffee before going on. “Stuff happens.”
Fletcher looked relieved, but he was still holding a grudge, too. That much was abundantly clear. “I want to go back to Missoula,” he reminded his father.
Boone let that one pass, since stubbornness ran in the family.