“Sí, Horaz, I’m home. ¿Como está?”
“I’m good, very good,” Horaz said, bobbing his head, his thick salt-and-pepper hair not moving an inch.
“And Flora? How is she?”
“Flora is fine, just fine. She is cooking up all of your favorites.”
“That sounds great,” April said, hugging the old man in a warm embrace, the scent of spicy food wafting around them. She wasn’t hungry, but she’d have to hide that from Horaz and Flora Costello. They had been with her family since her father and mother had been married more than thirty years ago. And after her mother’s death when April was in high school, they’d stayed on to take care of her and her father. She loved them both like family and often visited with their three grown children and their families whenever she came home, which was rare these days. The entire Costello clan lived on Maxwell land, in homes they’d built themselves, with help from her father.
“You look tired, niña,” Horaz said. “Do you want to rest before supper? Your room is ready.”
April thought of the light, airy room on the second floor, the room with the frilly curtains and wide, paned windows that allowed a dramatic view of the surrounding pasture land and the river beyond. “No, I don’t want to rest right now. I want…I want to see my father.”
Horaz looked down at the floor. “I will take you to him. Then I will instruct Tomás to bring in the rest of your bags.”
“Yes, I left them in the trunk of the car.” She handed him the keys. “And how is Tomás? Does he like high school?”
“He’s on the football team,” Horaz said, grinning again. “My grandson scored two touchdowns in the final big game last fall. We won the championship.”
“I’m glad to hear it,” April said, remembering her own days of cheerleading and watching Reed play. He’d been a star quarterback in high school and had gone on to play college ball. Then he’d gotten injured in his senior year at Southern Methodist University. After graduating, he had come home to Paris to make a living as a rancher. She had gone on to better things.
Not so much better, she reminded herself. You gave up Reed for your life in New York. Why now, of all times, did she have to feel such regrets for making that decision?
“Come,” Horaz said, taking her by the arm to guide her toward the back of the rambling, high-ceilinged house.
As they passed the stairs, April took in the vast paneled-and-stucco walls of the massive den to the right. The stone fireplace covered most of the far wall, a row of woven baskets adorning the ledge high over it. On the back wall, over a long brown leather couch grouped with two matching comfortable chairs and ottomans, hung a portrait of the Big M’s sweeping pastures with the glistening Red River beyond. Her mother had painted it. The paned doors on either side of the fireplace were thrown open to the porch, a cool afternoon breeze moving through them to bring in the scent of the just-blooming potted geraniums and the centuries-old climbing roses.
As they neared the rear of the house, April felt the cool breeze turn into a chill and the scent of spring flowers change to the scent of antiseptics and medicine. It was dark down this hall, dark and full of shadows. She shuddered as Horaz guided her to the big master bedroom where the wraparound porch continued on each side, where another huge fireplace dominated one wall, where her mother’s Southwestern-motif paintings hung on either side of the room, and where, in a big bed handmade of heart-of-pine posts and an intricate, lacy wrought-iron headboard that reached to the ceiling, her father lay dying.
Chapter Two
The big room was dark, the ceiling-to-floor windows shuttered and covered with the sheer golden drapery April remembered so well. When her mother was alive, those windows had always been open to the sun and the wind. But her mother was gone, as was the warmth of this room.
It was cold and dark now, a sickroom. The wheelchair in the corner spoke of that sickness, as did the many bottles of pills sitting on the cluttered bedside table. The bed had been rigged with a contraption that helped her weak, frail father get up and down.
April walked toward the bed, willing herself to be cheerful and upbeat, even though her heart was stabbing with clawlike tenacity against her chest. I won’t cry, she told herself, lifting her chin in stubborn defiance, her breeding and decorum that of generations of strong Maxwell women.
“Daddy?” she called as she neared the big bed in the corner. “It’s me, Daddy. April.”
A thin, withered hand reached out into the muted light. “Is that my girl?”
April felt the hot tears at the back of her eyes. Pushing and fighting at them, she took a deep breath and stepped to the bedside, Horaz hovering near in case she needed him. “Yes, I’m here. I made it home.”
“Celia.” The whispered name brought a smile to his face. “I knew you’d come back to me.”
April gasped and brought a hand to her mouth. He thought she was her mother! Swallowing the lump in her throat, she said, “No, Daddy. It’s April. April…”
Horaz touched her arm. “He doesn’t always recognize people these days. He has grown worse over the last week.”
April couldn’t stop the tears then. “I…I’m here now, Daddy. It’s April. I’m April.”
Her thin father, once a big, strapping man, lifted his drooping eyes and looked straight into her face. For a minute, recognition seemed to clarify things for him. “April, sweetheart. When’d you get home?”
“I just now arrived,” she said, sniffing back tears as she briskly wiped her face. “I should have been here sooner, Daddy.”
He waved his hand in the air, then let it fall down on the blue blanket. “No matter. You’re here now. Got to make things right. You and Reed. Don’t leave too soon.”
“What?” April leaned forward, touching his warm brow. “I’m not going anywhere, I promise. I’m going to stay right here until you’re well again.”
He smiled, then closed his eyes. “I won’t be well again, honey.”
“Yes, you will,” she said, but in her heart she knew he was right. Her father was dying. She knew it now, even though she’d tried to deny it since the day the family doctor had called and told her Stuart Maxwell had taken a turn for the worse. The years of drinking and smoking had finally taken their toll on her tough-skinned father. His lungs and liver were completely destroyed by disease and abuse. And it was too late to fix them now.
Too late to fix so many things.
April sat with her father until the sun slipped behind the treeline to the west. She sat and held his hand, speaking to him softly at times about her life in New York, about how she enjoyed living with Summer and Autumn in their loft apartment in Tribeca. About how much she appreciated his allowing her to have wings, his understanding that she needed to be out on her own in order to see how precious it was to have a place to call home.
Stuart slept through most of her confessions and revelations. But every now and then, he would smile or frown; every now and then he would squeeze her fingers in his, some of the old strength seeming to pour through his tired old veins.
April sat and cried silently as she remembered how beautiful her mother had been. Her parents had been so in love, so perfectly matched. The rancher oilman and the beautiful, dark-haired free-spirited artist. Her father had come from generations of tough Texas oilmen, larger-than-life men who ruled their empires with steely determination and macho power. Her mother had come from a long line of Hispanic nobility, a line that traced its roots from Texas all the way back to Mexico City. They’d met when Stuart had gone to Santa Fe to buy horses. He’d come home with several beautiful Criollo working horses, and one very fiery beauty who was also a temperamental artist.
In