“How long do I have?”
She patted his back. “A few hours. Don’t try to leave.”
From the kitchen he heard Jackson laugh. Gage walked into the big open room that always smelled like something good was cooking, and usually was. He ignored Jackson and opened the oven door. Rolls. He inhaled the aroma and closed the door.
“Better stay out of there or Mom will have your hide.” Jackson poured himself a cup of coffee and offered one to Gage.
“No, thanks.”
“Did I hear you say something about Layla Silver?”
Gage shook his head.
Jackson took a sip of coffee and stared at him over the rim of the cup. Gage zeroed in on the pies lined up on the counter. He went for one but his mom slapped his hand away.
“Those are for the community center.”
“I had restaurant food for Thanksgiving. Don’t I rate at least a piece of pumpkin pie?”
“Not on your life, cowboy. You could have come home.”
“I couldn’t leave Dylan.”
His mom went to the fridge and opened the door. “I have a coconut cream pie I made a couple of days ago. Knock yourself out.”
“Thanks, Mom. That’s why you’re the best. Where’s Dad?”
“He took a load of cattle to Tulsa. He’s staying there tonight.”
Gage grabbed a fork and headed for the table to finish off the pie. “So, you guys have fun at the community center.”
He knew he wouldn’t get away with skating out on helping. He thought it would be fun to try. He took a bite of pie, closing his eyes just briefly to savor the taste. His mom’s pies were the best.
“You’re going with me,” his mom said from the kitchen as she opened the oven door and removed the homemade rolls. “Jackson, Madeline and Jade are helping, too.”
“You know I can’t stand for long periods of time.” He grinned as he tried out his last excuse, pointing to the knee he’d had surgery on.
“We’ll get you a chair to sit on.”
He’d lost. He knew when to let it go.
Jackson sat down next to him. “Lucky for you, Layla Silver will be there, too.”
“Thanks...that makes it all better.” Gage finished off his pie. “I’m going to get cleaned up.”
He made it upstairs to his room and collapsed on the bed that had the same bedspread he’d used as a teen. The posters on the walls were of bull riders he’d looked up to as a kid. Justin McBride, J. W. Hart and Chris Shivers. He crooked one arm behind his head and thought about how life had changed. He’d wanted to be them. Now he rode in some of the same events they’d ridden in. But he was still running from life.
Since he had time he flipped on the TV and searched for reruns of the finals. He didn’t find them so he settled for a few minutes of a popular sitcom. A guy who had made mistakes and was trying to make amends to the people he’d hurt. Gage thought about how much he had in common with the guy in that show. Since his bull wreck at the finals, he’d been thinking a lot about his list of wrongs.
How did he make amends to the people he’d hurt? Where did he start? He sighed, because he knew that he needed to start with the person he’d hurt the most. The person who liked him the least.
How did he do that without giving her the wrong idea?
* * *
The parking lot at Back Street Community Center held about fifty cars. So far there were only a dozen or so. Layla parked her old truck and reached for the green bean casserole she’d brought. In the passenger seat, Brandon looked miserable and almost as green as the casserole.
“Come on. You can help serve.” She handed him the dish. “Don’t drop it.”
“I think I can manage to carry a pan.” He had that sullen, teen look on his face. She ignored it because she knew he wanted to get a rise out of her.
“Let’s go, then.”
“Why can’t I help the guys put together the buildings for the nativity?” He nodded in the direction of Bethlehem, or at least the Dawson version.
As they walked by, the star over the manger lit up briefly, flickered and went out again. Someone yelled that they’d found the short in the cord.
Brandon slowed, probably hoping she’d tell him to do what he wanted. She shook her head.
“You’re going inside.”
He groaned. “I thought helping out was a good thing, and you’re telling me I can’t.”
“You’re helping, just not where you want to help.”
They walked through the light mist to the front of the church that Jeremy and Beth Hightree had turned into a community center. Brandon lagged, his face one of absolute misery. For a second she almost caved, nearly told him he could help with the nativity buildings. But then she remembered why she’d dragged him along.
Days like this made her wish for someone to lean on. An aunt or uncle, anyone. But the one uncle they had was just as bad an alcoholic as their father had been. An aunt who was married lived in Africa. She and her husband were missionaries and rarely came home.
She walked through the doors of the old church and paused for a moment, feeling a wonderful sense of calm. The sanctuary of the church had been turned into a dining room. Tables were spread with white cloths. Pretty centerpieces added color. Layla could smell the aroma seeping up the steps. Turkey, ham, all of the typical Thanksgiving foods for this community dinner.
Peace. She looked to the front of the church where the wooden cross still hung on the wall. For a brief moment she closed her eyes and drew on a strength that came from within. She didn’t have family to turn to but she had God. She had a community that loved her.
“Are you going to stand here all night?” Brandon sulked behind her.
“No.” She moved on, walking through the sanctuary to the stairs.
“I’m going to stay the night with Lance,” Brandon informed her as they headed down the stairs.
“No, you’re not.” She took the dish from his hands. The friend he’d mentioned was off-limits. “You’re going to help me and then we’re going home. And you’re going to stay home. You’re grounded.”
“Layla, you’re five feet tall. How are you gonna make me?” He towered over her. She knew he had a point. And it made her mad. In the past year he’d started challenging her, making things difficult. It had been easy when he was little. Now he needed a dad.
Standing in the kitchen of the community center, they had an audience. He did that on purpose. He picked public places to argue because he thought she would give in.
“Brandon, you’re staying home.”
“Who’s going to stop me if I decide to leave?”
“I guess I’ll make you.” She knew that voice.
Gage stepped out of the shadows. He’d shaved and changed into new jeans and a button-up shirt. He’d left behind the shadow of growth on his chin. The dark stubble distracted her. He was talking again and Brandon looked a little cornered.
“Brandon, if I have to, I’ll drive you home and I’ll make sure you stay there.”
Brandon smirked. “Who gave you a suit of armor and a white horse?”
Layla’s thoughts exactly. Brandon had probably heard her say that at some point. She’d repeated more than once that