All the while, she sipped her lemonade, drinking it down. Boy, did that hit the spot.
When she’d finished it, she glanced at the empty glass, wondering what she ought to do with it. Maybe she should return it to the kitchen. So she crossed the living room, heading in the same direction Tina had gone.
As she neared a doorway, the sound of whispers caused her to pause. She listened, overhearing the housekeeper say something about the “family rift.”
Unable to help herself, she stepped aside and leaned against the wall, next to the doorjamb.
“To tell you the truth,” Tina said, her voice low, “I’d given up thinking either of those boys would ever return to the Flying B.”
“I know what you mean,” the other woman said. “After nearly thirty-five years, there’s been too much water under the bridge.”
“You’re probably right. I’ll never forget the day it happened. The awful words they said to each other. The anger…” Tina clicked her tongue.
Tammy stood still, not daring to go closer, not wanting to stop the conversation from unfolding.
“Poor Tex,” the other woman said. “All the family he had left in the world was those two boys. And to think that they would both run off and leave him like that.”
But why? Tammy wondered. Her father had never said, other than to imply there was bad blood between them.
“At least they both came back before it was too late,” Tina added.
“They haven’t returned yet. And after being so stubborn for so long, I suppose anything could happen.”
Tammy’s father had told her he would arrive at the ranch late this afternoon. He wouldn’t back out now, would he?
She leaned closer to the open doorway, trying her best to hear more, to learn more.
Her father and her uncle had been at odds with each other and with Grandpa Byrd, too, which was why she’d never met her other family members. But she’d never heard any of the details. In fact, up until today, she’d never cared enough to ask.
But now her curiosity was mounting with each beat of her heart.
What had caused the rift? And why had it lasted so long?
She waited for several minutes, but the voices stilled, as if the conversation had just vaporized.
When it became clear that neither the housekeeper nor the cook would bring up the subject of the family feud again, Tammy stepped away from the wall she’d been leaning against and entered the bright and sunny kitchen with her empty glass in hand.
“The lemonade was great,” she said, addressing the housekeeper while scanning the spacious room with its old-style gingham curtains and modern appliances. “Where should I put this?”
“I’m sorry, Miss Byrd.” Tina got up from her seat at a polished, dark oak table. “I should have picked up that glass for you.”
“I don’t mind picking up after myself. And please call me Tammy.” She offered a smile, hoping that striking up a friendship of sorts with the household help would provide her with the details she wanted to know.
“All right. Then Tammy it is.” Tina took the glass from her and turned to a short, heavyset woman who was peeling potatoes at the sink. “Barbara, this is William’s youngest.”
The matronly cook, her hair tinted a coppery shade of red, her cheeks rosy and plump, reached for a paper towel. After drying her pudgy hands, she reached out to Tammy. “It’s nice to meet you, honey. Is your daddy coming?”
“He sure is.” Tammy accepted the handshake, hoping she was telling the truth and that her father would follow through as planned. “In fact, he should be here before dark.”
Both women glanced at each other, their gazes making a quick and intimate connection, before turning their focus back on Tammy and offering nods and smiles.
“That’s good news,” Tina said. “I haven’t seen your daddy since he left for college.”
What? No mention of the family argument? The angry words thrown at each other? The night it—whatever it was—had happened?
Hadn’t the women said both boys had run off, leaving Tex alone for almost thirty-five years?
If Tammy had known either of the women a little better, she would have quizzed them further. As it was, she’d let it go—at least, for now.
But come hell or high water, she was going to get to the bottom of it. And she would start by cornering her father as soon as he arrived.
Sure enough, William Travis Byrd arrived at the Flying B just as the sun was setting.
Tammy, who’d been gazing out the big bay window in the living room, was on her feet and out the door before he could turn off the ignition of the restored 1975 Pontiac Trans Am he’d owned for as long as any of his three kids could remember.
The classic vehicle only had 27,000 miles on it and looked as though it had just rolled off the assembly line, with its original camel-tan cloth interior and spiffy gold paint, including the firebird on the hood. Needless to say, the V-8 sports car was William Byrd’s pride and joy, so Tammy was more than a little surprised to see that he’d driven it all this distance, when he usually kept it in a garage back at the family ranch in Grass Valley.
Had he left the Flying B in that same car on that fateful day? If so, had he decided to return the same way—just as angry, just as stubborn, just as determined to hold a grudge?
“Hey,” she said, as she stepped off the porch. “How was the drive?”
Her dad shut the driver’s door. “Not bad. How was yours?”
“It was good—easy and quiet.”
Her dad nodded at the house. “What’s going on in there?”
“Not much. I haven’t met Tex—or rather my grandfather—yet. Right before I got here, he took some pain medication, so they tell me he’s sleeping.”
Her dad, his once blond hair faded to gray, tensed. Did it bother him to know that Tex was hurting…and badly? That he truly was dying?
Tammy couldn’t imagine why it wouldn’t. Why else would he have come back to the Flying B?
Once she crossed the yard and reached his side, she broached the question that had been burning inside her ever since she’d arrived. “I have something I’ve been meaning to ask you.”
“What’s that?”
She folded her arms over her chest and shifted her weight to one leg. “What caused that falling-out you had with your dad and brother?”
His lips tightened, and his brow furrowed. Yet he didn’t respond.
About the time she figured he wouldn’t, he said, “My brother did something unforgivable. And my father was in cahoots.”
“What did he do?”
For a moment, her father’s stance eased and his expression softened. He lifted his hand and cupped her cheek, his eyes glistening. Then he stiffened again, rolling back the gentle side of himself that he rarely showed anyone. “That was a long time ago, Tam.”
Yes, it was. But he’d held on to his anger—or someone else had—for thirty-five years. So pretending to brush it all off wasn’t working. And nothing he said, short of spilling the beans, was going to convince her that it hadn’t been a big deal. It must have been huge.
“You know,” her father said, removing his hand from her cheek and scanning the yard, “now that I’m here, I’m going to take a little walk before it gets dark.”
“What are