Blood Brothers Read online

  “But not us.” With one last accusing look at his mother, Charlie slumped back to his own room.

  Freddie stared after him, feeling equal parts dismayed and helpless. Try to understand, she wanted to implore him. But she knew it was pointless.

  He was a child. He wanted a father.

  Gabe was handy. Gabe was fun. He was a little boy’s ideal.

  But that didn’t make it possible.

  They roped the cow until it was cross-eyed every day for the rest of the week.

  They sang “The Streets of Laredo” and “The Yellow Rose of Texas” and “The Double Diamond” and every other cowboy song Gabe knew.

  They watched movies-westerns every one. Shane. Stagecoach. Red River. All by popular demand. Charlie and Emma’s demand. They couldn’t get enough. And Gabe was quite willing to give it to them.

  He was annoyed at Freddie, angry that she’d rebuffed him, hurt, if the truth were known. At least he guessed that’s what that aching feeling somewhere in his midsection meant.

  He didn’t like being toyed with, tempted, led on-and then told to take a hike.

  She was chicken. Afraid of him-of her feelings for him.

  He wasn’t afraid of his feelings for her. He hadn’t even really thought about them. Feelings weren’t something Gabe was very good at. Not analyzing them, anyhow. If he felt something, he damn sure wouldn’t turn his back on it like Ms. Frederica Crossman!

  Well, the heck with her.

  But not with her children. He had a few more days to spend with them, and he was going to be sure they knew that life was worth living, that risks were worth taking.

  “You guys are doin’ great,” he told them.

  “I never met a better cowgirl,” he told Emma. “Not even Claire,” he added, fingers crossed, and was sure Claire wouldn’t mind if she ever saw the way Emma beamed.

  “You just keep pluggin’ and someday you’ll make a hand,” he told the boy.

  “A hand?” Charlie echoed.

  “A good cowboy,” Gabe translated.

  Charlie grinned. “Like you.”

  Charlie believed in him. Emma believed in him. Beatrice believed in him.

  So, grudgingly, did Percy Pomfret-Mumphrey, over his dead body. Even Earl seemed to believe in him at the moment.

  Everyone believed in him but Freddie.

  “Right,” he said firmly. “You be a cowboy like me.”

  “An’ ride bulls,” Charlie said.

  “Definitely,” Gabe agreed, glad the kid wasn’t a chicken like his mother.

  Charlie cocked his head. “Do all cowboys ride bulls?”

  “Only the best.” He winked. “No. Only rodeo cowboys,” he said. “And not all of them. I didn’t start out ridin’ ’em, either. I started out ridin’ sheep.”

  “Sheep?” Both children stared.

  “When I was a boy. Mutton bustin’ we called it.”

  Charlie looked speculatively out across the field beyond the long-suffering cow. He ran his tongue over his lips. “I’d like to try that. Do you think Mr. Bolt would mind?”

  Actually Gabe didn’t. He’d had a chat with Josiah Bolt when he and Beatrice were doing their rounds of shopkeepers and had met him in the hardware store. Josiah had actually laughed at Gabe’s tale of them roping his sheep.

  “Come on,” he said now, seizing on the idea. One last thrill.

  They found the sheep in Bolt’s field near the road. And while Gabe held one big ewe steady and kept her next to the hedgerow, Charlie clambered up and settled down onto her back. His eyes were wide with excitement, his cheeks bright red.

  “All set?” Gabe asked. Then with one hand he reached up and took off his Stetson and settled it on the little boy’s head.

  Charlie looked up at it, then at Gabe, awe-struck.

  Gabe grinned. “For luck,” he said and tugged it down until Charlie barely peeked out.

  The boy grinned. Then, lips tight, knuckles white, he nodded.

  “Let ’er rip!” Gabe let go and gave the ewe a light smack. She bolted across the field with Charlie clinging fiercely to her back.

  Darn good thing Freddie had gone to town. She would be having a fit right now if she could see her first born hurtling across the field clutching the back of a good-sized ewe with both hands while he yelled “Yeehaw!” at the top of his lungs.

  “Ride ’em, cowboy!” Gabe whooped.

  Charlie rode. The sheep careened through the field, but Charlie stuck tight. Not until it swerved right and plunged down a sharp hill did Charlie, still shrieking, crash to the ground.

  “Charlie!”

  Gabe spun around to see Freddie getting out of her car. She scrambled over the wall, then ran toward them, hair streaming behind her, face stark white with terror. “Charlie!”

  Gabe started toward her, then turned and went to Charlie instead. “He’s all right!” he called over his shoulder. “He’s just had the wind knocked out of him.”

  Charlie, still gasping, tried to struggle up. There was blood on the boy’s lip, and his face looked a little blue from lack of air. Gabe knelt beside him and patted Charlie’s ribs.

  “Hurt anywhere?” he asked, keeping his body between Charlie and his mother.

  “N-no,” Charlie managed. “P-pretty g-good, huh? Huh, Gabe?”

  But before Gabe could reply, Freddie swooped in, practically knocking him out of the way. “Dear God, Charlie! Are you all right?”

  The boy gulped, started to answer, apparently realized a stutter wouldn’t do, and swallowed, to nod wordlessly instead. He swiped a sleeve quickly across his bloody lip.

  Freddie started to gather him close, but the boy squirmed away. “M’all right, Mum!”

  “He is,” Gabe agreed.

  Freddie whirled on him. “Like you’d care! What were you trying to do? Kill him?”

  “Kill him? He was riding a sheep, that’s all. Bustin’ mutton.”

  “Busting his head, more like!” Her hands were trembling. She made fists of them quickly, then opened them again, shook them out. She glared at him, her normally rosy complexion ash white. Then taking a deep shuddering breath, she turned to Charlie. “That’s enough. No more sheep.”

  “But-”

  “Come along. We’re going home. Now.”

  “He wasn’t hurt,” Gabe intervened. “Not much, anyway,” he added, determined to be perfectly honest. “And it isn’t as if he’s the only kid to ever bust a mutton. Other kids do it. An’ he wanted to ride one.”

  “It doesn’t matter what he wanted! I’m his mother! I say what he does. Not him! Not you!” She had Charlie on his feet now and was steering him toward her car.

  Gabe kept pace. “You’ve got to let him try things, Fred. You can’t keep him wrapped up in cotton wool his whole life!”

  “I can do whatever I want! I’m his mother. You’re…you’re…a cowboy! Here today. Gone tomorrow. Passing through!” Her eyes were flashing, her hair was wild, her breasts were heaving beneath her jacket. She was beautiful and tempting.

  And right.

  He was passing through.

  He had no say. Charlie wasn’t his. He had no rights.

  Not unless she gave them to him.

  Fat chance.

  “Fine,” he said after a long moment. He shrugged with all the nonchalance he could muster. He reached down and snagged his hat off the ground. “Have it your way, Fred. Teach your children that risks are bad, that it’s always better to play it safe.”

  He set it on his head, then gave the brim a tug. “I wouldn’t. If they were mine, they’d learn to be cowboys-in the best sense of the word.”

  There was apparently nothing in the bill of sale of the Buckworthy Gazette that prevented Percy from quitting, which was exactly what he did when Gabe promoted Beatrice to office manager on his last day at work.

  “Me?” Beatrice said, astonished.

  “Her?” Percy gasped, appalled.

  “That’s right,” Gabe said to both of them. “That way I’m su
re the paper will be in good hands.”

  And he wanted it in good hands. The Gazette was the one thing he had done right, the one thing he was happy about.

  The only thing that mattered, he told himself. It was why he had come, after all.

  Freddie had been…Freddie had been a distraction. Beautiful. Lively. Tempting. Fun.

  Annoying. Irritating. Downright infuriating.

  It was a damn good thing he was going home.

  He knew Freddie felt the same way.

  For the rest of the week, they steered clear of each other.

  She fixed his dinner, but she declined any help with the washing up. She sat in the room and read while he told the children stories, but she never joined in. She didn’t come and sit in the parlor with him after the children were in bed, either. She never let herself be alone with him.

  Because she was chicken.

  Well, fine. If that’s the way she wanted it, it didn’t matter to him.

  They barely spoke all week. He thought they might not speak at all, that he might just get in his car and drive off and she’d never say a word.

  But when he came in from work his last afternoon, she handed him a stack of clean folded laundry and said in proper landlady-ish tones, “I think that’s everything then.”

  Everything.

  All that had passed between them in these few weeks-all the joy, all the laughter, all the smiles, the looks, the touches, the kiss-had all come down to nothing more than a stack of laundry.

  He looked at her. She was already on her way back to the kitchen.

  “Thanks,” he muttered.

  He carried the clean clothes back to his room and began packing his bag. He moved slowly, deliberately. He’d put off packing so he could visit with the kids while he did it. He’d expected them to be waiting for him when he got home this afternoon. But the house had been empty except for Freddie.

  “Where are they?” he’d asked when he came in.

  She’d shrugged vaguely. “They went off to play somewhere.” Her tone had been dismissive, almost airy.

  Gabe knew she was glad, grateful they weren’t hovering over him, stretching things out, asking for one last story. It proved how little he mattered to them. He could see the satisfaction in her eyes.

  He’d nodded, certain then that they’d be back before he left.

  But it took him ten minutes to pack. Now he was done.

  He stripped the bed, tossed the sheets in the wash, folded the duvet, packed, then repacked his bag. He couldn’t wait much longer.

  He had told his grandfather he’d be there late tonight so he needed to get moving. Reluctantly he zipped the duffel and picked up his jacket, then headed for the door. Turning, he took one last look back at the room, memorizing it.

  Why? he asked himself savagely. So you can drag out the memory and think about it when you’re back home where you belong? So you can remember all those nights in that lonely bed? So you can recall hopes dashed and dreams thwarted? So you can miss Freddie and the kids?

  “Oh yeah. Good idea,” he mocked himself.

  He didn’t need this. He didn’t need them. Not any of them. Not Freddie who had wanted him and insisted she didn’t. Not her children who clamored to be cowboys, but who, the minute he said he was leaving, vanished, not caring a whit.

  He shoved his arms into his jacket, then grabbed the duffel and headed down the stairs. Freddie was in the kitchen, peeling potatoes at the sink. From the stiffness of her shoulders, he knew she’d been listening for him…waiting.

  “I’m going now,” he said brusquely. “Tell the kids I said goodbye.”

  “Yes.” She turned, blinked, swallowed, smiled. Her smile looked just a little strained.

  Gabe felt a small measure of satisfaction. He smiled back, a polite, distant smile-the sort you gave the innkeeper who’d made your stay pleasant. He headed out the door. “Watch out for runaway rabbits,” he said over his shoulder.

  “What? Oh-” She managed a little laugh. But she followed him out at least and stood on the porch to watch him go.

  They stared at each other again. No laundry between them now.

  The “everything” no longer reduced to that-the memories, the might-have-beens crowding in, piling up.

  Then in the stillness, Gabe heard the sudden pounding of swift footsteps coming down the gravel drive.

  “Mummy! Mummy! Gabe!” It was Emma, feet flying, cheeks blazing. “Come quick! Charlie’s gone up to Dawes’s field to ride the bull!”

  Five

  It was Freddie’s worst nightmare.

  Worse than her worst nightmare. So bad-so fraught with the potential for disaster-that she would never let herself think or dream about such a thing! She was frozen where she stood.

  “Come on!” Gabe was grabbing her hand and towing her to the car. “Show me where they are,” he commanded Emma. “And tell me what the hell is going on?”

  “Heck,” Freddie corrected faintly. But as her fingers knotted and her heart lodged in her throat, she really thought hell felt more like it.

  Emma pointed the way. “Ch-Charlie…thought it would…be a good idea,” she told Gabe, her words coming in bursts as she gulped enough air to say them. “T-to prove he could do it. S-so you’d t-take us w-with you!”

  “Jesus!” Gabe let out a sharp exhalation of breath. “Your mother told you-”

  “But if he p-proved it-if he did it-she wouldn’t have to worry a-anymore,” Emma cut him off determinedly. She gave Freddie a look that was both nervous and defiant. “Charlie said so!”

  That wasn’t how it worked, Freddie wanted to tell her. Mothers worried. It went with the role. Sometimes-since Mark had died-worrying seemed to define her role. For all the good it had done. Her fingers knotted tighter.

  Please God, don’t let anything happen to Charlie.

  They were almost to Dawes’s field now. Freddie could see Mrs. Peek’s old bicycle propped against the hedgerow.

  “What’s Mrs. Peek doing here?” Gabe demanded.

  “She came up while I was sitting on the wall waiting for Charlie. An’ she never just goes by, you know. She always stops to talk. An’ she asked what I was doing. An’ I thought…I thought maybe she’d write a story about it, about Charlie being so brave an’ all and then we could send it to you an’ you’d come back an’… She told me to go get you quick. She said she was going to try to find Charlie before the bull did.”

  Gabe leapt out of the car. “Wait here!”

  “I’m coming!” Freddie was hot on his heels when he stopped suddenly and she slammed right into him.

  “No,” he said fiercely, “you’re not! The last thing we need is somebody else out wandering around in that field. I can’t take care of all of you. You stay here with Emma. She seems to be the only one with any sense.” He flicked Emma a quick strained grin, then focused again on Freddie. “You’re staying, got that?”

  “I-”

  “Just say you’ve got it. You’re the one who doesn’t take risks, remember? Don’t change your mind now.”

  “But-”

  “Got it. Say, I’ve got it.”

  “I’ve got it,” Freddie said desperately, frantically. She knew Gabe was right, even though every maternal instinct wanted to insist it was her duty-not his-to go after Charlie. “Stop wasting time badgering me! Just find Charlie and get him out of there!”

  Gabe had been scared a few times in his life-the first time he’d ridden a bull, the night his father had had a heart attack, the day his mother said, “I guess we’ll have to sell the ranch if you don’t want to run it.”

  He’d been scared enough of his inadequacies never to have done any rodeo bullfighting at all. And he quaked in his boots whenever he heard his name mentioned along with the words commitment and marriage.

  But he’d never been as scared as he was now.

  A boy-a little boy!-was out looking for a bull to ride.

  Because of him.

  A little boy might get trample
d, gored-killed!-because of him!

  Because Charlie worshiped him. Because he wanted to be like him. Because Gabe had opened his big mouth and said he wouldn’t coddle his children.

  “If they were mine, they’d learn to be cowboys,” he’d said after the sheep-riding fiasco, like he knew everything, like he had all the answers, like he was some blinkin’ god!

  Gabe’s relationship with the Almighty was casual, but steady. Any man who rode bulls for a living and courted disaster on a daily basis was generally on speaking terms with God.

  Gabe spoke now. He murmured one prayer after another as he strode across the field, eyes darting this way and that, looking for Charlie’s navy anorak or Mrs. Peek’s red sweater or, in the best of all worlds, neither of them-only the bull.

  “I didn’t mean it,” he told God. “Well, maybe I did. But I was only trying to help. I don’t want her raisin’ ’em to be sissies. I never meant for him to do somethin’ dumb. So take care of him, huh? And You damned-er, darned-well better take care of Mrs. Peek, too!”

  As he crested the hill, he glanced back once to see Freddie and Emma perched on the wall, arms hugged across their chests, eyes intent on him. He wished he could yell back that he’d found them, but the field rolled on, trees and rock outcroppings scattered here and there.

  No Charlie. No Mrs. Peek. No bull.

  Gabe hurried on, yelling Charlie’s name as he went, then stopping to listen for a response.

  And then he saw the bull.

  Huge, brown and mud-caked, the animal was pacing agitatedly between two beech trees, twitching his tail, snorting and huffing and pawing the ground.

  Gabe stopped dead. He looked around for Charlie or Mrs. Peek and was relieved not to see either of them.

  Then he heard Charlie’s voice. “Gabe! Hi, Gabe! We’re up here!”

  Gabe looked around desperately. But he only saw the field, the rocks, the trees. And, of course, the bull.

  Then a leg dangled down from one of the trees. “Here! In the trees.”

  Suddenly the other beech shook, too. A pair of dark brown brogans and heavy woolen stockings appeared.