If Wishes Were Horses.... Judith DuncanЧитать онлайн книгу.
crew could manage on their own—not with Jake half crippled with that bad hip. His mind racing, Conner considered alternatives. Tanner McCall’s spread was just a couple of miles down the road. And it wouldn’t be the first time they had stepped in and helped each other out. Maybe if he asked Tanner to help pick up the slack…
Making a snap decision, Conner positioned the phone closer to his mouth and spoke, keeping his tone easy. “Tell you what, Chucker. How about if I come down there and check things out. Do you think that would be okay?”
There was an odd sound, as if the boy was having trouble breathing, but the hope in his voice was unmistakable. “You mean like right now? Like tonight?”
One corner of Conner’s mouth lifted, and he hooked his thumb in the front pocket of his jeans. “I don’t think I can make it tonight, Tiger. But I could probably get there sometime tomorrow. And I’ll find out if your mom’s okay.”
“For sure tomorrow?”
A touch of real amusement widened Conner’s grin. “Unless the planes stop flying—yes, tomorrow.”
Another hesitation. “Uncle Conner?”
“What?”
There was an anxious quiver in the boy’s voice. “Will you have to tell Mom I called?”
Conner turned and stared down the shed row to the open barn door. “I can’t promise not to, Cody. But I won’t unless I have to, okay?”
“Okay.” Conner could hear him fidgeting with the phone, then his nephew spoke again, another wobble in his voice. “I’m glad you’re coming.”
Trying to ignore the sudden tightness in his throat, Conner forced a smile into his voice. “I’m glad I’m coming, too. Now you go back to bed and go to sleep. And I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“Okay. Good night, Uncle Conner.”
“Good night, Tiger.”
His expression set, Conner pressed the End button, then stared into space, a hole the size of Texas in his gut. Abby. There couldn’t be anything wrong with Abby. Not Abby.
Turning back to the workbench, he stared at the picture of his father and stepmother; then he roughly massaged his eyes. Hell. This was a bad, bad space for him. A very bad space. And one he couldn’t get into. Shutting down his emotions, he mentally listed what all he had to do to clear the decks.
Straightening, he lifted the phone and punched in another set of numbers, then walked over to stare out the window. The steady drizzle created misty halos around the yard lights, distorting the illumination.
A voice answered, and Conner moved the phone closer to his mouth. “Hi, Kate. It’s Conner. Is Tanner around?”
“He just came in. Just a minute. I’ll get him for you.”
A man’s voice came on and, as briefly as possible, Conner explained the situation to the other rancher.
Tanner McCall’s immediate response was, “Let me know what time your flight leaves, and I’ll drive you to the airport.”
For the first time since he had gotten his nephew’s call, the knot in Conner’s gut relaxed. “Thanks, but no. I have no idea when I can get a flight, so I’ll just leave the truck at Park and Fly.” He rubbed his eyes again. “But I’ll give you Abby’s number and my cell phone number.”
It took five minutes to give Tanner the necessary instructions. As soon as he got off the phone with his neighbor, he placed a call to his stepmother. He wished he didn’t have to tell her, but above all else, he respected her right to know. Still, it didn’t make the call any easier. Not after everything she had been through in the past few years.
But he didn’t want to unduly worry her either, and he did his best to minimize it. He told her he was going down to reassure Cody. He could never admit to anyone that he was also going to reassure himself.
After his call to Mary, he called Jake. There were never any embellishments required with Jake. Just the facts and specific instructions. Jake was worth his weight in gold.
Deliberately keeping his thoughts focused on what he had to do, rather than thinking about the phone call, Conner finished up in the barn. He shut off the light and dragged the door shut, then put his head down against the steady drizzle as he headed for the house. He didn’t want to acknowledge the sick feeling churning in his belly, or the fear that was fighting to surface. A long time ago, he had learned not to cross bridges, especially those that weren’t his to cross.
It wasn’t until he’d had a long hot shower, after he’d draped a towel around his neck and pulled on a clean pair of jeans that his mental stockade failed. Knowing from experience that when that happened, there was no easy way out for him, he went over to the casement window and opened it. Then he stood staring out, his own history piling in on him.
He had loved his brother, and right from the time Mary had placed the tiny baby in his arms, he’d had a feeling in his chest that never went away. And he knew it was the same for John Calhoun. Right from the beginning, that baby could do no wrong in his father’s eyes. Even when Scotty got into more scrapes than any kid had a right to, John Calhoun would bail out his youngest son. Conner had always been well aware of how the townspeople reacted, shaking their heads, wondering where the boy was going to end up.
When Scott got older and his dad’s health started to fail and his mother got fretting, it was Conner who would quietly untangle whatever mess the kid had gotten himself into, then take him home.
But the funny part was that no one ever seemed to hold any grudges against the youngest Calhoun. Everybody liked Scotty. He had been one of those kids born with a special brand of charisma, a personable, good-looking kid full of down-home charm, and probably the best natural athlete within a thousand miles. There hadn’t been anything that Scotty didn’t excel at, and at the age of eighteen, he had been scouted by one of the big baseball clubs in the States. By the time he had turned twenty-four, he was a star.
The whole district had been proud of Scotty Calhoun, but Conner suspected there were a whole bunch of people who figured that Scotty moving to the U.S., and being accountable to a major league owner and coach, would save his parents a whole passel of headaches. Scotty might have been a talented young man, but even Conner knew he was trouble just waiting to happen.
Some folks openly wondered how Conner could put up with Scotty’s shenanigans, but he never made any comment. He had always been the solid, sensible, levelheaded older brother—and it was clear to everyone that Conner was the one person who Scotty wanted to impress, the only one he looked up to. About the only thing the Calhoun brothers had in common was their size, their dark curly hair and the looks they had inherited from their father. Other than that, they had been as different as night and day.
But that was really only part of the history.
Conner knew there was still a certain amount of speculation about him in the small town of Bolton. Pretty well anybody who had roots in the community knew that he’d just turned forty and never married. There had been a time when folks figured he might make it to the altar. Then all of a sudden the pretty little teller at the local bank was seen in the company of other men. And about a year later, she left for the east. And no one ever knew what happened.
Conner wasn’t deaf or blind. He knew that in places like the hairdresser’s in Bolton, the women still occasionally speculated about the breakup, and what a pity it was that another young thing hadn’t come to town to rescue Conner, just like Mary McFie had rescued his father. He knew all of them were convinced the bank teller was the love of his life, and that she had broken his heart.
Yeah, he had been well aware of what had been said over the years, but he had turned a blind eye to the sympathetic looks and the not-so-subtle attempts at matchmaking. The truth was that he preferred to let them think what they did, rather than anyone having an inkling about the truth. And the truth was something he kept to himself.
Rain spattered through the open window,