The Christmas Family. Линда Гуднайт
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clicked the locks on his royal blue F-350, waited for Dawg, his faithful mutt to leap into the seat and was about to climb inside himself when his father, owner of Buchanon Built Construction Company and, by all rights, Brady’s boss, stepped out into the late November day.
“Brady, hold up.”
Not fast enough. Brady blew out a resigned breath. He leaned a hand on the truck top and waited, though not at all patiently.
“Been meaning to talk to you about something.”
“Sure. What’s up?”
“This makeover thing you do every Christmas, better cancel this year.”
The request sailed right over Brady’s head. “Too late. I already have the recipient lined up.”
Dan Buchanon, his salt-and-pepper hair hidden under a Buchanon Built ball cap, scratched at the side of his neck. “You’ve made the announcement?”
“On my way there now. Dad, you should see this house. It’s bad, but Buchanon Built can make it shine.” Donating a home makeover for one needy family each Christmas was Brady’s favorite event of the year, and the publicity was great for business, an important consideration to his father.
“I appreciate the sentiment, son, and in years past didn’t mind the lost time and expense but not this year. We need all hands on deck.”
“I can work it out. Don’t worry. Buchanon projects won’t suffer. The guys who volunteer can work on the makeover on their downtime or when things are slow.”
But Dan was shaking his head. “With all the work on the schedule and the slowdowns we’ve encountered, you don’t have time for charity. We don’t have time for charity. Jaylee just told me you still don’t have a plumber lined up for the Edwards project.”
“I’m working on it.”
Irritation flashed on Dan’s face. “And you want to pull off six paying jobs for a freebie? Forget it, Brady. Forget it. And fix the plumber problem today. No more delays. No more excuses.”
Brady’s blood heated. He held his temper in check better these days, but no one worked him up like his dad. And vice versa. “I’m doing my best.”
His father’s thick jaw clenched. “I don’t want your best. I want the problem solved.”
“It’s not as if I haven’t tried.” Leaving the truck door open and the dog in the seat, Brady pushed away from the vehicle to face his father. He spread his hands in a plea. “Be reasonable, Dad.” Like that was going to happen in this lifetime. “Jack Taylor had a heart attack. The man can’t work.” And the plumbing problem had nothing to do with Brady’s home makeover.
“Then get someone else.”
Brady didn’t believe in kicking a man when he was down. “Jack’s business needs the work. And he’s the best plumber around.”
“And we need to bring this project in on time or lose a boatload of money. The vandals have thrown us behind on everything and now subcontractors decide not to show up. Buchanon Construction was built on dependability and speed. If Jack can’t work, find someone who can. Spend your time on business, not on some feel-good Christmas project.”
Brady stifled an angry retort. He had places to go and much more enjoyable things to do tonight than get into another fight with his father. A plumber who’d had a heart attack didn’t “decide” not to work. The choice was out of the man’s hands.
“I’ll talk to Jack’s wife first thing in the morning.” Mary Taylor was busting tail trying to keep the small plumbing business going while taking care of her ailing husband. Good plumbing temps were hard to come by. He should know. He’d called plenty, though telling that to his father was a waste of good clean Texas air.
“Tomorrow isn’t good enough.” Dan stacked his hands on his hips for emphasis. “I want plumbers on the job site by six in the morning to fix the problem.” He jabbed a finger toward Brady. “See her now. Tonight. And don’t take no for an answer. Understood?”
Brady took a step back, fuming, his back teeth tight enough to crack.
“Right. Sure. The job will get done.” Brady always did the job, but his father seldom noticed progress. He only noticed the problems.
As if his demands were law—which they sort of were—Dan spun away and slammed the office door behind him. The sound reverberated in the formerly pleasant evening.
Adrenaline jacked to ninety, Brady dragged a frustrated hand down his face. Another minute and he would have been gone. Another minute and he could have gone through an entire work shift without letting his father get under his skin.
He was six inches taller and fifty pounds heavier than Dan Buchanon and had been the foreman at Buchanon Built since graduating Texas Tech eight years ago, but his father still managed to make him feel as insignificant as sawdust.
Brady turned back to the truck, where Dawg sat behind the wheel as if he was about to drive away. The comical picture erased some of Brady’s frustration. “You driving?”
“Can’t. He doesn’t have a license.”
Brady pivoted toward the voice. Dawson, one of Brady’s three brothers and the dimpled twin to Sawyer, ambled around the end of the warehouse, tool belt bouncing against his hip like a gunslinger.
“Don’t let Dad ruin your day. He’s been in a meeting with Marilyn Tenbears for the last hour and a half.”
“That explains it.”
Marilyn Tenbears owned a strip of woods along Gratitude Creek that Dad was determined to purchase. Marilyn was just as determined to either get rich from the sale or keep the land.
“He thinks I should shelve the makeover.”
Dawson unhooked his tool belt. “I heard. But weren’t you planning to tell the recipient tonight that her home had been chosen for the remodel?”
“Still am. In fact, I’m heading over there now. Want to come along?”
“You’re still going to do it?”
“That’s the plan.”
Dawson cast a concerned glance toward the office door. “What about Dad? How will you get this past him?”
“I’ll think of something. He’ll come around.”
“He doesn’t like his orders to be ignored.”
“Dad never likes anything I do, but I get the work done.”
“That’s because Buchanon Built has flourished with you as foreman in a way it never could with Dad in the role. He was too harsh with subcontractors.”
Brady huffed. “No kidding? Dad? Harsh?”
The brothers exchanged a chuckle.
“Hop in, Dawson, my man.” Brady popped a palm against the roof of his truck and slid into the driver’s seat. “Santa Claus is about to do his thing.”
“What about the plumber?”
“I’ll worry about him later.”
With an amused shake of his head, Dawson shucked his tool belt and climbed into the big Ford with his brother, relegated Dawg to the backseat, and slammed the door. “No wonder you and Dad butt heads. Who is this year’s beneficiary of a Buchanon Built makeover?”
“Abby Webster. You know who she is. She works at the Buttered Biscuit.”
“Yeah.” Dawson turned an interested face toward Brady. “I know who you mean. Good waitress, all business and not too smiley or talkative but remembers exactly how I like my eggs and coffee.” He put the edge of his hand at nose level. “Up to here, pretty tall with long brown hair she wears in a ponytail over her shoulder. Right?”