The Cowboy's Return. Linda Warren
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handlebars. Button shivered and Jilly tucked the dog inside her navy windbreaker, stroking the dog’s ears.
“It’s okay. We won’t be here long.”
Kerri hopped off her bike and joined her. They looked up at the white stone two-story colonial house with the weatherworn and peeling brown trim. Shutters hung like broken arms, dust and spiderwebs coated the windows, and weeds had taken over the flower beds.
“This place is like totally spooky,” Kerri said.
“Yeah,” Jilly murmured. She hadn’t expected this, either. The Danielses were supposed to be rich.
“Let’s go,” Kerri said. “I don’t think anyone lives here.”
“Yes, they do,” Jilly insisted, clutching Button. “The Temple paper said he came home to the family ranch.”
“I don’t understand why you have to see Tripp Daniels anyway.”
Sometimes she didn’t, either, but from the moment she’d seen his picture in the paper, a handsome man on a bucking horse, she’d wondered if her father had really looked like that. Tripp was a national champion bareback rider and calf roper, and the paper had mentioned all the awards he’d won. The town of Bramble was very proud of him. Her mama had said that the Daniels brothers favored and she wanted to see the man who so closely resembled her father.
Kerri caught her arm. “C’mon.”
She focused on her blond, blue-eyed friend. Jilly had dark hair and eyes and they both had long ponytails. They were letting their hair grow, to see whose would grow the fastest and the longest. So far Jilly was winning.
They’d been friends forever and lived two blocks apart. Kerri’s parents were divorced and Kerri saw her father every other weekend and two weeks in the summer. Jilly wanted just a tiny bit of that—a bit of a father. She marched to the front door before she could change her mind. The bell didn’t work so she tapped the tarnished brass knocker.
“We’re gonna be in so much trouble,” Kerri said from behind her.
“You can go home if you want,” Jilly told her.
“Why do you have to do this?”
“I don’t know. I just do.” She tapped louder.
WEDGED BENEATH the kitchen sink, Tripp Daniels tightened the new drainpipe he’d just installed. He’d heard the knock and thought Morris would get it, then the knock came again.
“Morris!” he shouted.
Nothing.
He’d had a helluva time getting his long frame under the sink and he didn’t want to quit until he’d finished the job. Another loud knock. Dammit. He uncurled himself and saw Morris sitting at the kitchen table knitting, the needles clicking, the yarn in his lap. Tripp shook his head in aggravation.
“Morris!” he shouted again.
The older man jumped. “Yes, sir.” He pushed to his feet, blinking.
“There’s someone at the door.”
“Really?” He laid his knitting down and scratched his bald head. “I didn’t hear a thing.” He didn’t move, just kept standing there.
“Morris, would you get the door, please? I’m rather busy at the moment.”
“Oh.” Morris gazed at him with a blank look. “Did you say something, sir?”
“The door, Morris.”
“Yes, yes.” He shuffled away in the direction of the front door. By the time he reached it, he’d probably forget what he was there for. Morris had worked as a butler and a housekeeper for the Daniels family ever since Tripp could remember. At seventy-two, he was hard of hearing and forgetful, but he was the only person to care for his parents.
A stab of guilt pierced him. It had been almost thirteen years since he’d seen them. After his brother’s death, his father had told him to leave and never come back. They blamed him for what had happened. Tripp, too, blamed himself. He’d thrown himself into the rodeo scene, but he checked on his parents constantly through Morris.
His father had fallen and broken his hip six months ago. Tripp had gotten a call from Morris, who’d said Tripp needed to come home. He’d spent thirteen years avoiding the past, avoiding thoughts of Patrick, but he couldn’t avoid the fact that his parents now needed him. He wasn’t sure if he’d be welcome but he’d come anyway.
The moment they’d seen him, they’d begun to cry and he’d hugged them. The arguments and the pain over Patrick’s death faded away. He’d realized then he should have returned long ago.
Nothing had prepared him for the dilapidated sight of the ranch and the house. Everything was in disrepair and run-down and his parents had gotten old. His mother’s sight was so bad that she couldn’t see the dust and cobwebs. His father had sunk so far into depression that he didn’t care about anything.
How could he let this happen to his family? Guilt hammered away at Tripp, but all he could do was be here for them now and restore the place to its original splendor. That would take money, and he’d soon found there wasn’t any. The oil wells had dried up and his father now leased the land for ranching. With that small income, along with their social security, they were barely getting by. Tripp had a little money and he’d spend every dime to make his parents comfortable.
Morris ambled back to his chair. “There’s two young fillies to see you, sir.”
He raised an eyebrow. He wasn’t expecting anyone. “How young are we talking here, Morris?” He spoke loudly so Morris could hear.
“Schoolgirls,” Morris replied with a twinkle in his eye.
Tripp frowned. “Do they have the right house?”
“No. They’re not riding a horse.” Morris picked up his knitting.
Tripp didn’t respond. There was no need. He and Morris were seldom on the same page. Shoving to his feet, he laid his wrench on the counter. He grabbed a rag, wiped his hands and hurried to the door.
Two young girls stood there, one dark, the other blond. The dark-haired girl held a small dog inside her jacket. Neither spoke.
“May I help you? I’m Tripp Daniels.” He ran a hand through his tousled hair.
They stared at him, mouths open.
“Are you selling something?”
The dark-haired girl shook her head.
The dog grunted and shivered. “Did you find a lost dog?”
She shook her head again and held the dog tighter against her chest.
“Well, I’m running out of questions so you’d better tell me what you want.”
There was no response—just wide-eyed silence.
“I have to get back to work,” he said and stepped back to close the door.
“I’m Jilly Walker,” the dark-haired girl blurted out.
Tripp paused. Was this Camila Walker’s kid? Yeah, she had the same gorgeous hair, skin and eyes. That would mean…
“I make straight A’s and I’m going to be a doctor.”
“Very impressive.”
“I’m a good kid, everyone says so, and your family missed a lot by not knowing me. You missed even more by not knowing my mama. That’s all I have to say.” She took a step backward and ran into her friend, who seemed to have turned to stone. The two of them locked hands and ran toward their bikes, then quickly rode away.
TRIPP GAZED AFTER THEM. Camila’s daughter. The rumor mill in Bramble said Camila didn’t know who the father was. There were some who named Patrick as the father, but the Danielses didn’t