The Cowboy's Big Family Tree
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He smiled and nodded and sang it again, even getting bob tails ring right.
Three more auditions later, and Clementine was finished. She had the dinner shift at Hurley’s Homestyle Kitchen ahead of her, then needed to work on the Creole sauce that she was perfecting and afterward she could look forward to an hour-long soak in a hot bath. It was Thursday, and every day this week she’d spent an hour at the foster home working with the kids to learn the song, then had done her waitressing shifts at Hurley’s, then babysat all over town for infants and toddlers and small and big kids. Clementine had a twofold reason for all the babysitting. She was on her way to fulfilling a dream she’d had since she was a teenager, since the Hurley family had taken her in from that not-so-great foster care situation. Clementine was working toward becoming a foster mother herself. She’d gone to the many meetings, done the thirty-five hours and then some of training, gotten additional training in medicines and CPR and first aid, and completed the home study with her supportive grandmother at her side.
Soon, a child—whether an infant, a toddler, a little kid, a tween or teen—would come to live with Clementine in the home she shared with her grandmother, the apricot Victorian on Blue Gulch Street that also housed their fifty-year-old restaurant, Hurley’s Homestyle Kitchen. She’d shower that child with the love and care she’d been provided when her parents had taken her in. She was hoping that her final paperwork would be signed off very soon so that she could be matched with a girl or boy before Christmas. Oh, did she want to give her foster child a very special Christmas.
The other reason Clementine babysat so much was because she was trying to earn extra money to surprise her grandmother with a Christmas present—an outdoor dining section in her beloved garden. And she had just enough to ask her friend, a female contractor, to start work on the project right after the busy holidays. Hurley’s was doing a lot better than it had been just six months ago, especially thanks to her sister Annabel’s generous husband, West. But Essie Hurley, who’d opened the restaurant in her home as a newlywed fifty years ago, refused to take any more of West’s money now that Hurley’s was making a small profit. All Essie wanted was to stay open, pay her bills, make payroll and have some left over for an emergency fund. Clementine couldn’t wait till she could tell Essie about her present. When Clementine’s parents had died in a car crash when Clementine was thirteen, Essie had taken in her three orphaned granddaughters, and as always, she’d made Clementine feel like an equal part of the family as she had from the moment she’d met Clementine at age eight. Clementine wanted to do something special for her gram.
Finally, the community room was empty and Clementine packed up her folder of lyric sheets and slid it in her tote bag. She glanced around the room, suddenly feeling very much alone. Last summer, when Logan had broken her heart by shutting her out, her sisters, both older and wiser than Clementine, had advised her to fill her life with what she loved doing. So she had, volunteering at the foster home, working toward the foster parent requirements, babysitting, helping her family in the kitchen between her shifts and now directing the town’s children’s play. But still, when she was alone, like right now, she still felt a strange emptiness, something inside her was still raw. Heartbreak? Longing?
“Uh-oh, boys, I think we’re too late.”
There was no mistaking the voice that came from outside the door to the community room. Logan Grainger. He’d been avoiding her for three months, keeping his head down in town, and he hadn’t come into Hurley’s for takeout once since he’d fired her. The man loved Hurley’s po’boys and barbecue burgers and had a weakness for spicy sweet potato fries. That he hadn’t stepped foot in Hurley’s Homestyle Kitchen in three months was a clunk over the head of reality: he really wanted nothing to do with her anymore. He was here for the boys, she knew. Whether because they missed her or because he knew they’d love being in the holiday show or both.
He appeared in the doorway, all six feet plus of him, his handsome face showing no emotion. He tipped his dark brown Stetson at her. “Looks like you’re packing up,” he said. “We’re too late?”
“We can’t dishen?” Henry said, poking his blond head in and looking up at his uncle. He turned his attention to Clementine. “Hi, Clementine!”
Clementine smiled at the twins. “Hi, Henry. It’s so nice to see you. Hi, Harry. And of course you can both audition.”
“You’re one of the only people who can tell the boys apart,” Logan said. “And thank you. I’d hate if they missed out because of me. We got so busy decorating the tree in the barn and when I remembered the audition, I drove them into town as fast as I could without speeding.”
What happened back in August? she wanted to shout. Why did you shut me out? She tried not to look at Logan, but his blue eyes drew her, as did the way his thick dark hair brushed the collar of his brown leather jacket. How could she still be so in love with a man who wanted nothing to do with her?
“No problem,” she said, turning her attention to the twins. “Do you boys know the song ‘Jingle Bells’?” Kids under five only had to sing the chorus for their audition since the tryout was really just to see who could take on the speaking roles.
“Jingle bells,” Henry sang.
“Jingle all the way,” Harry added.
“Oh fun one a sleigh,” Henry sang.
“A!” Harry ended with flourish.
Clementine suppressed her laugh. She wanted to scoop up those adorable Grainger twins and smother them with hugs and kisses. She hated the boundary Logan’s very presence demanded. She glanced at the cowboy, moved by the utter love she saw in his expression for his nephews. He adored the boys and that was the most important thing. Not whether she was in their lives.
“You know what, guys?” she said to them. “You did great. You are both in the holiday show!” No matter how the littlest kids did on their “dishens,” they were in the show, even if they couldn’t get through the word jingle.
They ran over to Clementine and hugged her. She’d missed the feel of their sweet little arms around her so much. From last April to August, she’d spent just about every day with them between her lunch and dinner shifts, picking them up from their preschool program, taking them to the library, to the smoothie shop for their favorite concoctions, to Hurley’s for the kids’ mac and cheese that they loved so much. And she’d bring them home, so aware of their uncle Logan with every step in his house, his jackets and cowboy hats on pegs just inside the front door, the big brown leather couch he’d cuddle up on with the boys as he read to them. She’d give the twins a bath and bring them downstairs all ready for dinner, and sometimes he’d invite her to stay and she would—and she’d fantasize that he was her husband, these were her boys.
And then finally, the kiss. That amazing kiss. He is attracted to me, she’d thought. I’m not crazy. Something has been building here.
Until it crumbled along with her heart.
She could feel Logan watching her now and she snapped back to attention. The boys had run over to the play area, a big square with a colorful rubber mat set up with toys, blocks and books, and Logan was stepping close to her.
“Thank you,” he said. “Being in the show means a lot to them.”
They mean a lot to me, she wanted to say. I miss them. I miss you. I miss what we had, what we started to have.
“Rehearsals start tomorrow,” she told him, forcing herself to be all business. “3:30 to 5:30. Monday, Wednesday and Friday will be the regular schedule. Louisa is helping out, plus I’m putting out the call for volunteers tomorrow, so the twins and other little ones will be in good hands.”
He nodded. “I’ll make sure they’re there.” He was looking everywhere but at her. “Boys,” he called over, “let’s get home for that ice cream I promised you.”
As they walked out, each holding one of Logan’s hands, that empty feeling came crawling back. What she would give to be with Logan and the boys in his living room, laughing over something silly and eating ice cream.
How was she going to handle seeing Logan Grainger six times a week for five seconds a time?
By shutting him out yourself, she realized. She’d tried over the past three months and for the most part, she stopped thinking about him so much. That was possible only because he’d made himself so darn scarce. But now that he’d be around so often, even for just drop-off and pickup, she wasn’t sure her heart could take it.
She had to focus on all that was going on in her life and forget Logan Grainger. She had the play, her job, her family, her volunteer work, her side job and the call she was expecting any day now from the Texas Department of Family and Protective Services.
Logan Grainger, I am hereby quitting you. Quitting dreaming of you, thinking of you and hoping for something you’ve made clear will never be.
Thing was, it drove her insane not to know why he’d shut her out. And until she knew why, she would wonder and speculate what she’d done wrong, if she’d done something wrong. Something she did or said? Something in the letter he’d gotten that had made him fire her? What? What could possibly be the connection?
As she stood in the empty community center room, just her and a bunch of chairs, she made a decision about Logan Grainger, one she could live with.
She was going to find out why he’d fired her, why he’d dumped her the way he had. He owed her an explanation; yes, he did. She’d get her long overdue explanation and be able to put Logan Grainer to rest in her mind.
Not in her heart, not for a long time, but it was a start.
Chapter Two
The first thing Logan had thought of when he woke up in the morning was Clementine Hurley. For the past three months he’d put her out of his head, easily done with the dulled anger that had taken over his waking moments since he’d gotten Parsons’s letter. Except when it came to Harry and Henry. From the time he got the boys up for breakfast and then ready for school, he was good Uncle Logan who put their needs first. But the second they were safely ensconced somewhere else, whether at school or with their sitter, the long-simmering burn would start churning in his stomach, thrumming in his head, questions with no answers.
This morning, though, his first waking thought had been Clementine and the questions he clearly saw in her eyes. She deserved better than how he’d treated her. But he didn’t want to explain anything. He didn’t want to talk. He just wanted to be left the hell alone.
Now, after dropping off the boys at school, Logan stood in the barn, grinding feed for the cattle, his own burning questions back full force. Was he this Clyde Parsons’s son or not? Why would the man make up a lie and send a deathbed confession? Why would he stuff a safe-deposit box full of money for eighteen years and send Logan the key if he wasn’t Logan’s biological father?
Maybe Clyde Parsons had a mental condition and didn’t know what he was doing. Maybe it was all one big mistake. His biological son was a different Logan Grainger. Once, someone had dropped off an unfamiliar wallet in Logan’s mailbox with a sticky note on it: Logan, found this by the steak house, but the driver’s license was for Logan Granger out in Grassville, a few towns over. Whoever had found it probably just quickly eyeballed the name, thought it was Logan Grainger’s and dropped it off without noticing the Grassville address.
Yes, Clyde Parsons was probably Logan Granger’s biological father. He’d just messed up the spelling of the last name. Sorry, Logan Granger, but you’ve got a biological father out there you never knew about. Believe me, I know how you’re going to feel when I straighten out this mess and discover it’s you Parsons meant to send his deathbed confession to.
Except Parsons had revealed some personal details in the letter. There was no way Logan Granger’s father’s name was also Haywood. Daniel, Peter, George, Tyler—sure, maybe. Haywood—no damned way.
For months Logan had been doing this, his mind wrapping around any slight idea that would make the letter not true. But then the “oh yeah” would hit him a second later. Something that would send shivers up his spine to make him realize Parsons was probably telling the truth.
Logan was holding on to probably instead of definitely as long as he could.
What the hell had happened back then—twenty-eight years ago? His parents’ wedding anniversary was eight months and three weeks before he was born. Logan never really thought about that much before, but the past three months, as logistics whirled around his head during barn chores or late at night in bed, he figured he’d come into the world a few weeks early. His brother had been five weeks premature and healthy as can be. So maybe Logan had been a couple of weeks premature too. If Parsons was Logan’s biological father, then his parents had gotten married immediately after his mother had discovered she was pregnant. His mom and dad had both grown up in Blue Gulch, had known each other the way everyone does in a small town, but they’d never dated in high school until they’d suddenly married the summer after. So they’d had a whirlwind romance and gotten married. Happened all the time.
If it was true, had Haywood Grainger known? It was clear from Parsons’s letter that his mother knew Clyde T. Parsons was the father of her baby. Had she told Haywood? Had his dad raised another man’s child thinking Logan was his own flesh and blood?
Logan stopped grinding the feed and the silence was too much. He needed distraction. He needed to find out the truth, have his questions answered, but he wanted the truth to be that Haywood Grainger was his biological dad, that Parsons was lying or suffering from dementia and lost in an old dream of the girl who’d gotten away.
It was possible.
Logan adjusted his Stetson and stalked over to the far pasture, zipping up his leather jacket as the December first wind snaked around him. He looked out at the herd grazing, just watched them standing there, calm and steady. As always, the land, the herd, the ranch worked their magic on his head and heart and he felt better. The letter receded from his thoughts as he decided to move the herd out farther tomorrow and tried to focus on whether he wanted to take on Wildman, another old rodeo bull who needed to be nursed back to health. Logan had done that once when he first quit the rodeo, but it was lot of work and took time and Logan had little room for either.
His cell phone buzzed with a text. He grabbed it, worried as always that it had to do with the twins, that something had happened.
But it was Clementine.
I’ll drop the boys off after the show rehearsal. I need to talk to you.—Clementine.
No question mark. Not “can” I drop off the boys. Not “can” we talk.
I will. I need. End of story.
Didn’t she know it was too hard on him to see her? That she was the first woman who’d interested him since The Liar? Plus, even more so, just the sight of Clementine reminded him of who he’d been before he’d gotten Parsons’s letter: a Grainger. His father’s son. Exactly who he thought he was. Albeit hardheaded and stubborn, fine. But his father’s son. Clementine had been there when he’d gotten the letter. Hell, she’d brought it in from the mailbox, not that that was her fault.
In her presence, his life had completely changed. Went from one thing to another.
Maybe. If. He closed his eyes and shook his head, driving himself crazy. Something had to give here. He had to look up the guy or ask someone or find out something, dammit.
In the meantime, he could text Clementine back a No, that won’t work for me, I’ll pick them up, no time to talk, bye. He’d done that the first month after he’d pushed her out of his life. She’d show up at the house, she’d call, she’d text, and he just cruelly shut her out. He released a deep breath, another gust of cool wind going straight to his bones. Maybe by “I need to talk” she meant she wanted to talk about the twins and how often he should work with Harry and Henry at home on the songs they had to learn for the Christmas show.
Right.
This was his mind wrapping around stupid maybes when Logan wasn’t a stupid man.
Clementine wanted to talk about them. About what happened last August. About why he’d closed the curtain on them before it had even gone up.
But he didn’t want to talk about it with anyone.
Thing was, Clementine Hurley knew what it was like to have a birth parent and be raised by someone else. Maybe talking to her would help him sort out some of the wild feelings that were making him crazy.
He shook his head. He’d talk to her, then he’d feel close to her again, then he’d be kissing her and suddenly he’d be losing his head again in a romance. He liked Clementine—truth be told, he more than liked her in a deep down way he never would allow himself to think too much about. But everything inside him felt like it was made of the same thing his hard head was made out of. Something had closed inside him, period. He was done with women, done with love and romance and thinking about marriage and the future. And as attracted as he was to Clementine, he wasn’t about to use her for sex. He’d hurt her enough.
But maybe if he finally said something, gave her an explanation without going into specifics, just some general: Got some strange news I don’t want to talk about and can’t deal with, so I’m laying low these days kind of thing. A person on the receiving end of that explanation would have to respect that, right? She’d back off. He could go on trying his damnedest to pretend she didn’t exist.
That settled, he texted back an Okay.—L and went back to the house to fill up a thermos with strong coffee, surprised to see his answering machine blinking on the house landline. Everyone who needed to get in touch with him had his cell phone number.
He pressed Play and headed to the refrigerator for the pitcher of iced tea the twins’ sitter had made yesterday.
“I’m calling for Logan Grainger,” a stranger’s voice said. “I’m from the Tuckerville Post Office. You have been noted on a form here as the emergency contact for the late Clyde Parsons. His PO box hasn’t been paid in two months and will need to be cleaned out by the end of the week or the contents will be turned over to the state.”
Logan froze. Emergency contact? How dare—
Logan counted to five in his head to calm himself down, then shoved the pitcher of iced tea back in the fridge, his mind on the key and the money Parsons had written about. Child support. Well, Logan didn’t want anything to do with Parsons’s money or his damned guilt. He hated the final paragraph of Parsons’s letter and had almost ripped the thing to shreds right after he’d read it.
You’ll also find some photographs in the PO box. There’s one of your mama. To this day I swear she’s the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen. There’s one of us together too that always killed me to look at. I screwed up big. I failed her and you. I just want you to know, most of all, that I’m sorry. I tried not to think of you and did a damned good job of it too. But now that I’m dying, I’m thinking about you a lot.
—Yours, Clyde Parsons.
My father is Haywood Grainger, you stinking liar, Logan wanted to scream. His father had been a great dad. He practiced soccer with Logan and Seth for hours in the fields. He’d chaperoned overnights in the woods for Boy Scouts. He’d patiently tutored Logan in chemistry, having to study the textbook himself first to understand it. He’d taught Logan to be proud of the small bit of land they owned, how to raise and care for cattle, how to ride a horse. He’d been the best father and had always made Logan feel okay about himself.
Because he didn’t know he wasn’t Logan’s biological father? If he had known, would he have treated Logan differently? Or not? Had Haywood Grainger known or not?
More than anything else on earth at the moment, Logan wanted Parsons to be wrong. He wanted Parsons to have been mixed up. Or that the pregnancy and himself as a father was some fantasy he’d cooked up because his girlfriend, Logan’s mother, had dumped him for a better man—Logan’s father. Maybe Parsons really wasn’t his biological father at all. Logan liked that train of thought.
Except there were pictures in the PO box. Not that they’d prove anything, but Logan could see what Parsons looked like. If Logan looked nothing like him either, then maybe he could go on forgetting the whole thing. Pretend he’d never gotten the letter, force it from his mind.
But since the seed of doubt was there, that he wasn’t the son of Parsons, maybe seeing a photograph of Parsons would settle something for Logan either way. Or not. Now he was thinking in circles. Logan was surprised he hadn’t collapsed in a dizzy heap on the kitchen floor.
That’s it, he thought. Just do it. Get it over with. He grabbed the letter from where he’d stuck it between the side of the microwave and the wall, took out the little gold key and shoved it in his pocket. Then he put on his leather jacket and his Stetson, let his ranch hand know he’d be gone for a few hours, and headed for his pickup.
Tuckerville was just over an hour away. During the drive, he kept the radio loud to drown out his thoughts. When he pulled into the Tuckerville post office parking lot, he didn’t hesitate; he got out of the truck and went inside, ready to finally do this, to know something for sure.
He fished the old gold key from his pocket. 137 was imprinted at the top of the key. He found the right box on the last row, stuck in the key and felt his stomach twist with the lock.
He opened the little square door. Inside the long, narrow box was stacks of money, small bills haphazardly bundled in rubber bands and a bunch of envelopes, some large manila ones, some letter size.
Logan pulled out the large envelope and reached in. He could feel several photographs.
He pulled one out. Ellie McCall Grainger sat on the bank of a river in one, grinning in the sunshine. She wore a yellow T-shirt and jeans rolled up to the knees, her bare feet in the water. God, he missed her. His mother was kind and patient.
He didn’t have to wonder who had taken the picture.
He turned the picture over. Beauty at the River. With a date, November, twenty-eight years ago.
Logan was born almost exactly nine months later.
The next three photographs were also of his mother alone, smiling, looking very happy, either at the riverbank or in two of the photos at a farm stand, pointing at the display of Christmas wreaths.
He pulled out the final photograph and gasped, the picture slipping out of his hands. Logan stepped back, his hands shaking. No. No way.
Get ahold of yourself, he ordered.
He steeled himself and picked up the photograph, forcing himself to look at the man pictured, his arm around Logan’s mother.
Clyde Parsons was a dead ringer for Logan. The height. The dark hair. The Clint Eastwood squint. The shape of his face, his features, the expression.
His stomach felt like someone had just socked him hard, and his head felt so woozy he had to grip the side of the box unit to steady himself.
Clyde Parsons had been telling the damned truth. Logan wasn’t a Grainger.
* * *
Well, it was a good thing Clementine had gotten bold and insisted on bringing the boys home since Logan had arranged for her replacement, the twins’ sitter, to drop them off at the rehearsal after school today. She had no doubt the woman would have come to pick them up too. Anything so that Logan could avoid her. Well, no more.
He didn’t have to want to date her. But he couldn’t just fire her without a reason. Dump her from his life with no cause. And she wasn’t leaving tonight until she had that reason. She was tired of racking her brain at night, tired of wondering if she’d done something wrong. Tired of trying to figure out what in the heck was in that letter that seemed to change everything. And if she was going to spend the next few weeks with the Grainger twins at rehearsal, she had to know what had caused Logan to push her away.