Gambling On a Heart. Sara Walter Ellwood
that, baby brother.”
Brent settled back into his seat and took a deep breath. “It’s just a shame Mom didn’t inherit Blackwell Ranch when Granddad died. We’d be rich bastards right now with all that oil still under the place. I could buy myself a woman. Maybe one like that stripper that just married Dylan Quinn. She’s one hot number, and rich.”
Jake met his brother’s eyes and grinned. “Shut the hell up. I’m not listening to you yack the whole way.”
He turned the radio up and settled into the seat as Hank Williams, Sr., crooned out Hey, Good Lookin’.
* * * *
The aroma of bacon and blueberry pancakes wafted up the stairs to meet Tracy as she stumbled down the second floor hall. Her belly growled, and she scowled at the treacherous sound.
She never ate a heavy breakfast–a bowl of Cheerios or cornflakes was as elaborate as she got. And always with copious amounts of coffee. She didn’t smell the morning liquor and sighed. Her mother could make a breakfast she really didn’t want, but wouldn’t make the coffee she needed. Mom didn’t drink the stuff and Dad preferred the instant crap–probably because that’s what he was used to drinking.
Tracy turned at the bottom of the stairs. As she headed down the hall toward the kitchen, she overheard Bobby squeal, “Mom never makes me pancakes! Blueberry! Thanks, Grandma, you’re the best.”
The sound of her father’s deep chuckle and her mother’s laugh grated over Tracy like the tines of a rake. “Your mom needs to learn to cook.” His words were salt rubbed into the scratches. “A growing boy can’t live on chicken nuggets and cold cereal.”
“Mom says she hates to cook.” Bobby spoke between slurping sounds. He must have drowned the light and fluffy pancakes with syrup. His mouth sounded full. “I swear only Dad is worse.”
Her belly growled again at the memory of her mother’s special homemade blueberry pancakes. This time she slapped her hand across her middle.
“As long as I’m around you won’t be eating that processed junk.” Her mother’s voice was soft, but her words hurt like a punch.
Mom made it sound like Tracy didn’t take care of Bobby. So what if she couldn’t cook? She hated it and never understood what her mother found so fascinating about it. Who in their right mind wanted to slave over a hot stove? But Tracy didn’t just feed Bobby junk. They ate salads, and she made spaghetti. She baked chicken breasts and pork chops and served them with rice from a box and bag of frozen vegetables–just like every other working mom out there in the world.
She didn’t slave over a simmering pot for hours, but what she made was good and quick. Unlike her mother, Tracy worked for a living.
When she’d been in high school, her mother had tried to equate the mixing of ingredients with chemistry, a subject Tracy had always found interesting, but she just didn’t get it. Now, she only found cooking tedious and something she had to do, like cleaning the toilet.
As she allowed the stress of having her parents in the house continue to boil over, she assured herself that she was a good mom by thinking of the things she did do for Bobby. She’d taken time to play with her son. Bobby never wanted anything, and she’d easily lay her life down to spare his. She’d saved her tips and maxed out one of her credit cards two years ago to take him to Disney World, SeaWorld and the Universal theme park. He still talked about the two-week trip.
Bobby had never complained about her cooking until his grandmother moved in, and suddenly Tracy wasn’t a good mother because she didn’t make blueberry pancakes–from organic wholegrain flour, buttermilk and fresh blueberries.
What does Zack make Mandy for breakfast? Did he make her pancakes and cook up fantastic meals? Or did Zack serve the same things like cereal, canned spaghetti sauce, and boxed mac and cheese?
Zack had cooked for Tracy a few times. She remembered the first time he’d surprised her with a picnic basket full of homemade potato salad and fried chicken. The image of him watching her with anticipation in his blue eyes as she took those first bites still burned in her psyche. After she’d assured him the meal was delicious, he’d blushed and admitted he’d made it himself.
Tracy squashed the memory in its sneaky tracks. Hadn’t being up half the night thinking about the man been enough?
Sucking in a deep breath, she entered the kitchen and kissed Bobby on the forehead. Bobby squirmed in his seat but didn’t fuss. He was too busy stuffing pancakes into his mouth.
Tracy went to the granite-topped counter and began making coffee. Her mother was dishing up more pancakes and bacon. “Tracy, you really shouldn’t drink so much coffee. All that caffeine isn’t good for you.”
Closing her eyes, Tracy breathed through her nose and held the breath. As she let it out, she opened her eyes before turning to face her mother. “I beg to differ. There is absolutely no concrete evidence on whether caffeine is good or bad for you. In fact, that bacon is probably worse to eat than drinking two cups of coffee in the morning is.”
Tracy took the plate her mother held out toward her.
Mom pursed her lips and turned back to the stove. “I hope Dylan and Charli have a nice time in Hawaii. I still don’t understand why they wanted to take that girl with them.”
Tracy took a seat beside Bobby at the big center breakfast island and picked up a fork to dig into the pancakes. “I’m sure they all are having a great time. And that girl has a name. Annie. Charli and Dylan took her along so she could get away from here for a little while. You know her mother was just murdered by her biological father.”
“I think their wanting to adopt her is a lot to take on.” Her father turned the page of his morning newspaper. “Have you heard from them yet?”
“Maybe it is a big responsibility, but I personally think it’s noble of them.” Tracy spread butter on her pancakes and dumped her mother’s special blueberry syrup over them. “Charli’s going to text me when they get to the resort.”
“There was another cattle theft.” Dad laid the paper on the island top.
“Where?” Bobby swallowed the bite around which he’d spoken. “Was it close?”
“A ranch called W bar T.”
“The Westcotts, distant cousins of Zack’s–and ours, too, I guess. Over near Gambler’s Lake on the other side of the county.” Tracy wiped the syrup off her mouth with the paper napkin her mother handed her. Mom also placed a cup of the freshly brewed coffee with cream already added before Tracy. “Thanks, Mom.” She picked up the mug. “That makes the seventh rustling since the end of June.”
Dad shook his head as he scanned the news report. “It says, The Texas and Southwestern Cattle Raisers Association–TSCRA–are assisting the Forest County Sheriff’s Department in determining when the raid occurred. According to Sheriff Zachery Cartwright, the forty-three Herefords were reported missing Friday, but may have been stolen as many as four days ago.” Her father looked up and removed his glasses. “I’m surprised Cartwright didn’t mention this yesterday at the wedding.”
“Maybe he didn’t want to cast a shadow on the day.” Her mother bustled about, cleaning up empty plates. “Which was the polite thing to do.”
Bobby, now finished devouring his breakfast, glanced up at Tracy. “The newspaper always makes everything sound so boring. Can I go outside?”
Tracy nodded and sipped her coffee. “Yes, you may go out, but don’t get dirty. We’ll be going to church in a couple of hours. And stay out of the ranch hands’ way.”
Bobby’s response was his usual roll of the eyes. Why she bothered warning him was beyond her, but she had to try. Bobby missed living in town where he had friends, and she was secretly thankful the workers Bobby attached himself to didn’t mind having the boy around.
When