Cowboy Crazy

“Momma, this pie’s no good. I’d better get rid of it.”

Momma rounded the table just to cuff Witt on the ear. Laughing, he forked another heaping bite of blueberry pie into his mouth.

“It’s bad enough I have to make two pies because you boys demand such enormous slices.” She flipped the dishtowel off her shoulder and delivered five expert whacks with it—one for each brother.

Hank took his spank on his denim-clad backside with a grin and slipped another sugary bite into his mouth. Momma’s pie wasn’t ordinary. She’d won blue ribbons at the county fair for it five years running. And that was just her blueberry pie. Maggie Dalton’s white chocolate cheesecake would end world wars.

The woman who was the center of the Dalton boys’ universes sank to the chair next to their father. Instead of taking a bite of her own pie, she folded her hands. “I think it’s time we tell them our news, Ted.”

Five forks froze in various positions—hanging in the air, hovering over a plate or stuffed in a mouth. “What news?” Fruit coated Cash’s teeth.

“For heaven’s sake, Cash. You were raised not to speak with your mouth full.”

Beck set his fork down carefully. “I don’t like news. It’s rarely good.”

“Why do you say that?” Ted’s eyes crinkled in amusement. His face was tanned leather after years outdoors. His hard work on the Paradise Valley Ranch was etched in every crease.

“Because whenever we’re sitting down for an announcement, it’s bad. Remember when we were kids and you told us Mirabelle had died?”

“Kade was most broken up over the old hound dog’s death,” Hank said. His little brother had been five at the time. Seeing how despondent he was, Hank had put him on a horse and they’d ridden all over the ranch, pretending they were Indians come to scalp the family.

Kade gave him a shit-eatin’ grin.

“Then the time you told us we were staying a whole week with Aunt Diane.” Cash gave an exaggerated shiver, and they all laughed.

Hank sat back and watched his brothers’ antics.

“Aunt Diane brought that big box of nuts and twigs and tried to force us to eat it.”

“Health food,” Momma corrected.

“I’m pretty certain I’d eaten some of that stuff before—in the field.” Cash shoveled pie into his mouth as if erasing the memory.

“That one time she came, she brought a gallon jug of boot polish.” Kade held out his hands, indicating a bottle of polish the size of a fire extinguisher.

Momma pressed her lips together, her hackles rising as always when they talked about her only—crazy—sister. “It was a small bottle, for heaven’s sakes, Kade.”

Kade got into it, using hand motions to recap how Aunt Diane had made them polish their boots just so. He stood, put a boot on the seat and did some exaggerated polishing with his napkin in a way that made him look as if he were sawing logs. Beck sat back, his face red with laughter.

“Remember that time we stayed with her while Momma and Pa went to that three-day auction?” Hank couldn’t resist adding his own memory.

“Oh dear, not this story again!” Momma flapped a hand. “You all survived. You weren’t locked in a dungeon for three days.”

“She took us to church with that loony preacher, but she didn’t let us ride in the car. She made us walk alongside and watch for nails so she didn’t pick one up in the tire.” Hank cleaned his pie plate as his brothers sided with him about their traumatic experience.

When a break came in the chatter, Pa held up a hand. “This isn’t about the dog or Aunt Diane.”

They all sobered.

“What’s it about?” Witt asked.

“The farm,” Momma said.

Hank straightened, prepared for news about owing back taxes or selling off part of the precious ground to those stinking neighbors several miles away, the Guthries. He flattened his hands on the table and held his breath.

Five pairs of nearly identical hazel eyes riveted on their parents. They were all dark like their pa, but Momma was fair and had white threads through her faded red hair. She was soft around the edges but their pa had the body of an old steel Massey tractor. He could go on forever with that body.

“What about the farm?” Hank spoke up.

“It’s a big farm, and it’s difficult to keep up every inch of it,” Momma began.

Witt, the least patient of them, slapped his fingertips off the table, making his fork rattle. “If you’re going to tell us you’re selling—”

Pa sat back in his chair, eyeing them one at a time. As he reached Hank, he felt the weight of that stare the same as he had at nine years old when he’d rigged a cart to the old nanny goat and filled it with the goat’s favorite meal—cabbage. Poor old nanny had gone crazy pulling that cart while trying to turn around and get to it. Funny as hell even if Hank had taken ten paddle blows in punishment.