Rose wasn’t interested in the boys or their children. Just George. She lifted another basket to Hen’s bed and resumed her folding. It would have been so easy to remain silent, to concentrate on folding the frayed and threadbare clothes she had washed so carefully, but she had promised herself to take care of George. She’d never expected it would be easy.
“Just the other day you told the boys you weren’t going to shirk your responsibilities as the head of the family. Well, this is one of them. You may be angry at me for saying it, but all of you are going to have to come to terms with what your father was. You’re not punishing him by hiding from it. You’re punishing yourselves. It’s your responsibility to take the lead, to show them it’s time to put this behind them. This parade is just a part of it.”
“I can’t.”
Rose couldn’t stop. She had to reach the center of the problem, George’s dislike and distrust of himself.
“It’s also time you stop blaming yourself for what happened and being afraid you will turn out to be like him. Children are rarely exactly like anybody.”
“How can you be around this family”—a sweep of his hand took in the whole room—“for twenty-four hours and not see Pa’s stamp on all of us?” George demanded, his anger unleashed. “Hen kills without the slightest twinge of conscience. Monty bullies anybody he can and enjoys it. Tyler doesn’t give a damn about anybody alive, and Jeff isn’t concerned with anybody but himself. As far as I can tell, Zac would perjure his soul to be on the right side of an argument. Just the thought of fathering a houseful of children like that causes me to break into a cold sweat.”
Without warning, he took off his shirt. “See that?”
Welts. More than a dozen faint scars across his back.
“Pa did that in one of his drunken fits. Do you think I could live with myself if I did that to a son of mine?”
Rose had thought she was beyond being surprised by the cruelty and brutality of this man. George was right. She could hate his father. What kind of man would beat his son like that? She couldn’t imagine what it must have been like to grow up knowing the blood of such a monster ran in your veins.
“Nobody said you can’t have the same traits as your father. The question is whether you let them defeat you or twist you into a different shape.”
“You can’t always control what life does to you.”
Rose knew that. It was easy for her to be logical, to weigh evidence and make rational arguments, but George had to live with the memories, with the passion, anger, and the viciousness still vivid in his memory. It was impossible to rationalize that away.
“George, there’s nobody in the state of Texas more ready and willing to assume responsibility than you. What do you think you’ve been doing when you try to teach your brothers to get along, when you figure out how to improve the herd, round them up for market, or drive them to Corpus Christi? When you teach Zac how to ride, or let him help you and Salty with the shed? It comes so naturally you don’t even realize it.”
“I’ve never liked being the one to make all the decisions.”
“Yes, you do,” Rose contradicted with an indulgent smile. “Why do you think you enjoyed the army so much, or chasing Cortina’s men? You may not like responsibility, but you’d never be happy taking orders. And you’d never be happy away from your family.”
George didn’t look convinced.
“All those traits your father gave you can be used for good. Look at what you and the boys have done since you got back. Hen wouldn’t hesitate to sacrifice his life to protect any one of us. And though Monty can be irritating at times, he’s the hardest-working hand on the place. Tyler works without complaint even though he hates everything about ranches. Jeff’s fiercely loyal to you. And Zac would lie to God if it meant he could spend more time with you.”
George looked less glum. She didn’t know whether he was listening or had decided to occupy his mind with less depressing thoughts until she had finished.
She picked up her three baskets. “Come with me to the kitchen. I’ve got to start dinner.”
No matter what crisis they might be facing, the rituals of daily life couldn’t be ignored. Dinner not being on the table at seven o’clock would be a crisis in itself.
“There’s a lot more if you would only let yourself see it,” Rose said as she took down a large bowl. “You’re so afraid of failing you don’t want to try, to trust. Why?”
“Because I failed my father.”
“No, you didn’t. Something went wrong inside him. Get me some potatoes.”