Texas Heroes_ Volume 1(120)

Maybe he could come back and check himself—

No. Not a good idea, but it was hard as hell to think of leaving them there. What other choice existed? He couldn’t stay there and not want her. The last days had seduced him, made him wish for a dream. He’d let his damn fool heart open, allowed longing inside. Had let himself pretend that the haven was real.

But it was only the imaginings of a heart too long unused. He had to get out before there was nothing left of him to save. Rebuilding from scratch again might be more than he could bear. He had to lock the gates now.

“Hey, Mitch, how ya doin’?” Curly Bondurant greeted him from behind the cash register. “Didn’t expect to see you back so soon. Get much snow up there?”

“Enough,” he answered. “Already melting, though.”

“Yeah, might have a decent break before the next one. Here to stock up a little more?”

Mitch nodded.

“Don’t know how you stand it, no power or phone up there. Betty would go crazy without her TV or folks to talk to.”

He’d been alone so long, it had come to seem normal. It was his life. At least until Perrie and her child—

No. He couldn’t think about how it would feel without them. It was what it was. What had to be. Shaking his head, Mitch headed for the shelves of canned goods, looking for those noodle things Davey had said he liked.

“Say, Mitch, almost forgot.” Curly walked over and handed him two envelopes. “You got some mail. A letter for you and another one addressed to someone named Matheson sent in care of Cy. You got company up there?”

“Thanks.” But he didn’t answer Curly, studying the envelope addressed to Perrie. A Boston postmark. Mentally shrugging, he stuck it in his pocket, then looked at the one addressed to him. His heart thumped once, hard.

From Texas. From Morning Star.

Mitch’s stomach rose, then plummeted. He didn’t recognize the bold scrawl forming his name. It wasn’t his father’s handwriting—at least, he didn’t think so. He hadn’t seen that in years.

He couldn’t decide whether to stuff it in his pocket, too, or go ahead and read it. Finally, curiosity won out. He turned toward the door. “I’ll be back.”

Curly was obviously curious. “No need to go outside to read it. Good light in here.”

Mitch didn’t spare him a look, just kept walking. Curly’s need for entertainment wasn’t his concern.

Outside, he leaned against his truck, holding the envelope in his hands, a jumble of feelings tossing inside him. A letter from home, or someone close. But Morning Star hadn’t been home for half his life now.

His gut told him this wasn’t good news. He wondered how anyone had found him here.

Finally, he knew he had to read it, whatever it said. Tearing open the flap, he pulled out two sheets of paper inside.

Dear Mitch,

It’s been a long time, but I want you to come home.

Home. The word sank in his chest like a stone tumbling over a cliff. Flashes of memory: his mother dying in his arms, his father’s rage as he told Mitch never to come back—

Mitch flipped to the last page, to the signature.

Boone. His brother had been fourteen, raw-boned and all feet, just getting his height the last time Mitch had seen him. How did he look now? And why did Boone want him to come back?

Longing, swift and sharp, sank claws in his heart.

He turned back to the first page.

I don’t know how to say it easy, so I’ll just say it. Dad is dead. His heart gave out. He left the ranch to you and me and Maddie.

Sam was dead. Mitch couldn’t take it in. The father he had once worshipped…who had banished him forever. Dead. They would never reconcile, never take back the hateful words between them.

Mitch stared out across the road, seeing nothing. And wanted to howl.

He tightened his jaw. Dead was dead. Nothing he could do now. He turned back to the letter, finally noticing the other name.

Maddie? Who was Maddie?

Maddie’s my wife. It’s a long story, but she’s Dalton Wheeler’s daughter.

Dalton Wheeler? The one who had vanished years ago? The ranch had been the old Wheeler place until Dalton’s mother died back when he and Boone were kids.

Boone, married. Mitch couldn’t get the picture of a gangly fourteen-year-old out of his head.

You’ll like her, Mitch. And we have a lot to talk about. Dad hired a private investigator to look for you and me both, but you’re one hard sonofagun to find.

Why had Sam needed to hunt for Boone? As much as Boone had loved the old place, Mitch had always assumed he would stay and take over one day.

And there’s more. We’ve got a half-sister we never knew about. Long story, but we’re looking for her now.