The Longest Ride(32)

He stepped up on the cracked concrete blocks as he gave the place a quick scan. The roof was good – he’d replaced it a couple of years back – but he needed to get around to painting the place. Unfortunately, he’d have to sand every plank first, almost tripling the amount of time that it would take, time he didn’t have. The farmhouse had been built in the late 1800s, and over the years it had been painted and repainted so many times that the coating was probably thicker than the wood itself. Now, it was peeling pretty much all over and rotting beneath the eaves. Speaking of which, he’d have to get around to fixing those, too.



He entered the small screened-in mudroom and wiped his boots on the mat. The door opened with the usual squeak, and he was struck by the familiar aroma of freshly cooked bacon and fried potatoes. His mom stood over the stove, stirring a pan of scrambled eggs. The stove was new – he’d bought that for her for Christmas last year – but the cabinets were original to the house, and the countertop had been around for as long as he could remember. So had the linoleum floor. The oak table, built by his grandfather, had dulled with age; in the far corner, the ancient woodstove was radiating heat. It reminded him that he needed to split some firewood. With cold weather coming, he needed to replenish the stack sooner rather than later. The woodstove warmed not only the kitchen, but the entire house. He decided he’d get to it after breakfast, before Sophia came by.



As he hung his hat on the rack, he noted that his mom appeared tired. No wonder – by the time he’d gotten Horse saddled and ridden out, his mom had already been hard at work cleaning the stalls.



“Morning, Mom,” he said, moving to the sink, keeping his voice neutral. He began scrubbing his hands. “Need some help?”



“It’s just about ready,” she answered without looking up. “But you can put some bread in the toaster. It’s on the counter behind you.”



He dropped the bread slices in the toaster, then poured himself a cup of coffee. His mom kept her back to him, but he could feel her radiating the same aura he’d come to expect in recent weeks. Feel guilty, you bad son. I’m your mother. Don’t you care about my feelings?



Yes, of course I care about your feelings, he thought to himself. That’s why I’m doing what I’m doing. But he said nothing. After almost a quarter century on the ranch together, they’d become masters in the art of silent conversation.



He took another sip of coffee, listening to the clink of the spatula in the pan.



“No problems this morning,” he said instead. “I checked the stitches on the calf that got caught up in the barbed wire, and she’s doing fine.”



“Good.” Having set aside the spatula, she reached up into the cabinets and pulled down some plates. “Let’s just serve up at the stove, okay?”



He set his coffee cup on the table, then retrieved the jelly and the butter from the refrigerator. By the time he’d served up, his mom was already at the table. He grabbed the toast, handed her one of the pieces, then moved the coffeepot to the table as well.



“We need to get the pumpkins ready this week,” she reminded him, reaching for the pot. No eye contact, no morning hug… not that he’d expected it. “And we’ve got to get the maze set up, too. The hay will be arriving Tuesday. And you have to carve a bunch of pumpkins.”



Half of the pumpkin crop had already been sold to the First Baptist Church in King, but they opened the ranch on the weekends for people to buy the remainder. One of the highlights for the kids – and thus a draw for the adults – was a maze built out of hay bales. His father had sparked to the idea when Luke was young, and over the years the maze had grown increasingly complex. Walking through had become something of a local tradition.



“I’ll take care of it,” he said. “Is the layout still in the desk drawer?”



“Assuming you put it back last year, it should be.”



Luke buttered and jellied his toast, neither of them saying anything.



In time, his mother sighed. “You got in late last night,” she said. She reached for the butter and jelly when he was finished with them.



“You were up? I didn’t notice any lights on.”



“I was sleeping. But I woke up just as your truck was pulling in.”



He doubted that was the complete truth. The windows in her bedroom didn’t face the drive, which meant she would have been in the living room. Which also meant she’d been waiting up, worried about him.



“I stayed late with a couple of friends. They talked me into it.”