Nothing that will hurt them, but jobs that need to get done.”

He’s right. The boys won’t like it. The boys hate farmwork. But at the same time, we’re living rent-free on the ranch, not even paying utility bills, and it’s not right that Brick works his ass off while my three boys sit around and play video games. “I think I will make a little detour and let you handle this one.”

“They’ll probably call you and complain.”

They probably will. My brothers wouldn’t have dreamed of trying to get out of chores, but my boys don’t have the same sense of responsibility or work ethic. In their mind, the world revolves around them: their sports, their entertainment, their needs. Guilt and unease gnaw at me. “I won’t answer my phone.”

“Smart.”

Off the phone, I lean back against the seat, aware that if the boys are spoiled and self-centered, I have no one to blame but myself. I’m their mom. I’ve raised them to be who they are. Which is lazy and quite often selfish.

It’s a sobering thought, and far from flattering.

Traffic already clogs the South 75, and I’m grateful I have to be on this freeway for only a couple of miles. I can’t imagine 30 West will be much better, though, and I have forty-eight miles on that freeway.

And then tomorrow I’ll do this again.

I probably shouldn’t have agreed to return tomorrow. Today was horrible. The models weren’t friendly, and the crew kept to themselves. I was treated like an outsider, and I suppose I am. In New York I knew everyone, but I’m starting over here, and starting as a senior.

Grandma in today’s Dillard’s shoot.

The corner of my mouth lifts in a faint, wry smile. And I was worried that I’d look too old.

I end up making better time than I expect, and seeing that it’s only five now and Brick told me not to come until six, I stop at the Brief Encounter Café on the edge of Mineral Wells for a jumbo iced tea and a turkey club sandwich.

I sink into the vinyl booth with a grateful sigh. I’m hot and tired and definitely hungry. Brick’s right: I probably don’t eat enough. But sometimes it’s hard to eat when I’m surrounded by the boys and all they do is bicker and fight, which Dr. Phil would also say is my fault.

For the second time today, I’m aware that my parenting skills are lacking. Were they always this bad, I wonder as I snag a piece of crisp bacon from the sandwich to munch on, or have I lost control since separating from John?

I’m still puzzling over the situation when the café’s glass door opens, sucking in the hot, heavy heat of Texas. The white glare of late afternoon sunlight floods the brown linoleum floor, and as I glance up to see why the door is so slow to close, my curiosity gives way to shock.

Dane.

Dane Kelly.

Oh, my God.

I wondered when I’d finally see him—he didn’t attend Cody’s funeral—and I choke on a breath, the air catching inside my lungs just the way it used to when I was sixteen and hopelessly in love with Dane Kelly, bull-riding champ, neighbor, and my brother Brick’s best friend.

I stare at him, drinking him in, drinking him as if he’s water and I’m dying of thirst.

He hasn’t changed, not much. He still has the same thick head of hair that’s neither blond nor brown, but a little of both. He’s well over six feet and still fills a doorway with those shoulders that are a little too broad and legs that are a little too muscular and long. He’s wearing the tight, faded Wranglers cowboys prefer and a short-sleeved T-shirt that hugs his chest. And even if I didn’t know him, I’d think it’s a really nice chest.

The glass door finally shuts behind him, and as the little fan on the corner cabinet coughs and whirs, Dane takes a step, heading for the long counter. That’s when I see his cane and notice his limp.

Dane limps now. The champion bull rider got hurt.

I know I’m staring, but I can’t help it.