of dust. “Look, even if you have only one beer, you and your truck don’t leave the property. Got it?”
“I swear I won’t, and my birthday’s in six weeks, so I’ll be all legal and everything.”
Nodding, Ryder headed toward his office. Not that he’d admit it, but he’d been drinking beer since he was eighteen. Just on weekends, along with his college roommates. None of them had been the type to get too drunk or do anything crazy. It had been a rite of passage, a part of the college experience and nothing more.
It puzzled him that he’d suddenly thought to ask. Toby had been working for them for about five months. And at over six feet, with a husky build, he could easily pass for mid-twenties.
Ryder was the problem. Some of the newer hires were beginning to look young because he felt old. Arguably, at thirty-two, he should be in his prime. But in the ten years since graduating from college, he’d been married, divorced, lost contact with his only sister, buried his father, had been consoling his mother and had nearly doubled the size of the family ranch. So yeah, he felt like he’d already lived two lifetimes.
He heard the front door and glanced toward the porch. His mom had walked out with Wiley. Wrapped in a coat that was too warm for the relatively mild November air and leaning on her cane, she waved at Ryder. Wiley stood beside her, looking uncertain and helpless.
Ryder understood completely.
Maybe he was wrong about the attraction. Maybe Wiley was just plain worried about her like Ryder was. They hadn’t talked about it, but Gail hadn’t been the same since his dad’s death, and anyone who knew her would have to be blind not to see how much she’d aged.
As if the tragedy hadn’t been enough, one of their neighbors had been taken by cancer a short time later. Shirley Hancock and his mom hadn’t been particularly close, but the woman’s granddaughter, Becca, was the little hellion who’d dragged Amy off to LA with her. Though as it turned out, Becca had been much better about keeping in touch with her grandparents, who’d shared everything with the Mitchells. But after they’d passed, news of Amy had dried up.
Ryder stopped midstride and redirected his steps toward the house. Toward his mom.
He didn’t know why he hadn’t thought of it before, probably because he’d been too damn focused on expanding the ranch and doubling profits. But maybe it was time for him to take a little personal trip.
And drag his selfish baby sister back by the scruff of her neck.
Becca had just sat down—no, collapsed was a better description—when she heard the doorbell. Waitressing wasn’t an easy job. But who knew being confined to an office all day trying to familiarize herself with a bunch of different terms would drain the life out of her? And it was only day three.
It took some effort to get off the chair, and then she heard the patter of little feet rushing to the door. “Noah, do not open—”
“Aunt Amy!”
Becca sighed. Well, at least it wasn’t an ax murderer, but Noah knew better.
“How’s my little man?”
Becca came from the kitchen just as Amy scooped him up in her arms and swung him around.
“Ouch!”
His shoe had hit the doorframe.
“What happened?” Amy asked, her eyes wide and surprisingly clear.
“Come in so I can close the door.” Becca noticed the kid from two houses down loitering on the sidewalk with his scary friends, trying to get a look inside. She probably should let him see. He’d find out real quick there was nothing worth stealing.
“You’re getting heavy, kiddo,” Amy said as she set Noah down. Then she turned a quizzical look at Becca. “I stopped at the restaurant. They said you’re not there anymore.”
“No, but I still work for Warren. He promoted me to an office job.”
“Wow, look at you.” Amy grinned. “I always knew you’d end up some big shot.”
Becca laughed. “Yeah, that won’t be happening anytime soon.”
“What’s that?” Noah asked, tugging on Amy’s T-shirt and pointing to the bag she was holding.
She raised her eyebrows at him. “Your mommy was talking. Don’t interrupt her.”
Noah stuck out his bottom lip and pouted.
Becca was shocked. She was pretty sure this was the first time Amy had ever corrected him. For anything. As for referring to Becca as Mommy, that had been the first recognizable word he’d uttered, directed at Becca. They’d agreed it was for the best, certainly less confusing for him. But she sometimes worried that it hurt Amy’s feelings.
“How about some lemonade, you two?”
After briefly hesitating, Amy said, “Sure. I have time for a glass.” Her hair looked freshly washed, and was pulled back in a neat ponytail. Even her face had cleared up a bit. A small thing but still progress.
On her way to the kitchen, Becca smiled when she heard Noah ask about the bag again. She brought the pitcher of lemonade out of the fridge, her gaze catching on the veggies she’d been cutting up at the table. “Hey, Amy, can you stay for dinner?”
“Nope. Sorry.”
Becca would’ve been surprised if she’d agreed. Derek kept her on a short leash, which made her visits infrequent and brief. Next week was Thanksgiving. Even though Becca knew the calls home had dwindled, she would remind Amy while she seemed clearheaded.
Noah let out a whoop.
A toy, of course.
Becca hoped it was age appropriate so she wouldn’t have to be the bad guy. Again.
She carried the glasses and Noah’s plastic cup into the tiny living room. The torn bag was on the floor next to him. Amy was perched at the edge of the couch, holding two plain white envelopes as she watched Noah tear into the package.
“Don’t worry,” she said, taking her lemonade. “It’s a Lego truck. Age three and up.”
“Perfect.” Becca returned her smile. “Noah? I’m putting your cup right here.” She set it on the corner of the end table. “Look up, please.”
Grudgingly, he did.
“Do you see it?”
“Yes, Mommy. Thank you.”
“You’re welcome. Be careful you don’t spill it.” She sat next to Amy and watched him, noting his frustration at being unable to open the box quickly enough. She didn’t want it escalating into a tantrum.
“You’re so good with him,” Amy said softly, her gaze as wistful as her sigh.
“So are you. He loves it when you visit, or take him for an outing.”
“Yeah, but you’re here day in and day out. Plus work a full-time job. How do you have the patience?”
Becca smiled. “I wouldn’t trade it for anything. Seriously,” she added when Amy looked doubtful. “I still have faith you’ll get it together and leave you-know-who.” They were speaking softly, but Becca glanced over to make sure Noah wasn’t listening. “My new job pays a lot more, and I’m hoping to find a bigger place. You’ll be able to move in with us.”
Amy sniffled, not from a cold or allergies—it was the drugs. “Wouldn’t that be something?”
“It’s going to happen. You’ll see.”
“Sometimes your optimism really annoys the sh—crap out of me.”
“I