didn’t. She definitely wasn’t one who would consider bull riding a profession, and it wouldn’t matter how many purses Joel won or who his sponsor was. Bull riding didn’t come with benefits like unemployment, a 401(k) or retirement. Not really.
The final bell rang. Joel could hear classroom doors opening and the excited clamor of student freedom, but Mrs. Armstrong wasn’t finished. She just got louder. “Did you stop by the office and get a guest pass?”
“My nephews attend here.”
“Your name is not listed on their student cards. You’ll still need to sign in at the office. There just might be a problem.”
A problem? The McCreedys had been attending this school since Joel’s grandfather. Joel had not only studied here, but even when he was in high school, he’d helped out at the elementary school during the Rodeo Club events. The problem was Mrs. Armstrong.
“You going to send me to detention?” Joel knew the words would only make things worse, but he couldn’t control his tongue.
She opened her mouth and narrowed her eyes. Joel just knew he didn’t want to find out what she was thinking, so he did the first thing he could think of.
“I was here to return Beth’s cell phone. Wish I’d thought to take down her number before I gave it back.” He winked and moved around her toward the front door. Before exiting, he looked back. Mrs. Armstrong had closed her mouth but now had turned an interesting purplish color. Behind her, he could see Beth, two lines of students in her control.
Best place to be, safest place to be, thought Joel, would be the parking lot and inside his stepfather’s minivan. He pushed open the school door and almost ran Billy down.
Joel recognized many of the adults, parents now, starting to gather in front of the school. His name floated on the air and a few scattered greetings sounded.
Nothing like what he had expected. What was wrong with Roanoke? Eight years wasn’t that long.
“I thought I’d pick you up at the hospital,” Billy said. Careful not to jar the small boy whose hand he was holding, Billy took Joel by the arm and drew him close so his words couldn’t be heard by others. “Mind telling me what brought you to the school?”
“The hospital released me at noon and I took the truck to Tiny’s garage. I had some papers to gather up and found Beth Armstrong’s cell phone on the floorboard of my truck. Boy, she’s really grown up to be—” Joel began.
“Mr. Staples,” Patsy said, “I’m glad you’re here. I need a minute.”
Joel clearly and somewhat comically interpreted the look Billy shot him as, Look, you’ve gotten me in trouble, too.
Billy switched Caleb’s hand to Joel’s and then tossed him a set of keys. “Keep an eye on Caleb. Ryan and Matt will be out in a moment. Get them in the car and have them wait. I’ll just be a minute.”
Before Joel could protest, the chubby three-year-old tugged his fingers, looked up and said, “Let’s go, Unca.”
Unca?
At least Caleb was able to go with the flow. At Billy’s nod, Beth released Matt, who walked toward Joel as if the weight of the world rested on his shoulders. Ryan, old enough to make his own exit, left his teacher and joined them. He didn’t look too pleased about Joel’s presence, either.
Not even twenty-four hours in town and Joel had managed to annoy everyone except Caleb. Joel figured he’d just broken a record, but knew there’d be no applause.
Ryan led the way to a minivan parked toward the back of the parking lot. To get to the car, Joel had to walk by people he’d once called friends. Most looked surprised. Some taken aback. Once his nephews—all little replicas of Jared—had stowed backpacks and secured their seat belts, Joel took his place on the passenger side.
With his truck needing repairs, Joel couldn’t leave. With Joel himself needing repairs, Jared couldn’t turn him away. Add to that the fact he had just enough money to get to the next town, some twenty miles away—well, no matter how you looked at it, storm clouds were gathering.
“So,” came the beginning of a conversation from the backseat, “why did you take the money?” Oh, yes, Ryan was definitely his older brother’s clone. Arms crossed, wasting no time, eyes accusing, Ryan wanted answers.
“What?”
“Some of my friends say you’re a thief, that you stole money before you left town. Is that why you never came back? Is that why we don’t know you? Why are you back now?”
Joel’s experience with kids was almost nonexistent. He was pretty sure, though, that Ryan was a bit more mature—and cynical—than most eight-year-olds. Even so, Joel doubted that Ryan would understand that half of Solitaire Farm had, at one time, belonged to Joel, and that as a young, stupid kid, he’d wanted his share right then, in cash.
“I didn’t steal any money. I took what was mine.”
Ryan made a psst sound as Billy opened the driver’s side door and slid behind the wheel. Wow. Joel was curious to know what Beth’s mother had wanted to say, and why—as the school secretary—she had a right to say anything. Instead, he looked at the little men in the backseat and shelved his questions. Billy, looking a little annoyed, took advantage of the lull.
“What did the doctor say?”
“The doctor said the accident did not make things worse and that I feel better than I deserve after hitting that fence last night. He recommended a good physical therapist.”
“You hit that fence really good.” Ryan suddenly forgot his annoyance and sounded impressed. “Trey says it will cost a pretty penny.”
“Trey?”
“Max McClanahan III,” Billy explained.
The McCreedys’ nearest neighbors were the McClanahans. Joel had spent his childhood chasing after Maxwell McClanahan II, who must be married and a dad now, with a son also named Max. One who was about Ryan’s age. Joel suddenly felt a little humbled by all he didn’t know.
“Joel never does anything halfway,” Billy said before turning to face Joel. “I’m looking forward,” he said glumly, “to hearing what’s really wrong with you and what made you come back now.”
“You have to go to a therapist because you hit a fence?” Ryan questioned. “I hit fences all the time. You do walk funny. Is that because you hit the fence?”
“Joel doesn’t walk funny,” Billy said.
“Just slow and careful,” Joel agreed.
“Mommy couldn’t walk at all,” Matt finally added to the conversation, “right before she died.”
“Okay,” Billy said quickly, “who wants ice cream?”
To Joel’s way of thinking, it was the perfect time to change the topic of conversation. Matt’s comment was a bit too deep for an errant uncle to elaborate on. Looked like it was way too deep for a grandfather to deal with, too.
“Dad’s not with us,” Matt pointed out.
Ryan wasn’t about to let that interfere with the possibility of getting ice cream. “We can take him something.”
“It will melt.”
Billy, who’d mastered the art of keeping kids happy during his forty-year stint as the principal, said, “He’ll be eating plenty of ice cream tomorrow during Caleb’s party.”
“I’m three,” Caleb chattered. “’Morrow.”
Matt sat back, satisfied that his father wasn’t being left out.
Joel had to admire him. He was the gatekeeper of the brothers. Ryan, it looked like, was the mouth. Caleb was the comic relief.
Jared didn’t