Page 20 of Burning Skies
“I can take care of myself.” With a laugh, I shove him away. “Wish me luck tonight. Will you be joining us for dinner?”
“Can’t. Need to check on some calves. Text me later and let me know how it goes. Dad’s been all piss and vinegar lately.”
“I wonder what’s wrong. He never tells me anything.”
Cash looks away. “It’s probably better that way.”
A pit forms in my stomach as I watch my brother walk away. Why do all the men in this family treat me like I can’t handle anything?
A few minutes later, I head to the house. It’s a three-story, newly renovated McMansion that’s sadly missing the charm it used to have before my father updated it a few years ago. It’s beautiful in anArchitectural Digestkind of way, but it feels more like a showroom than a home.
I unlock the front door with my key. “Hey. I’m home,” I call out into the spacious foyer.
“In here, Honey,” my mom yells from the kitchen. I find her and my great-aunt June sitting at the counter, but there’s no dinner. My stomach rumbles in protest. I should’ve eaten before I came over.
I lean over to kiss my mother’s cheek. Her highlighted blonde hair falls around her shoulders. She’s wearing a designer white pantsuit and leather pumps. Although she’s perfectly coiffed as usual, I can’t help but feel something’s off. “Are you okay?” I ask hesitantly.
She waves a manicured hand. “Of course. It’s just my allergies. My eyes are puffy.”
I study her lovely face. “You don’t look puffy, Mom. I swear. You always look beautiful.”
She gives me a grateful smile. “Thanks, baby. And I’m sorry I don’t have dinner for you. Your father changed his mind at the last minute. You know how he gets. But I made you a sandwich. It’s in the fridge.”
“Thanks. That was sweet of you.” I lean over to hug Aunt June.
“Hi, darling.” She pats my hand. She’s wearing one of her signature shawls she crocheted herself. Aunt June is my favorite person in the family. With her little white-blonde curls and quirky personality, she’s always reminded me of the elderly piano student inWedding Singer.“I made some of those cookies you like with chocolate in the middle.”
She hands me a platter, and I struggle not to laugh. “I love your peanut butter blossoms, Aunt June. I’ll eat them all.” I don’t mention they look like giant nipples. She recently discovered Pinterest and likes to try to make the same dishes, but her food always turns out looking perverted somehow.
My mom motions down the hall. “Your father’s waiting for you.”
“What does he want to talk about?”
She shrugs. “He doesn’t tell me anything.”
I could not handle a marriage like that. My poor mom. She always looks so discouraged. I hug her again.
When I enter my father’s study, I smell his Cuban cigar before I spot him behind his executive desk. I scoot past his giant leather couch and white stone fireplace. He calls this part of his office the “lounge.” It’s where he and his CEO friends congregate to drink bourbon and talk about cattle prices. Beyond that are two tufted, leather, high-back chairs that are placed in front of his desk. To the right of him is his fully-stocked bar, and behind him are his built-in bookshelves where he houses his prized Cattleman of the Year awards.
He cracks a smile when he sees me. “How’s my girl?” My father’s a tall man with a white, neatly-manicured mustache and piercing blue eyes.
“Good, Dad.” I round the desk to hug him. How long has it been since I’ve been home? Two weeks? Because he seems thinner. “Are you feeling okay? How’s your blood pressure?” I’m sure his love of cigars and whiskey hasn’t helped.
“Fine, fine.” He motions to the chair, and I sit.
I hate asking my father for anything, but this isn’t for me. “Have you thought more about purchasing Quaid Turner’s old farm for my club? It’ll help a lot of kids, especially those who live in apartments but want to participate. Did you read my proposal?”
“Haven’t had a chance, but I’ll get to it.”
“Thanks.” I try to keep the disappointment out of my voice. My father makes massive donations to projects that interest him. It stings that he doesn’t care about the Harvester Club when it was such a huge part of my life in high school. But if I’m being honest with myself, he likely doesn’t remember that. He’s always traveled a lot.
He taps the desk. “Listen, we need to talk.”
“Okay,” I say slowly. God, I hope this isn’t about Beau. Would Trig have told our father they fought? For all I know, Dad and Trig haven’t seen each other since Dad’s rarely home these days. And Trig doesn’t like confiding in our father any more than I do. The thought makes me relax.
“I’m revising my estate, and I’d like to discuss the new terms of your trust fund.”
Not this again. The last time we discussed his “new terms,” he made me change my major from agriculture to education. He also insisted I attend Lone Star State instead of UT in Austin because he didn’t want me living in a big city. Even though I ended up loving Lone Star, I don’t like being told what to do.
