A Lawman's Christmas_ A McKettricks of Texas Novel - Linda Lael Miller [39]
Now, sitting across from his pensive cousin in a warm, clean, well-lighted place where good food could be had in plenty, he felt vaguely ashamed of his own prosperity. While the McKettricks didn’t live grandly, they didn’t lack for money, either. Clay had never missed a meal in his life, never had to go without shoes or wear clothes that had belonged to somebody else first. Unlike the O’Reilly children, and too many others like them, he’d had a strong, committed father, backed up by three uncles and a granddad.
The cook, a round-bellied man who doubled as a waiter, came over to the table to greet Sawyer and take his order.
Sawyer simply pointed toward Clay’s plate and said, “That looks good.”
The cook nodded and went away.
Sawyer sat there, easy in his hide, dressed like a prosperous gambler. Instead of his usual plain shirt and even plainer denim trousers, he sported a suit, complete with a white shirt, a string tie and a brocade vest. “You look miserable this morning, cousin,” he said cheerfully, “but something tells me it isn’t remorse over the uncharitable welcome you offered last night.”
Clay gave a raw chuckle, void of mirth. His appetite was gone, all of a sudden, and he set down his knife and fork, pushed his plate away. “It definitely isn’t remorse,” he said.
Sawyer helped himself to a slice of toasted bread and bit into it, chewed appreciatively. Though his eyes twinkled, his voice was serious when he replied, “You could still go back to the Triple M, you know. They’d welcome you back into the fold with open arms and shouts of ‘hurrah.’”
“I’ll pay them a visit one of these days,” he said. “There aren’t any hard feelings on my side.”
“Nor theirs, either.” Sawyer shoved a hand through his unruly dark-gold hair, which was always a little too long. “You’re lucky, Clay,” he said, his gaze moving to the window next to their table. “Pa and Granddad can’t seem to make up their minds whether to kill the fatted calf in my honor or take a horsewhip to me.” He frowned, squinted at the foggy glass. “I think somebody’s trying to get your attention,” he observed.
Clay looked, and there, on the other side of that steamed-up window, was Edrina, practically pressing her nose to the glass. She waved one unmittened hand and retreated a step.
“I’ll be damned,” Clay muttered, gesturing for the child to come inside.
“Who’s the kid?” Sawyer wanted to know.
“Friend of mine,” Clay answered, as Edrina scampered toward the entrance to the dining room.
She hurried over to the table, face flushed with cold and purpose, and stood there like a little soldier.
“Mama’s crying,” she said. “Mama never cries.”
Clay scraped back his chair, took Edrina’s small hands into his own, trying to chafe some warmth into them. “Where’s your bonnet?” he fussed, trying to process the idea of Dara Rose in tears. “You aren’t wearing any mittens, and your coat is unbuttoned—”
“I was in a hurry,” Edrina told him, with a little sigh of impatience. She spared Sawyer the briefest glance, then looked back at Clay with a proud plea in her eyes. “You’ll come home with me, won’t you? Right now? Because Mama is crying and Mama never, ever cries.”
“Go on,” Sawyer said to Clay. “I’ll settle up for your breakfast.”
Clay got up, retrieved his duster from the back of the chair beside his and his hat from the seat and put them on. “What’s the matter with her?” he asked, more worried than he could ever remember being before. “Is she sick?”
Gravely, Edrina took his hand, tugged him in the direction of the door. “I don’t know,” she said fretfully. “Maybe. But she was fine while we were having our oatmeal. Then Mr. Ponder stopped by, and they talked, and when Harriet asked Mama if we could please get a dog, Mama commenced to blubbering and ran right out of the room.”
Outside, the snow was melting under a steadily warming sky, but it was still deep. Clay curved an arm around Edrina’s waist,