Callum was there, with Genevieve. Grayson had just left—Rafe had passed him in the hall downstairs. “Hey,” his lone wolf brother said as he stopped him. “What’s going on, man? You okay? I heard something come through on the radio. A call for a bus on standby...”
As the owner of his own first responder agency that aided police, firefighters and EMTs, Grayson was privy to anything that went out on police radio communications.
“I shot a guy’s finger off this morning,” Rafe said, when his normal inclination would have been to brush the whole thing off and move on. He wasn’t one to spill his beans to the rest of the family. His role was to be responsible, to help them, not to bring them his problems.
“You’re the one who fired the shot that knocked the gun out of that bastard’s hand?”
One thing about Mustang Valley: word traveled fast. Of course, Grayson was on the pipeline pretty much 24-7. The man didn’t seem to give a hoot about Colton Oil, but he cared deeply about helping others.
“All that shooting at the range,” he said, referring to days when Payne would cart off the boys and make them stand at targets and shoot until he was satisfied that they could all defend themselves, or each other, if the need ever arose.
Having money made them targets, he’d told them.
Could have had something to do with the reason Callum had become a Navy SEAL and then an elite bodyguard, Grayson a first responder. They might not be following in Payne’s footsteps or choosing the path he’d have chosen for them. But they were products of his teachings, just the same.
“Just glad you’re okay, man,” Grayson said. “I’m on my way out, but I want to hear about how you ended up on the mountain in the first place,” he called back as he headed down the hall.
He was going to have to answer to the family. He knew that.
But first things first. Genevieve and Callum were waiting for him.
“Can I have a few minutes alone with him?” he asked after hearing the night’s report. No change. Again.
Callum offered to take his mother out to breakfast and home to shower and rest. Ainsley was due in shortly.
And then he was alone with the man who’d shaped pretty much his entire life.
Pulling a chair up close, Rafe leaned his elbows on his knees and looked at the craggy, weathered features that he’d at times both revered and feared.
“We need to talk,” he said. “And before you start to take control of the conversation, I have to tell you that I’m just not open to that this time around.”
The doctor had said there was every chance the man could hear them. He wasn’t going to coddle him because he was lying in a bed.
Chances were, knowing Payne Colton, he’d rejoin them only when he was ready.
And would not only remember all the conversations that went on around him, but would hold others accountable for them, too.
“When I was eight years old, you brought me into your study to tell me that I had to call you something. That it wasn’t right that I never referred to you by a name, or called you a name. That you had to be someone to me. At the time, you told me that you wanted me to call you Dad, like the rest of the Colton children under your roof. But you gave me the option not to do so,” he said, remembering those moments so clearly.
“It was one of the few times you actually gave me a choice, about anything, in my life. You know, my memories of my own father have faded some over the years, but one thing I remember clearly is that he always involved me in the decisions that affected our little family. So, yeah, looking back, maybe he was posing the situation to me in a way that would lead me to the decision he wanted me to make, but the point was, I always felt like I was consulted. That I had choices. And then, once made, I had to be accountable for them.”
He stopped. Took a second to regroup. He was getting off track. Seemed once he’d realized—up on the mountain that morning, lying on his belly, watching the love of his life approach a known murderer—that he had some things to say, he’d given mental permission for a whole floodgate to open.
“I chose not to call you Dad,” he continued when his mind was clear again. “You said then that I had to call you ‘sir.’”
He stopped. Swallowed. Looked at that old face and felt a moment of fear. Fear that the man who’d raised and cared for him, who’d given him a place at his table and a seat on his board, wouldn’t wake up.
“Art, food, the finer things...you gave it all to me,” he said. “And I ate it all up. Developed a healthy appetite for all of it.” He’d perfected traveling the world as a member of the young, elite wealthy. “But I’ve recently been reminded of the man I started out to be...the man I was growing up to be until my father died and the choices were taken away from me. And I discovered that there’s no thing on this earth that’s as moving or beautiful as moments with someone you love. Food really does taste better when it’s shared with someone you love. Makes no scientific sense, doesn’t add up or calculate, but that’s my truth and I stand by it.”
Off track again.
He looked at his hands. Took a deep breath. Looked back at the man who’d shown no sign of life for days other than the rise and fall of his chest as he breathed. No twitches. No change of the stoic expression.
Maybe Payne was just tired. Needed some rest. So that he could wake up and spend the next twenty years ruling over them all. Getting his way.
Rafe had a specific purpose. Someplace he was supposed to get with all of this discussion. Had thought, on his way in, that he’d be there in a couple of sentences.
“I had this thought that I would be disloyal to my father if I called you Dad,” he confessed. “That it would be dishonoring him. Replacing him, even. But I never called him Dad. He died when he was still ‘Daddy’ to me.