Deep breath.
The boys would be there in a minute, and he wasn't going to let them see him in a sorry state like this. They'd been good the past two weeks. The move went well. Randy was healing nicely. No more concerns about hospital expenses meant that the mood had lightened considerably.
But even still, there was a cloud over everything, and Callahan knew exactly what it was that rained on everyone's parade: it was him.
It was like he was sucking the life out of the room. He'd been like this before. Worse than this before. Truth was, this was nothing compared to after Sara died. But there was just enough of it there, just a hint that if things went too much worse, then things could go bad.
He shouldn't have felt so bad. It was just a little fling. She was, what, fifteen years his younger? And he'd already had happiness once. He shouldn't have expected it a second time. He shouldn't have let himself think of it as anything but a physical thing. A way to pass the time.
The minute that he'd allowed himself to think of it that way, he'd already lost control of everything. He'd already started down the road to this frustration.
The beat-up truck pulls into the driveway. It's paved, not like his last place, where they'd just pull up on the lawn. Nice and civilized. The property was larger, but so was the house. So was the house, and he got to live in it all by himself.
It was dark and cold at night. The way he'd expected an old house to end up feeling, really. Like there was nothing there for anyone but the ghosts and the memories of people who weren't living there any more.
"Morning," he growls.
James has the gall to look almost concerned.
"You slept alright, boss?"
"I slept fine."
Nobody believed his lie. Randy shouldn't have been in the truck. He's still hurt, and not in any shape to be fooling anyone. But he slips out the side anyways.
"Mornin' boss."
"What are you doing here?"
"Here to work, boss."
Callahan's jaw tightens. "No you ain't. Go on, sit on the porch or somethin'. Busted ribs, and 'goin to work' he says, Jesus H. Christ."
"Hey, I told him not to, but he's here anyways." Michael's got his hands up and spread wide, a symbol of his everlasting peaceful attitude. Which is almost certainly horseshit, incidentally.
"Y'all know what to do. Get to it."
"Hey boss?"
Callahan rolls his eyes at the concerned tone in James's voice. "Yeah?"
"If there's something we can do, don't be afraid to mention it."
"Fuck off, kid. Go get to work."
The eldest leans into the bed of the truck and then shifts a heavy-looking leather bag onto his shoulder, starts moving it toward the house.
"I mean it. You did right by us, I don't want you to think we're ungrateful."
Callahan grinds his teeth together but doesn't say anything. The boy's already doing what he's supposed to be doing. Now if he could do it without the pity and with his mouth shut, that would be an improvement.
The truth is, though, that deep down he likes hearing it. The idea that he could actually get past this.
"You know what you have to do the next couple of days?"
James turns. He's got one eyebrow cocked up. "Yeah, more or less. Place needs a little work to be back in decent shape, so we'll be getting the stables and the fences repaired. That the long and short of it?"
"Sure."