Rough Country (Tannen Boys 3)

Unc’s smile grows at that and he flashes me a thumbs-up. “They like it?”

I feign outrage, giving him my best ‘offended’ face. “Of course they did. It’s delicious!”

“If you say so.” He definitely does not agree. “Then what? Get to the good stuff, girl.”

“Closed up shop at two, and Bobby stayed to help. He even pushed the broom and mop around. Then everyone headed home for the night, and we . . . stayed. And talked.”

Unc’s bony fingers bend in the air like quotation marks, “Talked. Yeah, I’ve done some ‘talking’ in my day too.” He repeats the finger movement.

“No, actually talking,” I insist, but he doesn’t look convinced. “Okay, and some ‘not talking’ too, but nothing too . . .” I search for the word I’m looking for but I can’t think of one that I’d feel comfortable telling a seventy-year-old relative, so I settle on, “Nothing that’d require a cleaning of the bar. I just sat on it.”

He holds up a hand, palm toward me. “Say no more. And Patrick?”

Thankful to be off that part of story, I explain the rest. “Chief saw the lights on and my car in the lot, so he checked to make sure I was okay.”

Unc smiles slightly. “He’s a good one.” He finally picks up the bear claw and takes a small nibble off one side, but it looks like swallowing it costs him dearly as he goes a little green. Sticking to coffee, he asks, “So, what’s the story with you and Bobby? Seems like he’s taken a mighty fine shine to you. You feeling the same way?”

Wow, direct and to the point, and staring me down with those blue eyes that dare me to lie. It’d do me no good. Unc would know it either way. “I am. It’s a lot . . . and fast . . . and intense. And not what I came for, but he’s . . . something else.”

Unc hums like he understands my muttered answer perfectly. “He is that. Always figured he’d make it out of Great Falls. I know he wanted to in his younger days before his mom got sick. She was a sweet woman, raised those hellions up the best she could, but Paul put them through the wringer. They ended up better than I would’ve figured. Bobby especially. He always seemed a bit more even-keeled than his brothers. Don’t know if that’s true or not.” He looks off to the side like he’s remembering something from long ago, but he doesn’t share whatever he’s thinking.

“So you think he’s a good one too?” I ask, using his words.

He pats my hand across the table, his dry and cold against my warmth in the moment of contact. “I think you already know the answer to that question yourself and don’t need an old man’s blessing to do what you want, Willow. Especially mine, given I ain’t seen you in way too long.”

“I know. It has been too long. I’m sorry for that—”

“Now, don’t you be apologizing for things that ain’t no fault of yours. Harold was a son of a bitch, too big for his britches, and hell, for that matter, so was I. We didn’t appreciate what we were losing when everything blew up between us, but I sure do now.”

He looks around the house and I follow his gaze. He’s been alone as long as I can remember. I never had an aunt, but there are touches of softness here and there, as though someone helped him make the place cozier. Patterned pillows on the couch and a crocheted throw blanket on the back of the recliner, a flyer advertising last month’s Fourth of July parade is held to the refrigerator by a pair of painted clothespins with magnets on the back, and a tray on the counter was lined with small bottles. A collection of pill bottles . . . a whole bunch of them.

I nearly choke at how many there are and I have to fight back tears. What happened between Grandpa and Unc has had far-reaching consequences I don’t think any of us intended to pay.

“I’m just glad I’m here now,” I tell Unc.

“Doc stopped by yesterday,” he says, seeming to change the subject to something lighter. “Said you were doing a damn fine job at the bar without me and that I shouldn’t worry.”

I smile, knowing there’s no way he wouldn’t. “But of course, you worry anyway.”

“Damn straight. Built that honkytonk myself, from the ground up with these two hands, and lived most of my life in those walls. Or at least the best years. So I don’t need no city slicker coming in and mucking it up.” He’s teasing me, lights sparkling in his dull blue eyes.

“I’m not mucking up anything. We did just fine last night, and I’m ready to open for lunch and work till close tonight. We’ll be fine. You stay home and nap, old man,” I tease, but truthfully, he looks like he could use it.