“And me,” Sawyer says, sticking her tongue out.
“And you,” Avery agrees with a groan.
We all share a laugh.
“Time for supper,” she says. “What’s everybody hungry for?”
I lower the ladder. “How about burgers, fries, and milkshakes? Dinner out sounds good after the busy day we’ve had. Don’t think anybody feels up to cooking after all that excitement.”
The girls cheer, and Willow smiles.
“You’re sure about eating out?” she asks.
I fold up the ladder to start carrying it to the shed. “Yeah, gotta fuel up the truck anyway. Plus, watching that tiger get his fill of beef makes me jealous. I could use a good burger.”
She laughs. “Oh, really? Or are you just that afraid of my cooking? I wasn’t serious about the food poisoning, Grady.”
“Nah.” I lift a brow at her. “You’ll get your chance to wow us another night.”
She laughs harder, but steers the girls to the house. “Come on, let’s go wash up so we can sink our teeth into burgers and fries.”
“And milkshakes—don’t forget the best part!” Avery adds. “The strawberry shakes are awesomesauce.”
A short time later, we’re on our way to town in my truck. Sawyer pulls up the playlist on her phone, and she, Avery, and Willow waste no time singing to the music.
Sounds like some modern bubblegum fluff piece about finding love in a gingerbread house by Milah Holly.
Damn if I don’t love how they all giggle, cracking up as they try to keep up with the jaunty beat, losing it several times when Avery messes up the lyrics. Looks like I’m in for an encore, too, because Sawyer finds another song the instant the first one finishes, and the singing starts all over again.
I’m back in a war zone—only this time I’m surrounded by loud, happy girls punch-drunk on their own music mistakes.
It hurts in the best way to have their smiles circling me, though, and the music cut by messy laughter that makes it hard to focus on the road.
The fun continues as I pull into the gas station. Sawyer turns her phone off, and I can hear them giggling while I fuel up my ride and pay at the pump.
The local hamburger joint is only a couple blocks away, and it looks like the early supper rush is already over. I always get a nostalgic smile every time I step into this place. Hasn’t changed a bit since I was a kid.
Black-and-white-checkered linoleum plasters the floors, the booths are a worn mix of bright-red and licorice-black Naugahyde, and there’s floor to ceiling 1950’s memorabilia and photos decorating the walls.
A few of those pics show off Dallas in its old days, back when I was growing up here with my brother. Everybody who didn’t work for old man Jonah Reed and North Earhart Oil was a farmer then.
God help me, I take Willow’s hand, and she flashes me a smile that could own my soul.
Can’t resist the urge to point at the pics, giving her a quick history lesson on Dallas.
“What’s with all the cute little airplanes on the way in?” she asks, flicking her hair over her shoulder.
“This town staked its bread and butter on the oil business for a long while,” I tell her. “North Earhart Oil still signs a lot of paychecks to this day. That’s Earhart as in Amelia Earhart. The old man who founded the company swore she was a relative of his. Still a hotly debated subject, I’ve broken up more fights at the Bobcat than you’d believe over it.”
Willow laughs, her small round nose wrinkling.
“Darlin’, I’m serious. The only thing that’s bigger fighting words around here than town history after folks have knocked a few back are town legends. And that oil company’s given us plenty of both. The Larkins who own it these days are good people, though. Just like her Gramps, Bella Larkin makes sure a lot of that oil money goes to people who really need it here in town. Money doesn’t mean much like it does in some places. Rich or poor, we all take care of each other.”
Her fingers twine with mine, delivering an excited squeeze that says she approves of our old-fashioned ways. I pump her fingers back.
There’s nothing like an outsider’s appreciation to remind a man what makes our little town mean something.
She loves the rodeo images and a couple candid shots of wild cougars who’d tear into Dallas from the sticks most of all. No surprise.
A waitress finally guides us to a booth, where the girls settle in on one side, and Willow and I on the other. I’m not used to sharing a seat with anybody, not even with Aunt Faye.
I tell myself not to think about it.
Not to worry.
Not to wonder why it’s so damn difficult to release her hand.
“Gosh, Dad!” Sawyer says, her eyelids fluttering as she looks across the booth at us. “Were you...are you holding her hand? It’s like we’re a family or something.”