Ranch Manny - B.A. Tortuga Page 0,36
and no one in her family had any.
“I will. Maybe next weekend, if you’re not busy. She’s got a bit of a crush on that boy of yours.”
“And he follows her around and stares. They’re made for each other.”
The ranchers breakfast all chuckled at that.
“You get your calves worked?” Pooter asked.
“I did. Jesus says he can come work for you next week.”
“Good. Good, tell him I’ll use him. Anyone else you can spare too.”
His lips twitched. “I’ll send Curly.”
“Now, Brent…”
“I know, Pooter.” Everyone knew. Curly wasn’t who he used to be. Not all the way. Still… “He would like to see you, though. You should come to supper on Sunday.”
Pooter nodded easily at that, thank God. “I can bring KFC if you want.”
“Let me see what Trace says about fried chicken.”
Those old blue eyes went wide as saucers. “You think he can make it?”
“He can make biscuits and gravy. He can make cobbler. He can make chicken fried steak and enchiladas.” Surely fried chicken wasn’t any harder.
“I’ll be there. I can bring the beer.”
“There you go. And a gallon of that iced tea Curly likes.” Pooter was still one of Curly’s truest, and oldest, friends. Brent knew it hurt to see Curly sometimes, but he thought it would be good for Pooter to see it was easier now.
“Good deal. I got some nice tomatoes too. I’ll bring the ripe ones.”
“Cool.”
“See how you are,” Ryder Maines said. “Playing favorites.”
“I know your grandkids come over every week after church, old man,” Brent said. “You don’t want to come to my house.”
“You had a big to-do to introduce the new guy, I could.”
“Oh! I get it. Well, give me a couple three and I will.” He would talk to Trace, get his feelings on it. He didn’t want to pressure Trace one little bit. Brent was getting to like having him around.
More than like.
And the kids would be brokenhearted, sure as shit. Caro and little Suzy were tighter than ticks, Jakob was sleeping easier, and Curly had started to find a new routine with Trace there to take the pressure off.
The house was running smoother than, well, ever.
“You got it,” Ryder said, laughing.
“Cool. Then you’re all invited, for real.”
“You haven’t had a cookout in a long time. Sounds great.”
“I’m still coming for fried chicken,” Pooter mumbled.
“Of course you are.” He would go to KFC himself if Trace couldn’t do chicken, but he had a feeling it would work out.
Trace was magical—partially because he could cook, mostly because he liked to. That changed the mood of their house so much. No more rubbery eggs and constant flow of mac and cheese.
Hell, three of the kids were signed up for the library reading club and all four of them went to twice a week swimming classes at the Y. Even the baby.
“Well, I think it’s a grand thing.” Jan stopped by to drop off Ryder’s ticket.
“She was here when I hired him,” Brent said in a stage whisper.
Jan nodded. “Me and Lacey invited to your shindig, Brent? If so, I’ll bring pies.”
“Hell, yes.” Looked like he was going to have to do more than theorize about this. “I’ll have a date by next week.”
“Good deal. Y’all enjoy your food.” Jan bustled off, and they all grinned at each other. She’d been in the back doing reports and had just come out to make sure she got an invite.
She had been with Lacey for thirty years, and they had three children, thirteen grandbabies, and was the first person he’d come out to. Like he wouldn’t invite her out.
He savored every bite of his bacon, then ate his toast with that mixed fruit jelly that no one but restaurants carried. They all chatted about everything and nothing at all. It felt…
Normal.
Thank God.
He ached for that. Just normal. Or at least as normal as a gay cowboy in Central Texas who’d inherited three kids could be, right?
Lord have mercy. He was going to have to see if there was something nice to get Trace—like a bottle of wine or something.
He’d stop at Deborah’s little gift shop on the square. She sold all sorts of swanky little food things and a bunch of shit to serve with. Cheese cutters made from tree branches and spoon rests made from flat bottles.
The guy hadn’t signed on to work fifteen-hour days, seven days a week, after all.
“Okay, guys.” He pulled out a ten. “I got to hit up Miss Deb’s. I’ll let y’all know when to come out to the ranch. Pooter,