Chapter One
Marva pushes open the door of the Ten Rigs Kennel and Shelter and glances around the sparsely furnished space. Yips and barks reply to the jangle of the bell above the door. The click-click-clicking of a tiny set of paws announce the arrival of Scott’s long-haired Chihuahua, Sylvester.
Sometime since she’d last been inside, Scott has scraped up the old chipped school tile and painted the concrete a light forest green. Someone—probably not Scott—has painted paw tracks in various sizes crisscrossing the room. Picket fencing lines the walls as a sort of wainscoting. It’s rather charming in a guy sort of way. Of course, Scott’s lone employee, Pammy, has probably had a hand in it.
Sylvester’s mostly black face appears and then he is there, dancing around her, tiny pink tongue hanging from his mouth. If his tail could wag any harder or faster, Marva wouldn’t be surprised to see him achieve lift off.
“Hey, Sylvester, how’s it going today, fella?” She bends her achy knees a bit and reaches down to stroke his shiny head and scratch under his little chin. “Where’s your daddy, huh?”
Sylvester arfs and does a lap around her.
“Scott. Scott Hudson, package for you,” she calls toward the screen door that leads to the outdoor kennel area. “I need a signature.”
“Coming, Miss Maple,” says a deep voice, followed by hurried footsteps. The screen door opens with a bit of a screech and closes with a bang.
Scott’s almost six-foot frame comes to a halt in front of her. His chestnut brown hair, while still military-ish in cut, lays smashed to his head on one side and stuck up in random spikes on the other, as if he’d rolled out of bed after a hard sleep with wet hair.
Marva hands him the tiny terracotta-colored slip to sign, which he does with a quick scribble. She passes him the bubble wrap mailer, and he scans the return address. With a smile, he turns the package over to tear at the closure. Two hard cover books slide out; one titled, ‘The Language of Our Canine Friends,’ by Gloria Markus and the other called, ‘Cesar’s Way: The Natural, Everyday Guide to Understanding and Correcting Common Dog Problems,’ by Cesar Millan and a co-writer.
Since his return home six months ago, he’s done little but repair the kennel and work with the dogs he inherited. Marva’s sources tell her he rarely goes anywhere, and he’s never seen in anyone’s company who could remotely be considered a significant other. The changes in the kennel are evidence of his dedication.
“Deputy Dawg, you need a boyfriend,” she says. Someone to put a spark in his eye and perhaps a hitch in his giddy-up-and-go.
His head bobs up and the dark velvet brown of his eyes meets hers. He snorts. “Yeah? What would I do with a boyfriend?”
“You work too hard, and life is meant to be lived. Find a little happiness for yourself, would you?”
A wan smile quirks his pale pink lips. “I wouldn’t even know where to look.”
“The Christmas Festival is just around the corner, Deputy. You’ve volunteered to help. Just…be open. All right?”
The corner of his mouth curls up in another shy smile and he nods. “I will, Miss Maple. I promise.”
Marva slaps the counter. “Then my work here is done.” With a wink at the hunky young man, she whirls around and strides toward the door. “Take care of him, Sylvester, ya hear?”
Two quick yips and a deep chuckle follow her outside and she grins all the way back to the mail truck.
The list of prospects for young Scott is short. Ten Rigs has its share of gay men, but Scott needs someone special. She snorts softly. “Well, we all need someone special, don’t we, Marva?” With a shake of her head, she climbs into the truck. Shifting into Drive, she pulls onto the road and heads back into town.
“Mike? Patrick? Stan?” she wonders aloud. Images of each one flits through her mind. “Stan’s a little too old. And now that I’m thinking about it, Mike’s too immature. Who else? Who else?”
A flash of royal blue catches her eye—a motorcycle speeds by—and the ensuing rush of certainty has her fist-pumping. “Bennigan Thompson,” she muses. “Well, dog-gone—how did Ben not occur to me right away? He’s spent a lot of time at the kennel since Scott took it over, between helping out and so-called accounting paperwork. Me-thinks Mr. Thompson might be a bit smitten. And Scott could sure use some Thompson Family kindness. If Scott and Ben aren’t a match made in heaven, I’ll turn in my Cupid’s bow.”
Ben has volunteered to help prepare for the Christmas Festival too. A word in Wanda’s ear and those two young men would be paired for a task or two. But how else could she get Ben’s and Scott’s paths to cross “naturally?” She chuckles. Where there’s a will, there’s a way. And she definitely has the will.
Marva turns into the post office parking lot and slows to a stop for the post office patrons exiting the historic brick building. Another chuckle rumbles deep in her chest. “Well, I’ll be…” A quick toot of the mail truck’s horn brings her the attention of the five women in the crosswalk. Marva sticks her head out the now-open window. “Helen Thompson, come on over here for a moment, would you?”
“Hello, Marva. Mail route keeping you busy, I see,” says Helen upon approach. The two of them had gone to school together many moons ago.
Winter’s chill has left bright spots of color on Helen’s cheeks, and Marva still marvels at how much all the Thompson kids look like their mother.
“’Tis the season and all that,” says Marva. “Listen, there’s this nice young man, Scott Hudson—took over the kennel?”
Helen nods. “I remember Scott. Gillian tutored him in algebra. Shame about his leg.”
With a nod, Marva says, “He’s an overcomer, all right. Anyway, he’s out there at the kennel with just those dogs, subsisting on goodness knows what. You make the best pies in three counties, so I was wondering, if you ran across him at some point, if you’d invite him over for a home-cooked supper and one of those blue-ribbon pies.”
Helen smiles. “You didn’t need all that flattery, Marva. He was always a sweet young man despite that bastard of a father. Of course, I’ll have him over.”
“At least I got right to the point,” she says with a wink. “And thanks.”
With a wave, Helen continues the trek to her car. Marva putters into the truck yard and parks. If she was even ten years younger, she might’ve skipped across the parking lot and into the building. Job well done, Marva. Job well done.
So far, so good anyway. Flattery might not have been necessary, but it ensures that the dinner invitation happens sooner rather than later.
* * * * *
Christmas lights line the edge of just about every structure of the Thompson homestead. Roof lines, porch railings, fencing. Multi-colored lights, icicles, white rope lights.
Scott can’t help the smile or the lurch in his stomach that follows. His own childhood home had never seen such tender loving care at the holidays. Not even before his mother had taken off. His father had been the Grinch personified. To have had parents who made the holidays special… Well, he hadn’t, and crying about having crappy parents at this late date serves no purpose.
Holiday cheer steals over him despite his lack of fond childhood memories. Maybe this weekend he’ll drive over to the big box store and pick up some lights. He’d gotten a pick-me-up out of the sight of driving up to the Thompson house and seeing it lit up like the Las Vegas Strip. Since the kennel occupies a stretch of land along the south highway in and out of town, if he lights up the facility, it’ll be a sight—hopefully a good one—for anyone driving into or out of town after dark.
Scott pulls his battered old pickup into a space between a huge dark-colored dually and Ben’s older-model work truck. A red medium-sized SUV and Ben’s motorcycle are parked under a detached carport.
A jumbo-sized wreath with small white twinkle lights blinks from the branches hung on the large expanse of wall between two lit-from-within windows. The draperies are pulled back, revealing the women’s-magazine-cover scene inside. One window frames Ben and his niece setting the table; the other shows Mrs. Thompson tossing a salad and laughing. The storybook picture pulls another smile from Scott.
The Christmas lights provide plenty of illumination to the front door. With a press of the button, the door bell chimes on the other side, and a little girl’s voice yells, “I’ll get it.”
Scott recognizes Ben’s responding baritone, although he can’t make out the words, followed by a high-pitched squeal. The door opens and a wave of warm spicy-scented air washes over him. God, he’s hungry.
Ben, with five-year-old Misty perched on one arm, pushes open the old-fashioned wood screen door. “C’mon in.” He steps back to allow Scott room to enter. Ben holds out his hand and Scott slides his own into the man’s warm grasp. “Misty, you remember Mr. Hudson, don’t you?”
She nods, a wide grin showcasing the missing bottom teeth. “Hi, Mr. Hudson.”
What a cutie and the spitting image of Ben. If someone didn’t know that Misty’s mother, Gillian, and Ben had been twins, he could be, and probably was, mistaken for her dad. Kids have never been on Scott’s radar. Being gay makes it a little harder, though not impossible. Factor in his miserable childhood, and remaining childless seems the better option.
Mrs. Thompson comes around the corner. “Hello, Scott, honey. How are you?”
“I’m good. Wore out, but good.” He hands her a small decorative candle thing he’d picked up at the grocery store: a six-inch green pillar candle with sprigs of pine and other random flowery things he doesn’t know the names of surrounding the base.
Mrs. Thompson’s eyes widen and a flush of pleasure colors her cheeks. Big blue eyes like Ben’s and Misty’s meet his. “Oh, honey, this is lovely. Thank you.” She stretches up on tiptoe and presses a kiss to his cheek.
Scott ducks his head, hoping to hide his own unexpected pleasure at her gesture. “You’re welcome.”
“Now take your coat off and come on into the kitchen. Grandma Hardy’s goulash is just about ready. The recipe’s been in the family for generations. I hope you’re hungry.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“You’re awful polite, although I must admit it’s a refreshing change,” she says, sending a wink his way.
He nods. “Yes, ma’am. Eleven years in the military will do that.”
Collectible plates of all sorts cover the papered walls as he follows her. They depict cats and birds, as well as the various states that the Thompsons have probably visited on family vacations. Scott had never been outside the state of Texas until he’d gone to boot camp. During the course of his Army life he’d lived in two states, passed through the airports of a handful of others, and did two tours in the Middle East. His experiences of airports and deserts have nothing on the collection of memories Ben must have of his family at Mount Rushmore or the Grand Canyon.
The dining room table is longer than he is tall and appears to be hand-made. It’s stained a deep rich brown and protected by a thick shiny coat of varnish. Eight matching chairs surround it. The red, green, and gold plaid place mats are all clustered at one end.
“Sit by me, Mr. Hudson,” says Misty, patting the seat next to hers.
Scott looks back and forth between Ben and Mrs. Thompson. They both play primary roles in raising Misty, and he isn’t sure who he should ask. “Is it all right if she calls me Scott or Mr. Scott? Mr. Hudson is awful formal for a guy who shovels dog sh-doo all day.”
Misty giggles, her tiny white teeth showing again.
“Sorry,” Scott murmurs, ducking his head as slight embarrassment heats his face.
“Mr. Scott is fine, honey.” Mrs. Thompson nods and then turns toward a doorway and calls, “Jed. Come to the table.”
Ben waves at the chair next to Misty and takes the seat across the table from Scott.
Mr. Thompson enters the dining room and Scott halts mid-sit and straightens back up.
Mr. Thompson stops, runs his hands down the length of his suspenders, and cocks his head. “What the hell was that?”
Scott feels a bit abashed again. “Habit, sir.”
Mr. Thompson grins and holds out a hand. They shake before Ben’s dad continues to his seat at the head of the table. “How you doing, son?”
“Fine, sir. Just fine.”
“Ben’s been keeping us up to date on your hard work out at the kennel.”
“Oh, well, just keeping busy, sir.” Another wave of gratification wars with embarrassment. The kennel’d been his sanctuary growing up. It has become his sanctuary again.
“You’re doing a great thing, honey,” says Helen, setting a large pot on the table in front of her husband. Steam curls from the thick casserole, and Scott’s stomach gurgles in anticipation. He can’t remember the last time he enjoyed a true home-cooked meal.
All this happy-family-ness is completely at odds with his own upbringing. Dinner had been a silent affair before his mother had left, and after, it had been nonexistent. Scott had either been at weight lifting practice or working at the kennel. He’d generally fended for himself, although as part of their unspoken agreement, his father had kept the cupboards and refrigerator stocked.
Scott rises again. “Let me help you, Mrs. Thompson.” Helping his hostess is the least he can do for a home-cooked meal.
“Nonsense. You’re a guest,” booms Mr. Thompson. “Ben, get up and help your mother.”
Mrs. Thompson pats Scott’s shoulder while Ben stands.
“Sit, Ma,” says Ben. “I’ll get the rest.”
“Don’t mind if I do,” she says and slides into the chair to the left of her husband and across from Misty.
Ben returns with a bowl of salad and a basket of delicious-smelling rolls.
Once Ben has taken his seat, Mr. Thompson sets his hands palms up on the corners of the table. Misty sets one hand in her grandfather’s and takes a hold of Scott’s with the other. Mrs. Thompson slips one hand into her husband’s and the other into her son’s, and Ben reaches across the table. In an instant, Scott takes in the long tapered fingers and the eyes the color of the pale blue morning glories that had grown wild in the trailer park where he’d grown up, and slides his hand into Ben’s. Their gaze doesn’t break until their chins practically touch their chests.
Mr. Thompson blesses the meal, and everyone digs in.
* * * * *
Grandma Hardy’s goulash was delicious and Mrs. Thompson’s peach pie to die for. She’s given Scott a container with a piece for later. Conversation had been lively, and each of the Thompsons had shared something about their day, including Misty. They’d finally convinced him that guests were every bit as welcome to contribute to the conversation. The latest of Sylvester’s canine shenanigans had garnered smiles from the elder Thompsons, giggles from Misty, and a fond smile and star-bright eyes from Ben, although the story surely hadn’t been that amusing.
The temperature has dropped while they’d eaten and visited, and unlike when he’d arrived, small white clouds appear with each exhale. The crisp temperatures nip his cheeks and nose. Burning pine scents the air from the roaring fire Ben and his dad had lit after supper.
Scott inhales deeply. The air smells of home and friendship. He fishes his keys from his pocket and unlocks the truck. He sets the pie on the dash and turns to Ben, who’s decided Scott needs walking to his vehicle.
Ben hasn’t bothered to put on a coat, of course, and has his hands shoved in the front pockets of his jeans while he jiggles his arms back and forth trying to generate warmth.
“Hey, uh, a few of us get together to play basketball up at the high school. Our last weekly game until after the holidays is tomorrow night. Around seven,” Ben says. “You’re more than welcome to join us.”
Scott’s breath catches in his throat and then he sighs, his excitement immediately crashing and burning. He hasn’t played hoops in years. Not since before the bomb took his leg. “Basketball. Me?”
“Why not you?” Ben’s eyebrows arch for a moment.
Maybe he really doesn’t know. “I wear a prosthetic.”
“What the hell do I care?” Ben shrugs. “You can play basketball, right?”
Ben’s gaze doesn’t falter, doesn’t stray to Scott’s left foot. The fact that it didn’t meant more to Scott than he can possibly say. “I can’t jump.”
A snort explodes from Ben’s mouth, followed by, “That’s bull shit.”
“Excuse me?”
“First of all, I’ve seen you jump. You’re all over that kennel building, climbing on the roof, jumping fences—”
“Three foot fences! Jesus.” Scott throws his hands up. A three-year-old could jump those things.
“It’s still jumping.”
If it’d been daylight, Scott could see the bright blotches of color on Ben’s cheeks that always accompany an outburst. They’ve shared enough animated conversations over the last several months to know. At the moment, however, a conglomeration of reds, oranges, greens, and blues from the Christmas lights cover them both and camouflage any natural coloring.
Ben’s arms flap back and forth, back and forth. “C’mon, man. It’s a pick-up basketball game. What’s the big deal?”
Scott stills. He’d thought sports were a thing of his past, but Ben apparently has no such ideas. He clearly assumes Scott capable of anything a whole man could do. Scott can and does bounce around the kennel, hopping over the short fencing and bags of dog food or piles of random crap. But only the dogs see him when he falls on his ass.
For a casual game of basketball, the fluttery sensation in his chest seems kinda girly. But dammit if he doesn’t want to play. He sucks in a breath, the icy air biting his nostrils. “It’s not a big deal,” Scott finally says. And suddenly it isn’t. Ben has made it not a big deal.
“Then c-come on.” Ben bounces on the balls of his feet now, the cold really starting to get to him. “Sh-shit, it’s cold.”
“Shoulda put on a jacket, dumbass.”
“Up yours.” Ben jerks his chin up in a gesture. “You g-gonna play or not?”
There’s no stopping Scott’s grin. “Okay. Yeah. I’ll play.”
Ben’s dimples appear in response.
“G-great. S-see you tomorrow.” With that, he turns and runs toward the house. “Drive safe—” echoes across the space between them, and the bang of the screen door sounds a moment later.
Scott shakes his head and climbs into his truck. What the hell has he just agreed to?
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