“Clint…”
“It’s what Mom would say.”
“Damn you.”
“I’ll take that rag. Go make us proud.”
Chest tight, he handed over the bar rag and faced Irving. “Clint’s letting us use the office.” Opening the hinged portion of the bar, he walked through the opening. “Follow me.”
“Clint?” Irving glanced over his shoulder. “That’s Clint? I never would have guessed. He and Cheyenne were such toothpicks.”
“Bret and Gil’s dad brought us all weights and showed us how to train. Everyone’s been working out for years.”
“I see.”
“Marsh lets us use his punching bag whenever we want. He’s into kickboxing. Damn good at it, too. So’s his wife.” He gave Tyra a salute as she passed them headed for the bar.
“And all you kids still live out there, I gather.”
“We do. We’re a tight group. One for all and all for one.”
“If you’re trying to scare the shit out of me, you’re doing a bang-up job.”
“Just telling it like it is. Don’t be expecting a welcome banner strung across the front porch. Nobody’s happy about your visit and some are openly hostile.”
“Like you, for instance.”
“You picked up on that? And here I thought I was being subtle.” He paused beside the open door and gestured for Irving to go in first.
He hesitated before crossing the threshold.
Rance followed him in and closed the door. “Afraid I’ll take this opportunity to work you over?”
“It crossed my mind. You have thirty-two years on me plus all that weight training. With the band playing nobody would be the wiser. I couldn’t hear what Clint said to you. For all I know he gave you permission to beat me to a pulp.”
“I would love to, but I’m a McLintock. That’s not how I was raised. Bret and Gil’s dad taught us how to defend ourselves, but our mother taught us to use physical force as a last resort. Have a seat.”
The small office had a desk against the wall on either side and the chairs were back-to-back in the middle. Irving rolled out theone on the right and spun it around. Rance did the same with the one on the left. They faced each other with only a couple of feet between them.
“Okay.” Rance swept a hand in Irving’s direction. “Talk.”
“Did your mother tell you I had a heart attack?”
“Yes.”
“It was a bad one. I’m lucky I made it. My dad died from a heart attack when he was a year younger than I am. He was a writer, historical fiction. My grandfather, who also died of a heart attack relatively young, wrote mysteries. My great-grandfather was a newspaper man.”
Would have been nice to hear about his literary ancestors before now, wouldn’t it? Anger simmered in his belly. Maybe if he’d known he came from a long line of writers he’d have started sooner.
“My father loved that we had this tradition going. He kept hoping one of my kids would show an aptitude so we’d have five generations of writers. Neither of them have any interest at all. He died thinking the line would end with me.”
“It did.”
“No, it didn’t! There’s you! I don’t know what you’re writing, but that’s not important. What’s important is?—”
“That I’m a McLintock.”
“Doesn’t matter! You’re my son!”
