“Butthead.” The word didn’t seem to hold any heat though.
“He is. He’s a good guy, though. Beau is making pancakes.”
“Cancakes.” Sam grabbed his hand, squeezed it, staring right into him, those dark eyes just devastated. “I miss it. Hate this, dumb and talking.”
“I know, Sammy.” Dillon held on, too. “It will get better. I know it will. You scared me so bad.”
“Everybody. All the everybody. None of the things. Dogs or roping. All the things are gone. Bulls too.”
Oh, God. Dillon wanted to cry for his friend but Sammy wouldn’t thank him. “You have Beau. Hell, he retired.”
Sam nodded. “I do. Boudreaux.”
“Daisy. The farm.” Sam had a lot to be grateful for. “You’ll always have me.”
Sam nodded again. “My mouth is dumb, not me.”
“See? You always were a quiet one anyway.” He linked arms with Sam, drawing him inside where bacon smells reigned.
Coke was sitting with a cup of coffee, looking as settled as ever. “I’m thinking about just taking it easy for the next week or two. Fly out to the first few events.”
“We can keep the pups, cher. We’d love to. You can just stay here.”
Oh, God. No.
Dillon thought fast. Beau and Sam would never let the pups get hurt, but he was so not staying at this camp. “Hmm. Where’s the first event again?”
“Boston, then Grand Rapids, then we head to Kansas City.” Coke knew exactly what was what.
Dillon had to write shit down. “Hey, maybe we could all rent a place in Dallas or New Orleans or something. Something with a hot tub where you two can park your trailer and Coke and I can have a big fancy bed. Fly in and out for a few weeks.”
“No offense, man, but I want to go home, stay for a while. Sammy has therapy, and I need to settle.”
“Oh, yeah. Sorry.” He chewed his lower lip. “I think I ought to take Coke home, then. We can leave the pups in that place in Georgetown on the way to the airport. Remember, Coke? It’s like a resort.”
“Yeah. Yeah, we probably ought to check out the house. We haven’t been back in eons.” Dillon thought Coke seemed relieved. He needed to talk to Coke about speaking up. Or hand signals. Morse code. Interpretive dance. Something that would tell Dillon what he wanted.
Maybe texts.
Dillon didn’t mind being the voice of no or of reason, but he needed to know it was his job.
Beau grinned. “Well, then, we’ll all go away. Sit and eat, you cooyons.”
Sammy chortled, and Dillon rolled his eyes at Coke. “Does anyone else have a Morticia Addams moment when Beau busts out the Cajun?”
“Tish, that’s French.”
They all stared at Sam, because that had been the clearest, easiest sounding thing Sam had said so far, then they all cracked up.
God, it was good to be among friends, but Dillon wanted to take Coke home. He got plates and forks, all newly scrubbed. “So, if I wanted to do some improvements here…”
Beau paused, then pulled out his wallet and handed a ten to Sammy.
Sammy gave him a huge, shit-eating grin.
“Seriously, Beau? You bet against me wanting to overhaul this dump?” Dillon waggled his eyebrows.
“I thought you’d ask to tear it down, Dillweed.”
