"Better than I should have."
"That's how it goes."
He kisses the top of my head and reaches around me for a coffee mug.
He pours it black. Drinks it standing up at the counter the way men drink coffee when they're already on their way somewhere.
"Marlena's at the clubhouse?"
"Since six-thirty."
"All four of them up there?"
"Pops and Holt went over with her. Roan and Cash were already there sleeping in the bunkhouse. I think Banshee took Bex up an hour ago."
He nods. "Then we should go."
I set my coffee down. "Spur."
"Yeah."
"You okay?"
He looks at me for a long second over the rim of his mug. The light from the cabin window is catching the gray in his beard and the lines at the corners of his eyes that weren't there two weeks ago. "I'm with you, baby. Of course I'm okay."
"Good."
He drains his coffee, sets the mug on the counter, and holds his hand out to me.
We walk to the clubhouse together across the gravel of the property—from his cabin past the round pen where Jaeger is grazing easy in the dawn light, past the equipment barn, up the path that runs along the western fence.
The May morning is the prettiest morning I think I've ever seen.
The bluebonnets at the fence line are mostly gone—late May in the Hill Country and they go fast—but there are still patches of them under the live oaks where the shade kept them hanging on.
The Indian paintbrush is open red along the gravel. The cicadas are working up to full pitch.
Everything is just right in my world. I'm going to remember this walk for the rest of my life.
The clubhouse smells like bacon and biscuits when we come through the front door.
Marlena's got the cast iron going on the big stove in the back.
Grace is at the prep counter slicing peaches she canned last fall.
Bex is at the long table by the window pouring coffee for whoever's already sat down.
Cal in his playpen on the rug. Waylon at Bex's hip with a piece of bacon she's rationing him so he doesn't ruin breakfast.
The men are at the long oak table that runs the length of the clubhouse main room.
Pops at the head.
Uncle Holt to his right.
Uncle Cash to his left—the first time I've seen him in two years, dark hair like Pops, more weight in the shoulders, his San Antonio rocker on his cut.
Uncle Roan beside Uncle Holt.
