We pull into Abilene close to ten in the morning.
Hampton Inn off the highway because Spur called ahead.
Two adjoining rooms—one for me and Spur, one for Rogue. Spur doesn't ask Rogue if that's all right and Rogue doesn't argue.
We walk Jaeger out of the trailer for stretching and water at the back of the parking lot, and a black F-250 pulls in beside us with a dust trail still hanging behind it.
I see the cut on the driver before I see his face.
Saints. Abilene rocker.
Then Uncle Holt steps out of the truck.
He's six-three the way my father is six-three.
Same dark hair Dad has, more gray in it now than the last time I saw him.
Same blue eyes.
Same way of standing in a parking lot like the parking lot belongs to him until he says otherwise.
"Uncle Holt."
He grins at me—the Lyle grin, the one Pops uses on me in the kitchen when nobody else is watching—and he opens his arms.
I drop Jaeger's lead in Spur's hand and walk straight into him.
"Hey, baby girl."
"Pops didn't tell me you were coming."
"Pops didn't tell me until last night. I drove from Lubbock at two in the morning."
"You drove from Lubbock?"
"Roan's there now. He's got my charter handled till I'm back. Your father called me, and that was the end of the conversation."
I close my eyes against his shoulder for a second.
He smells like the inside of his truck and the cedar soap he's used since I was four years old.
He hugs me the way he always hugs me—full body, both arms, no half-measures, the way Lyle men hug when nobody's around to see.
He pulls back and looks at my face. "You all right?"
"I'm all right."
"You eatin’? You sure don’t look like you been eatin’ enough."
"I'm eating."
"You sleepin’?"
"Some."
He looks past me at Spur and holds out his hand. "Spur."
"Holt."
