Free Promises of Home by Jeff Abbott

truck pull up and park next to Eula Mae’s purple BMW.
    I recognized Hart Quadlander as soon as he got out, and I shouldn’t have been surprised that Trey was with him. Hart owned a big horse farm on the eastern outskirts of Mirabeau, and Trey’s father had worked for him for years. The Quadlanders went back to some of the original German settlers in Bonaparte County and they’d managed their money well. If there was still a gentleman farmer left in Central Texas, Hart was it. He was a fiftyish, tall, powerfully built man with a deceptively quiet voice and intense gray eyes.
    I thought Hart must’ve had the patience of five saints to put up with Trey and his daddy; they were a pair that was always heading for some kind of trouble or aggravation. Louis Slocum, Trey’s father, drank himself to death five years ago, still working on the Quadlander place; Trey had not returned for the funeral.
    I watched as Hart eased Trey’s wheelchair out of the truck and then carried Trey and settled him in the chair. Trey steadied the chair on the gravel driveway and began to roll forward.
    Of course, his arrival cleared the porch. Why not? An old, long-gone friend returned to the fold during the death of another. I watched, rooted to the spot, while Ed called Davis outside. They jogged over to Trey to say hello, wished him well, called him an old fart and scoundrel, and commiserated over Clevey. There’d been no loss of camaraderiethere. Of course, Trey hadn’t nearly destroyed their families. I felt the gentle pressure of Eula Mae’s fingers on my arm.
    “You sure are tense,” she said. “Don’t let Trey get to you.”
    I shook off her arm. “I won’t, trust me. But look at them, acting like his return is the Second Coming.” Despite the sadness of the occasion, there was the sound of muted laughter from the group; once again, Trey was teasing Ed. Suddenly the porch seemed very lonely.
    “They’re his friends. You were once, too,” Eula Mae said. I turned to her, noting that Steven Teague took interest in our conversation. His eyes, an odd indigo, watched me intently.
    “Once. That’s the key word. We’re not friends anymore,” I said.
    “Don’t make a scene, Jordy. Please.” Eula Mae pressed my hand.
    “I won’t. I wouldn’t. I’m too upset about Clevey’s murder to let Trey get to me.”
    “The gentleman in the wheelchair—is he Trey Slocum?” Steven asked.
    “Yes. Do you know Trey?” I asked. Great, another partisan for the Slocum homecoming.
    “The famous Trey,” I barely heard Steven Teague whisper to himself under his breath. Clevey had talked about Trey in his therapy? Why?
    Steven Teague forced a smile to his patrician face; he’d read my face. “Oh, yes, generally old friends are mentioned during therapy. Clevey admired you in particular, Jordan. He said he wished he could be more like you.”
    That stung. I’d not spent enough time with Clevey, and now I had no time with him at all. But he had hardly reached out to me. I didn’t answer Steven Teague.
    The reunion moved up onto the porch, with Davis and Hart carrying Trey’s wheelchair up the steps. Trey saw me and he licked his lips, quickly looking up and smiling at Davis. Hart Quadlander spotted me and nimbly moved to forestall trouble.
    Hart’s voice rumbled deeply, as though he’d caught gravel in it on the ride over. “Jordy. Eula Mae. Evenin’. How are y’all?”
    Even though I am a native Texan, I have never understood the constant need here to ask people how they are, especially in the midst of sorrow. “I’m fine, Hart. One of my childhood friends was murdered today. Trey’s come home. How do you think I feel?”
    “I’m awful sorry about Clevey, Jordy.” Hart tactfully ignored my sarcasm. “I didn’t know him very well, but I know y’all were friends from way back. Please, my sympathies.” He offered his hand.
    Of course I softened. I was mad at Trey and I felt shock over Clevey and I’d taken it out on him. I