Free Promises of Home by Jeff Abbott Page A

shook Hart’s hand. “Sorry. It’s been a long day. I just am not up to—”
    “Jordy.” Trey wheeled himself over. His face was ashen. “Jesus, I’m just sick about Clevey. I can’t believe he’s dead. Would you please wheel me in and go with me to see Mrs. Shivers?”
    The silence on the porch was thick. I didn’t know what to say. After my confrontation with Trey this afternoon, the last thing I expected was the olive branch of friendship. I glanced away from Trey, from Hart, from my friends, and blinked, Clevey’s face flashing before me. Our friend was dead. So I took hold of the handles of his chair before I could think further and gently pushed him through the open doorway.
    “Sure. Let’s go,” I heard someone with my voice say. I felt a soft pat on my shoulder and the bump of rings told me it was Eula Mae.
    Mrs. Shivers, of course, was glad to see Trey but was shocked over his condition. She hugged his spare form a long time, almost cradling him in his chair. He described his accident—in more detail than he’d given me. It happened in Beaumont. The bull had thrown him, then trampled over him. He mentioned vertebrae I hadn’t heard of before and that surgery wasn’t going to be a help. There was no self-pity in his voice, and Mrs. Shivers responded to that, his troubles supplanting her own for the briefest ofminutes. I lingered for ten or fifteen minutes until I felt the need for fresh air. I stumbled back out to the porch.
    “Jordy, got a minute?” Hart Quadlander was by my side. I saw Eula Mae had once again cornered Steven Teague, who was placidly eating a piece of pecan pie. Davis and Ed squatted on the porch steps. Bradley softly crooned “Rock of Ages” to himself, swaying back and forth on the porch swing to his own beat.
    “What, Hart?” I stepped off the other end of the porch, suddenly feeling exhausted. I was ready to go home.
    “I know seeing Trey’s got to be hard on you. It’s damned hard on me, too.” Hart removed his hat and ran a hand through his brown-and-gray hair. “His father was my best friend, and that boy didn’t even come back for his own daddy’s funeral.”
    “Now you know who you’re dealing with,” I said. “Trey’s no saint. He must be the most selfish person alive.”
    “You think what you want about Trey. But he has come home, and I for one am glad. He feels sick over not having been here for his daddy—”
    “Or his wife or child,” I quickly added.
    “Okay. He hasn’t been here for anyone that cared about him. But he’s home now, and he’s hurting, Jordy. More than just being crippled. He’s hurting ’cause he knows he did wrong. He wants to make up for it.”
    “Well and good, Hart, but don’t you think that he ought to be the one apologizing, not you?”
    “I’m not apologizing for him. I’m just saying what I reckon’s brought him back. He faced death in that rodeo arena and it’s a damned scary sight. He’s come home to heal. I want you to help him, Jordy.”
    “Home to heal. That’s rich. He left gaping wounds here—and now he wants to be admitted to some emotional trauma ward. Well, maybe he should talk to Steven Teague. Coddling Trey just isn’t high on my list of priorities.”
    Hart pushed back his Stetson. “Look, all I’m asking is—”
    “Oh, no. No,” I said as a car screeched to a halt in front of the house, nearly smashing Hart’s truck. I’d have recognized that red Hyundai anywhere. Sister had arrived, and I could tell when she got out of the car she was in a killing mood.

“ARLENE, SUGAR, HOW ARE YOU?” EULA MAE tried to intercept Sister like a Patriot missile, but Sister was not to be easily downed. I saw her scan the porch, then beeline toward me and Hart Quadlander. I sensed Hart tense up and I can’t say I blamed him.
    She barreled down on Hart, not even greeting him in this place of mourning. “Where is my ex-husband?” she demanded. I surmised she was past her shock over Trey’s