Page 40 of Snake

But Autumn wasn’t wrong that the club’s control also made the patches more prosperous, or that some folks didn’t have much access to prosperity—though the Horde was there when they needed help—or that some, especially newer residents, without first-hand connection to the town’s history, didn’t like the Horde’s power.

Cox had bothered to talk to Badger and advocate for working with Autumn because he saw that the town was already changing, that expanding opportunities could indeed expand prosperity—and, most importantly, that the Horde needed to be on the right side of that change.

When Hopkins died and Kennerman took the mayor’s office, one of the first things he’d done was close the deal with Autumn. Whatever else he was, Kennerman had some balls. The club had lost the fight right there. Badger hadn’t been ready to concede, he’d been looking for leverage to get Kennerman to back out of the deal, but that would have gotten everybody mired in a legal battle at a time when the Horde needed to keep attention away. The bodies of two cops had been at the bottom of the quarry for barely a year. It was a bad time for the club to make a big noise.

To turn the property sale into a win and keep Signal Bend as it should be, the Horde needed to be part of the deal.

That was why Cox had talked to Badger. It had nothing to do with Autumn herself. Even if he’d figured it all out while he’d sat up in her bed holding her while she slept off a serious drunk.

He also didn’t care if she’d be back in town soon for the groundbreaking. He never thought about that at all. Or if he did, it was nothing more than a passing curiosity.

Certainly, he never recalled her gold-flecked copper eyes, or her pouty little mouth, or the freckles she tried to hide. Or how she carried herself like she was a foot taller. Or that bright, eager look she got when she knew she had a good return in an argument.

He barely thought of Autumn Rooney at all.

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~oOo~

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Cox parked behind his mother’s forgotten Olds and sat in his truck for a few minutes, getting his head where it needed to be so he could face whatever he found inside. For so long now he could barely remember the time before, he’d girded himself each time he came home, but lately what he feared seemed inevitable and rushing at him headlong. One day, he’d walk into this house, and all that would remain of his mother would be what she’d left behind. He knew it, he expected it, but he feared it. There was no girding himself, try though he might.

As ready as he could be, he climbed out of his truck and headed in through the kitchen.

Just inside the door, he stopped. Something was different, but it wasn’t dread that pinged his senses.

The house was brighter. The curtains were open here in the kitchen, and he could tell from the ambient light beyond the doorway that the living room curtains were open as well.

That was rare in this house. In fact, at this time of year, latening summer, it had always been rare; his mother tried to ‘keep the cool in’ when the air conditioner was on. But since twenty years ago today, she kept the house dark around the clock and around the calendar.

Surveying the unusually bright kitchen, Cox saw that it was clean. No dishes in the sink, no dish towel messily discarded, no overflowing trash. He checked the fridge and saw a decent amount of actual food, and leftovers stored neatly in containers, rather than half-eaten plates moldering on the shelves.

He’d been here two days ago and brought the groceries; it looked like she’d actually cooked herself a few meals. Or Tally had, but either way, his mother had eaten real meals and taken care to save what was left.

Twenty years was a long time for a worry to harden into a reflex, so Cox was more confused by these signs than relieved.

“Momma?” he called as he crossed into the—also tidy and bright—living room. The television was off, the table beside the recliner was clear, the throw was folded neatly over the back of the recliner.

He even smelled something chemically floral, like air freshener.

“I’m here,” she called from the direction of the hall to the bedrooms and bathroom.

Her voice sounded clearer than usual, but no brighter. Ironically, perversely, the familiar downbeat tone eased his mind some. If she’d sounded happy, today of all days, he would have been worried something bad had happened in her mind. Something worse than what had already happened.

He went to the head of the hallway and stopped. “How ya doin’?”

His mother stepped out of the bathroom. She wore her black dress, the same dress she’d bought thirty years ago, for his father’s funeral, and the single strand of pearls that had been an anniversary gift from his father. Her iron-grey hair was clipped back with one of those weird gripper clips all long-haired women seemed to collect, and she had some makeup on. She looked tired as ever, but she’d made more of an effort today than she had in years.

“You look good, Momma.”

She gave him a half-formed smile and came to him. “No, I don’t. I’m old and broken down. But thank you.”

She raised her hand and set it on his cheek; Cox closed his eyes and pressed it tighter to him. Her touches like this, love without need, were rare anymore.

They stood like that for a long moment, then she freed her hand, giving him a pat before she pulled away. “I just need my handbag, and I’m ready.”

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