Page 2 of Long Time Coming

“Oh.” My chin juts back in surprise. I start to laugh at Beck’s bluntness. “I’m twenty-six. How old are you?”

“Six.” His eyes flick up to his dad, and then back to me. “I turn seven soon. Dad said I can ride a horse while I’m here.”

“How fun. I love horses. Have you ridden one before?” I can’t imagine raising a kid without the wide-open spaces I grew up with. The animals, and farm, the striking sunsets, and diving into the river on hot days. It was fun to visit Baylor in New York once, but I was a fish out of water. Austin isn’t too far of a drive from here, but it’s not the same culture shock to my hill country system.

“No. We’re not allowed to go near them at the park.”

“The horse carriages at Central Park,” Tag slips in.

“Ah.” I nod. “Yeah, they’re doing a job. It’s probably best not to disturb them. I have lots of horses if you’d like to come out to our ranch and see them.”

His face clenches in excitement. “Yes, please.”

“Great. We’ll make sure it happens while you’re visiting.”

The squeak of the door swinging open alerts us to Lauralee entering from the back. Stunned, she stops, and the door practically hits her in the face. “Um.” As she wipes her hands down the apron, her eyes volley between the two of us, then dips to Beck. “This is unexpected.”

“Hey there, Lauralee. How are you?” Tagger’s voice is smoother than I remember as if he’s grown into more of himself over the years. He was always confident, but now there’s an ease to his words that makes me think he’s more at peace.

With his eyes set on her, he smiles, causing my sweet friend’s cheeks pink.Girl, I know the feeling firsthand.When she pushes her hair back from her face, flour dusts her dark brown bangs, which she’s been growing out for a year and are too stubborn to stay in the elastic at the back of her head. She moves to the counter, resting her palms on the hard surface. “I’m good, Tag. How are you?”

“Fine and dandy,” he replies, which has my gaze racing to meet Lauralee’s. We silently agree that, yes, he is, indeed, very fine. “Are you running the store these days?”

“Yeah, but my mom still comes in to work a few hours most days. Keeps her and my dad from getting on each other’s nerves since they retired early. Also takes some of the load off my shoulders.”

“Tell Peaches hello from me.”

A tug on my skirt draws my attention down to Beck, who asks, “How do you know my daddy?”

“Oh, um.” Another one of his little blindside questions causes me to laugh. I glance up at Tagger. “I’ve known your daddy all my life. He’s best friends with my brother Baylor.”

Tag’s hand shags through his son’s hair. “You know Baylor, buddy. That’s Miss Christine’s brother.”

“He’s my uncle,” Beck replies proudly.

The sentiment warms my heart for many reasons, but maybe even more that my brother has family in the form of friends since he lives so far from Peachtree Pass, Texas. I stand again. “How’s my brother doing?”

“He’s . . . I don’t think he’ll ever change.”

Smiling like we’re both in on the joke, I reply, “I doubt it. It would take a miracle and the right woman to get that wild card back home.”

He nods, seeming to know exactly what I mean. Baylor was never subtle in his pursuits, whether wrangling the cattle, pursuing his career in New York City, or catching women. They all fell into his golden boy hands without much effort.

I could say the same about the man standing here in Peaches, but it’s best if I don’t travel down unfamiliar roads. The four years that separated our birthdays felt like ten when we were young. Not so much now that we’ve grown up.

Tag encourages his son forward. “Go pick out your ice cream, and Miss Lauralee will get you what you want.”

Lauralee grins. “Come on over. I have the best peach ice cream in the state, or if you like bubblegum, my personal favorite, you’re in luck.”

He runs toward her, dropping the bag of gummies on the counter, then presses his nose against the glass.

A tension that wasn’t there sweeps between as if neither of us knows what to say or where to go from here. I don’t let it build. “I?—”

“I was thinking?—”

We both laugh, letting the awkwardness fade. I ask, “You were thinking?”

He runs his fingers through his hair, something I watched him do a million times when we were younger. A shyness I don’t recognize takes over his expression, and he lowers his gaze. “My parents sold the stables.” He looks at me, this time with an intensity that makes me wish I had something to hold on to to steady me.

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