Page 20 of His Fresh Start Cowboy
“Thanks, Mom.”
Rose kissed his cheek. “Go on upstairs and change out of those clothes. Bring them down so I can get the stains out.”
“Okay.” Brand headed toward the house.
After giving Hugo a quick once-over, she said, “Brand! Bring a clean shirt down for Hugo. I’ll wash his, too.”
He gave a thumbs-up without turning around. Hugo glanced down at his own blood-speckled shirt, evidence of his hug with Brand. “Thank you, ma’am,” Hugo said. He doubted the horses would mind a bit of blood, but it was a kind gesture. “I don’t guess Jackson found what attacked Brutus.”
“Wayne called a bit ago and said they found a blood trail heading toward the west fence, but it faded before the property line. Whatever it was is wounded.” Her sour expression signaled she hoped it died in a ditch somewhere, but old-fashioned manners kept her from voicing it. “Never had a wild animal attack one of our dogs before. I just hope it wasn’t rabid.”
“It could have been starving. Desperate.” Hungry people did crazy things for food, so why should wild animals be any different?
“True. Why don’t you come inside for some lemonade, and then we’ll get your shirt changed.”
“Thank you, ma’am, I’d like that.”
Hugo had avoided going into the Woods house after that first Sunday supper, mostly to avoid Brand, and the place still felt like home. A much warmer home than either he’d grown up in. The first house he’d lived in on his mother’s ranch had been...a house. No real warmth or character, but it had also been small and over a hundred years old, with only a single window a/c unit in the living room for summer, and a woodstove for winter. The Turner Ranch had been struggling for two generations by the time Hugo’s father decided to sell.
And divorce Hugo’s mother, leaving her with no job, a small pile of cash, and a ten-year-old to raise by herself. Until she met Frank Archer a year later. Frank lived in a dingy double-wide with his son, Buck, who was three years older than Hugo. While Frank was indifferent to Hugo, Buck seemed to resent him right off the bat because he wasn’t the only son anymore.
At the time, Hugo had never imagined how bad it would get.
“Hugo?” Rose said.
He realized he’d stopped in the middle of the hallway, staring at nothing in particular. Rose watched him from the kitchen entrance, a curious smile on her age-worn face. “Sorry, I got lost in thought.” He got his engine in gear.
“Thank you for being with Brand today.” She pulled the pitcher of lemonade from the fridge, then got two tall glasses from a cupboard. Ice from the freezer. Hugo just stood there, watching, unsure if he should sit, stand, or flee so the truth didn’t fly out of his mouth like it had with Ramie.
As a teenager, Hugo had been in love with Brand Woods, who’d demonstrated a mix of determination, compassion, and family loyalty Hugo didn’t have in his own home life. Brand had been his hero, and even after things went sideways between them, Hugo had loved him. Until time and distance faded the shine of those feelings. Some had lingered, sure, but Brand’s snubs since Hugo’s return had kept them from redeveloping. Until today.
Until he saw the love and loyalty in Brand again while he grieved and worried over his beloved pet. Hugo no longer saw his childhood crush, but a compassionate adult who was hiding something about himself. Something he hoped Brand admitted to one day, whether with Hugo or someone else.
Nope, definitely not admitting any of that to Rose. “I saw the look on his face when Jackson rode up. I couldn’t not help him. I’ve never had a pet of my own, but I could see how much this was hurting him.”
“You’re a good man, Hugo.” She handed him a glass of lemonade. “Saw it before and I see it now. I imagine your mother would be happy to see the man you’ve become.”
How the hell did she know he hadn’t—Rem. Had to be Rem’s motormouth. “I’ll visit her soon.” He took a long drink of the sweet, tangy liquid to buy himself some time.
Rose didn’t press the subject, though, simply went back to fixing whatever was for supper. Brand came into the kitchen a few minutes later with a pile of soiled clothes in one hand, and a clean shirt for Hugo.
Even though it was just a shirt and he had an undershirt on, Hugo still excused himself to the downstairs bathroom to change. A tiny bit of blood had seeped through to his undershirt, but it was dry now, and his skin was clean, so he shrugged into the soft cotton and buttoned it up. The weather was almost too warm for his flannels anyway, so Hugo would have to find a store and get some more shirts. He hadn’t brought a lot from Clean Slate, because he’d worn the ranch polos seven days a week.
He’d kept his possessions simple and practical for a long time, so he could move whenever necessary and without fuss. Most of the horsemen at Clean Slate had done the same thing. But here in Weston? He had space. He had a chance to settle in and maybe buy a useless trinket or two at a swap meet. To come to terms with his past and figure out who Hugo Turner really was under the bright, innocent mask he’d worn for the last nine years.
He actually did have to pee, so he did his business, washed up, and returned to the kitchen. Rose was alone, chopping something on a butcher’s block. She glanced over her shoulder and smiled. “Brand went upstairs to his office. Says he wants to be alone, but I wager he could use a friend right now. Second door on the left.”
“Thank you, ma’am.” He grabbed his lemonade out of politeness, then headed down the hall to the base of the stairs. He hadn’t been up them in ages, not since the last time he’d crashed in Rem’s room after a particularly nasty encounter with Buck. The walls were lined with family photos of all sorts, including ones of Colt he’d never seen before. Apparently, after he ran away, all but his baby picture had been exorcised from the walls.
Now he was back and part of the family again.
The second door on the left was shut. Hugo knocked once, a sharp rap of his knuckles. Determined now, he knocked a second time, then went in without permission. Brand stood at the nearest of two windows, back to him, a glass of something amber in his hand. “You don’t have to keep it all inside, you know,” Hugo said as he shut the door behind him.
Alone in a small room for the first time in nine years.
“You have no idea what I’m keepin’ inside. You don’t know everything I’m responsible for.”
“Then talk to me about it.”
