One More Taste (One and Only Texas #2)(22)

How could a mere stew do that?

He lifted the truffle cheddar biscuit and took a bite. Too many sensations to name. Another burst of memory. This is what family tasted like. Sharp cheddar, complicated and rich; black truffles, earthy and whole. Even the beer took him back to his high school days, to the smell of his father on Sunday afternoons while watching football. It was as though the whole world had been condensed into this meal and the company he shared it with, along with the stacked albums of family memories on the hearth—tangible proof that their grandmother had loved them their whole lives. That thought alone felt like a blanket of calm he never knew had been missing from his life.

When he’d scraped the last morsels from his bowl, he turned, seeking Emily out to praise her for her creation, but she wasn’t in the kitchen. He hadn’t even noticed her leaving; he’d been so wrapped up in his grandmother’s stories and his meal. He supposed that’s what extraordinary food did—it commanded one’s full attention. Still, she needn’t have left. Dining with him was part of their agreement, though he’d hazard a guess that she’d wanted to give him time alone with his family. He would have done the same had their roles been reversed.

As Granny June launched into another story about their father when he was a boy and the trouble he used to get into while running wild over the countryside, Knox slipped his feet out of his shoes and stretched his toes. The fire in the fireplace had warmed the women’s cheeks, turning them pink, probably Knox’s, too. When he’d bought the house, he’d thought this fireplace was a waste of valuable kitchen space. Leave it up to Emily to see the value in it and put it to use, turning a simple dinner into something so much more—a hearth for him and his family to gather around and swap stories of days past and fill their bellies with hearty food meticulously crafted with great care.

When his sister emptied her glass of beer, which she’d almost absentmindedly started drinking as she’d sunk deeper into Granny June’s stories, Knox excused himself from the table and found another couple of cans for them both in the refrigerator.

On the way back to the table, looking at his dinner companions, a sense of belonging—vast and profound—hit him, hard. He was in Dulcet with his grandmother, with his sister. On property that looked out on the very land his father had been exiled from. No matter what, he was a part of the Briscoe Ranch legacy now. His sister, too. This business venture had become so much more complicated than he’d anticipated. He’d assumed his resentment toward the Briscoes would shield him from becoming attached. How na?ve.

Why had he thought this was going to be easy? What had made him think he could handle all this … this feeling. Feelings he didn’t want. Yearnings for family and love and connection that he had no use for. This is business. Ty’s family doesn’t love you, and you don’t love them. Remember that …

At the table, Granny June and Shayla were flipping through a scrapbook that Granny June had compiled of newspaper clippings and online announcements and so forth of Shayla’s, Knox’s, and Wade’s accomplishments through the years, including finishing times of various marathons and races that Shayla and Knox had completed.

“Our grandma is a stalker,” Shayla said with an almost sad smile. All vestiges of the cold distance she’d lobbed at Granny June before dinner were gone. Now, her eyes were glassy and she seemed to be falling into melancholy.

Knox set a hand on Granny June’s arm. “A very thorough stalker.”

Granny June patted Knox’s hand. “Family is everything to me.”

“Then how?” Shayla’s voice cracked with the question. “How did you justify shutting my dad out like that? He was your son. I can tell that you loved him.”

Pain shone in Granny June’s face. From the purse she’d set on the floor, she pulled a stack of envelopes and handed them to Shayla. Their dad’s handwriting was instantly recognizable in the angry scrawl across the envelopes with a red marker: DEAD—RETURN TO SENDER.

“These are from you to my dad,” Shayla said in an awed whisper.

Granny June touched the date stamped on the top letter. She’d sent it a month before their dad’s death. “Yes. I never stopped hoping he would forgive me.”

It was in that moment that Knox realized how devastated his grandmother was about her estrangement from his dad, her son. Despite Knox’s memory of her sneaking into his dad’s memorial service, frail and trembling, he’d never thought about the rift from her point of view, not really.

“But … you sent birthday cards to us, and Dad let us have them. Why would he reject these letters?” Shayla said.

Knox knew why. Dad had made sure all three kids understood the reason they got to keep the cards. “The birthday cards had money. That’s why he let us keep them. He thought … well, it doesn’t matter what he thought.” Knox refused to hurt Granny June any more with details of his dad’s bitterness.

“Yes, that was my thought, too, when all the other letters I sent to your father and to you two and Wade were returned, everything except the cards with money.” Granny June didn’t sound resentful, but full of regret. “I should have put money in them all, I suppose.”

Other letters? Knox slipped his shoes on, pushed away from the table, and paced to the window. Damn it, Dad. You never mentioned that to us. You told us she didn’t care about us. Why did you lie?