Beard Necessities (Winston Brothers, #7)(8)

“Scarlet,” came Cletus’s dry tone. His tone was always dry these days. I didn’t remind him to call me Claire. My old friend seemed to have an aversion to using my legal name whenever it was just the two of us. “Your assistance is required.”

“What’s up, Cletus?” I asked, but the jumble of foreboding and anticipation in my belly told me I already knew what was up. He wants me to help with—

“Billy.”

I sighed deeply, rubbing my forehead. Only six people knew anything about my history with Billy. One had disappeared eighteen years ago—so she didn’t count—and two of them had passed away, which left me, Billy, and Cletus.

“I don’t know if he wants to—”

“Scarlet, I wouldn’t ask if it weren’t serious. I am familiar with how much you enjoy your hobby of pretending Billy doesn’t exist.”

I bristled at that, responding through clenched teeth, “I do not like to pretend your brother doesn’t exist.”

First of all, it was impossible. And secondly, there’d been reasons. Were they all healthy and logical reasons? No. Nevertheless, hormones and grief often make folks do nutty things, and the reasons had existed and persisted.

Cletus knew some of our history. He knew the basics of what happened when Billy and I initially fell for each other as teenagers, but he didn’t know about my unhealthy choices when I’d been nineteen. Therefore, he didn’t understand why I’d believed for so long that Billy Winston and Claire McClure were much better off not speaking or interacting with each other.

“Events have transpired, both recently and in the past, events you don’t know about, and Billy—” Cletus heaved a sigh. It sounded so sad, fretful, and that had me pausing. I’d never known Cletus to be outwardly sad or fretful.

“What? What’s happened?” I pressed the phone to my ear, my heart kicking up a beat. “Is this about Roscoe?”

Their youngest Winston brother and his girlfriend had been attacked last month and almost died. There’s more to the story—more secrets involving my evil father, more twisted hillbilly history—but that’s the gist of it. Roscoe and Simone were okay now, getting better every day, but it had been a close call.

“No, not Roscoe. It’s our father. It’s Darrell.”

I stood straighter, a spike of alarm racing down my spine. “What about Darrell?”

“Darrell has cancer. It’s real bad.”

The alarm became vengeful relief and I said, “Good,” before I could catch the word, a grim sense of righteousness settling over me.

My slip of the tongue didn’t much matter, none of the Winstons cherished their father, nor should they. The man was terrible. He’d beaten their mother, knocked them around plenty, and sent Billy to the hospital when he was just twelve. After Bethany Winston, their momma, died almost six years ago—the sweetest, kindest, loveliest lady on the planet—Darrell tried to kidnap Ashley at the funeral!

Can you imagine? The man was a monster. As far as I was concerned, cancer was better than he deserved.

“No. Not good, Scarlet.” Cletus overpronounced the “t” at the end of my name and grumbled something I couldn’t hear, and then said, “Listen, it’s late here and I’m tired. We’re flying out in a week or two—depending on a few things—so I need you to make sure Billy eats something. Today, tomorrow, the next day, okay? Make him feel good.”

“You want me to what?” I placed my hand on my hip, drawing myself up taller. What was Cletus asking? Make him feel good? What did that mean? I didn’t know how to make folks feel good. I’d never made anyone feel good, except with food and jokes. I could do food and jokes, no problem.

But I didn’t think Cletus’s meaning was limited to food and jokes.

“I want you—the artist formerly known as Scarlet—to feed, look after, and be sweet to my brother—the man you’ve been in love with for going on twenty years—William Shakespeare Winston, aka Billy Winston, aka Congressman Winston.”

I exhaled loudly, ignoring the ache in my chest, and whispering, “It hasn’t been twenty years.”

“Fine, seventeen going on eighteen, eighteen going on nineteen, or something like that. Point is, he needs to eat good food, and lots of it, and gentleness and care. Specifically, from you.”

I didn’t have a problem making Billy good food, but I did have a problem being bullied into it by Cletus Winston. “Cletus, I’m not saying no, but there are plenty of good cooks in this gigantic villa. Jethro is here, Sienna, the Sheriff, Mrs. James, Duane. There are plenty of folks who can make Billy food other than me.”

“Nope. It has to be you.”

“Why?”

“Because you know all his favorites.”

“What is really going on?” I threw my hand in the air. “This is ridiculous. Sienna, Duane, even Jethro are huddled together, strategizing how to get him to eat. And what does this have to do with Darrell having—having . . .” A flutter of nagging worry quickly transformed into a tornado of worst-case-scenario terror. I flinched, my eyes stinging as though I’d just been slapped. “Wait, wait a minute.” Licking my lips, my mouth suddenly dry, the room tilted to one side.

Oh God. Oh God. Oh God.

“Wait, are you saying—does Billy have can—” Rejecting the very thought, I firmed my voice. “Cletus Byron Winston, are you telling me Billy also has cancer?”