“Let’s go home,” she whispered.

“Okay.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

GABE KNEW THAT he had put off talking to his mother for longer than was reasonably possible. He was only surprised that his dad hadn’t gone in there already. And he assumed that his father’s reaction was by design in some way. That he was going to make Gabe be the one to start the fight.

Hank Dalton had never been confrontational. His style was to slink around, then dodge the fire he drew from his wife when the time came. And while he’d changed in some ways for the better, when it came to dealing with Tammy he trod even more carefully than he’d used to.

Last night with Jamie had been like a surreal break from the reality of his actual life. He felt like a dick, using her for that.

As a distraction.

As this beautiful, soft thing that kept him from having to cope with the reality of his situation as long as it suited him.

He sighed heavily and walked into the family house without knocking. He might not live there anymore, but all of them moved freely in and out of the house. Including Ellie and her daughter Amelia.

And in fact, when he arrived, Tammy was in the kitchen with both Ellie and Amelia, and they were up to their elbows in making biscuits. Little Amelia looked like a doll, as always, her hair up in a ponytail with an oversize bow over the top of her hairband, her blue eyes large, and mirroring those of her mother. Ellie was standing back, drinking coffee, her golden-blond hair cascading over her shoulders in waves. She looked up at him and smiled when he walked in. “Hi,” she said. “I have some more information for you on grants. And ways you can work with the school district.”

“Thanks,” he replied. “I actually came to talk to Mom.”

His mom looked up, brushing flour off her apron. His mom was blonde, too, but hers came out of the bottle, her makeup painted on, her clothes fittingly sparkling. She was nothing if not bedazzled at all times. The Dolly Parton of rodeo wives.

He’d always thought she was the most beautiful woman in the world.

“Sure, honey. Talk away. We just need to get the biscuits in the oven.”

“No, Mom,” he said. “We need to talk alone.”

She frowned. “All right.”

She didn’t argue, or reiterate the need to put the biscuits in the oven, because of course she had recognized that Gabe was serious in a way he normally wasn’t. She rinsed her hands and dried them on a dish towel full of chickens before gesturing out of the kitchen.

They walked into the living room, where there was a large cowhide rug in brown and white spots spread over the floor, a chest masquerading as a coffee table and a massive leather couch with another cowhide rug thrown over the back of it.

Gabe cleared his throat. “I had a fight with Dad.”