THE café was nearly empty. Off to one side a gentleman sat alone, immersed in a newspaper. The only other occupants were Amos and his eldest son awaiting the arrival of their breakfast.
Eddie would have gladly put her family up, but with so many of them Amos felt staying in town would be a kindness. Eddie argued they had come to visit her, but Amos could well imagine the racket ten souls— nine of them male— could inflict upon her petite home. His concern was not only for his sister’s domicile, but Gideon’s sanity. He was having a hard enough time being on the ranch, crammed in to Eddie’s house. . .
“Gideon did well yesterday. Did he feel inclined to repeat the feat today?”
“No, sir, he did not. When I woke his lordship he expressed his displeasure at my timing and requested I call upon him at a later hour,” Aspen answered. Dropping the formality, he shrugged slightly and added, “I handcuffed him to the bed.”
“And removed all possible lock picks, I presume?”
“The only way that boy will get loose is by a miracle, and I doubt he’s high enough on the good deeds list for that.”
“I wish it weren’t necessary,” Amos commented, his frustration evident, although he certainly appreciated Aspen’s sense of humor.
“So do I, Pa.”
“I don’t mean to suggest you did anything wrong, son. I only wish Gideon would. . .”
“. . . realize we know what we’re doing and be grateful?”
“Oh, let’s not take things that far,” Amos replied lightly.
He tried to be patient, yet at every turn was met with a resistance that bordered on virulent. Amos’s instincts, honed over four sons and twenty-odd years of fatherhood, told him he was lacking some critical fact, some element, that would clue him in on what made the boy tick— hopefully before the explosion.
“About Gideon,” Amos reflected, “I cannot help but notice he listens to you. . . eventually. Mostly.”
Aspen felt guilt wash over him. He was unaccustomed to keeping things from his father and wondered again if he ought to mention his conversation with Gideon that night in the barn. He had promised not to, but Pa really was doing his best. Unfortunately, so was Gideon. It was tough doing a good deed for someone who passionately did not wish to be good-deeded at.
Their meal arrived and conversation halted whilst plates were settled and coffee cups refilled. Amos thanked Mathers, who ran the café, and meant to resume the discussion, but the thoughtful expression on his son’s face drew him up. It also drew his curiosity, but there was no rushing Aspen. He would make his point in his own good time. Amos buttered his biscuit and waited.
“Hey, Pa?”
“Yes, son?”
“I was thinking.”
“You usually are,” Amos commented when nothing more seemed forthcoming.
Aspen played with his sausage and eggs, shifting them aimlessly around with his fork.
“I’d like to propose something, Pa, only I can’t exactly explain why.”
“You mean you’re about to butt in and you don’t want to hurt my feelings,” Amos translated.
“Yes, sir.”
“And you’re making this proposal because you know something I don’t and you’d rather I didn’t ask because. . . let me see, someone— probably one of your brothers— made you promise not to say anything. Am I close?”
“Close enough. Yes, sir.”
“And have you reflected upon what I told you regarding those kinds of promises?” Amos asked, brow raised quizzically.
“Repeatedly,” Aspen admitted.
“Out with it then.”
There was only one way for Aspen to deal with his father at this point: directly and honestly.
“I was thinking, given Gov’s inimical attitude towards you, Pa, perhaps it would help if he saw me as the one to lock horns with. I’m not suggesting you can’t handle it, but maybe he would be less eager to bite your head off if he’s busy fighting with me.”
“I suppose, to a large extent, you’ve already spread your mother-henning wing over our reluctant ward.”
“Pa—” Aspen began to object, as he always did when anyone compared him to poultry.
“I hear what your brothers say. I may not do anything about it, but I do hear.” Amos sipped his coffee and enjoyed his joke. “He does listen to you though. Well, provided you stretch the meaning of ‘obedience’ to the breaking point.”
“You raised me,” Aspen offered in his own defense. “When it comes to Gideon, perhaps he needs a little help where. . . where authority is concerned.”
Amos knew when one of his children uttered a flat out lie and when they were being straight up. Aspen was currently balancing a line somewhere in the middle, perhaps most kindly classified as equivocating. But if his promise kept him from directly saying, Amos was clever enough to draw his own conclusions.
“You did remember my advice regarding secrets, yes?” he said, with a knowing twinkle.
Aspen shifted his weight and did not answer. It wasn’t that kind of question. It was the other kind, the kind meant to make a point. He slanted a glance at his father.
“It seemed a good idea at the time,” he admitted ruefully.
“Famous last words,” Amos ribbed. “Fortunately for you, fathers are supposed to be good at guessing what our sons refrain from telling us.”
“Never again,” Aspen relented, hands raised in playful, though sincere, surrender.
“You’re the eldest,” Amos allowed, easing up on his boy. “That makes you brother and father, and that puts you between a rock and a hard place. Seems to me your actions usually prove themselves out in the long run. Gideon’s all yours, son.”
A memory came to Aspen of the first time he tried to break one of their horses. Pa had said something remarkably similar and Aspen had subsequently spent a fair amount of time in the dirt, but he had learned. He beamed at his father, grateful for the memory, the lesson and, come to think on it, the vote of confidence.
“Don’t go too far, Pa,” he said. “I might want a hand with this one.”