Tucker's Crossing by Marina Adair

could hear the little gears in his son’s mind churning away. But the one thing Cody knew he had in excess was patience. So he waited.
    A long while.
    “So, um . . . Friday’s the last day of school and that means the Summer Sweet Spectacular is coming up, and there’s this game—”
    A horn honked outside the barn. JT closed his mouth, all of his courage replaced with resignation. He stuck the shovel in a pile of hay, resting it against the wall, that ready smile from a moment ago buried so deep Cody wondered if he’d ever see it again. Slinging a backpack, which was nearly as big as he was, over his shoulder, he headed toward the barn door.
    “So about the game?” Cody encouraged.
    “Never mind. Gotta go.”
    “All right,” Cody said, but it wasn’t. He knew JT was talking about the fatherson football game. When he was a kid, he’d played in it with his dad. Still had the trophy collecting dust on his shelf. It had been the summer before his mama died. Before his dad had started drinking. There were times, even as late as high school, when Cody would pull it down and stare at it, wondering what he’d done to make his dad hate him so much.
    JT hesitated at the stall door, and Cody felt hope well up. “Grandpa said you played football.”
    “Sure did. High school and college.” Cody tried to appear unaffected. Did his son want to partner with him? And had his dad told JT about that game?
    “And that you were quarterback.”
    “Yup.”
    “Me too.”
    “Imagine that.” Then Cody shocked himself by adding, “Maybe this weekend we can work on some drills to help gain yardage.”
    “Okay.” JT finally met his eyes. Something vulnerable flickered there. Then JT disappeared through the stall entrance, and the moment ended.
    Damn Shelby for not telling him about his son, and for keeping them apart. Cody threw down his shovel and raced to catch his son.
    “Hey, JT,” Cody hollered from the center of the barn. JT stopped just under the threshold and turned to face him. He’d tried keeping his distance, afraid that he’d somehow hurt JT and inevitably screw everything up. But ignoring him had accomplished the same thing. “Have a good last few days of school.”
    “Thanks.”
    “Oh, and my favorite dessert is Ms. Luella’s peach pie.”
    JT rubbed his belly. “Yeah, me too.” JT paused, tilting his head as if judging where Cody ranked on the cool-parent meter. “So, um . . . can you not tell my mom about me mucking in my school clothes? She’d freak.”
    Cody gave him a rueful smile. He wasn’t big on lying, but under the circumstances he’d take what he could get. “I’ll think about it.”

    Slinging her purse over her shoulder and clutching her overnight bag, Shelby made her way through the kitchen, hoping to snag one of Ms. Luella’s blueberry muffins on her way out. Instead, when she opened the pantry she got a face full of a very scared Ms. Luella, swinging a wooden spoon and clutching a warehouse-sized tin of baking powder.
    “Good God, Luella!” Shelby forced herself into the space between the door and the counter, dodging the wooden spoon.
    Ms. Luella clutched her heart dramatically, her chest heaving. “What on God’s green earth are you doing, child?”
    “Me?” Shelby snapped, her chest doing a little huffing and puffing of its own. “I’m not the one hiding out in the pantry.” That’s when Shelby saw not one, but three tins of baking powder and a large bottle of oil. “What’s going on?”
    “Getting ready to bake me some biscuits,” Ms. Luella said matter-of-factly, as if that would explain everything.
    “With olive oil?”
    “You’ve got a problem with that?” Then, as if she were bored with the subject of biscuits, she grabbed a tall glass, filled it with ice and sweet tea, and shoved it at Shelby. “Take this to Cody on your way out.”
    “What makes you think I’m headed out to the tack room?”
    “Now who said Cody was out in the tack room?”
    Shelby