Home Is Where Your Boots Are Read Free

face as she reached us. She ignored Nonnie’s chattering and laid her cool, manicured hand on my forearm. She looked into my eyes, and then , apparently satisfied with what she found, nodded at me and gave my arm a reassuring little squeeze. Never one for big displays of emotion, publicly anyway, the nod and squeeze were Mama’s way of letting me know she understood. I knew that later, behind closed doors, and not in my grandmother’s driveway, she would hold me and let me cry and cuss and throw breakables all I needed. Right now wasn’t the time or the place for me to not hold up my prettily highlighted head. In the face of adversity it is essential to act as though you have the world at your heels. Another code. I smiled back at Mama.
    “Don’t you think we should have a dinner party? I mean, we bought all those tablecloths and it seems a shame to waste them,” I mused. We had found all the linen for the wedding reception at a discount store for a steal. It was the first thing we had bought for the wedding and we considered it our best bargain yet. Mama and Nonnie laughed and shared a not so secret smile. They knew I’d be all right. Nonnie chortled, and Mama giggled.
    “Oh honey,” Nonnie laughed, slapping her red-tipped hand on her hip, “the groom’s interchangeable, but those Waverly tablecloths are priceless.”
    “We could probably rent them to unsuspecting brides and double our money,” Mama mused, never one to let something go to waste.
    The three of us stood there laughing as we heard a distant rumble, which subsequently turned into a roar. We all turned to see Daddy and Poppa Joe ride up in the Ranger. Daddy skidded the Ranger to a stop at our feet, grinning like a twelve year old. I shook my head at his antics. My daddy, Rex Atkins, wa s way handsome in a Magnum P.I./ Rhett Butler sort of way. He was tall and muscled even at fif ty, with dark eyes and hair; his wire-framed glasses gave him that “hot nerd” look, according to Mama.
    He was a genius when it came to money, and making it was his favorite pastime. He was a “good old boy” third generation oilman, who thanked his lucky stars everyday he had Mama around to make sure he was dressed appropriately and suffered no social faux pas. He always said if it weren’t for Mama, he’d be living somewhere down by the river in a doublewide with one pair of jeans and eating beans out of a can. His second favorite pastime was playing on the farm, and it was no surprise when he married the girl who was hosing down the horse trailer the first time he called her. Daddy preached and practiced the mantra “work hard, play harder . ”
    We stepped back as he untangled his long , jean-clad, work-booted legs from the vehicle and grabbed me in a big hug, squeezing me and spinning me around. He set me down and whispered in my ear,
    “Glad you’re home, honey. I’d offer to go south and whip the sonuvabitch, but I’ve given you boxing lessons. You would only need me for moral support.” he told me, his southern drawl softening the curse. I laughed and nodded.
    “I handled it, Daddy.”
    “You go girl,” he chucked me under the chin. Poppa Joe came around and waited for me to give him a kiss on the cheek and a hug; he returned the gestures, which were our standard greeting.
    Poppa Joe is tall like Daddy. Soft and solid at the same time. I inherited my honey-colored eyes from him, Mama her straight, thick hair . A lthough his was always a day over needing a trim. Poppa Joe had come from nothing; shouldn’t have survived childbirth if the story was to be believed, and built the ranch from nothing. He held several patents on farming techniques, which he never talked about. He was the strong steady to Nonnie’s whirlwind, and not one to comment on much, unless the situation called for a hearty dose of sarcasm.
    “Glad you’re home, sugar,” he stated matter-of-factly, as was his way. “We could use an extra hand down at the barn in the morning. You