Then the prospects in the order they came up—Miller, then Ford, then the new one whose name I can't for the life of me remember.
Phantom's not here tonight. He's out on a run. I don't know where and I don't ask.
Rogue's not here yet either. That's not normal.
He's always at the head of the table when the brothers sit down. Always.
Same seat, same time, two months running.
It's the first thing I notice when I bring out the brisket on the big wooden cutting board and there's an empty chair where his white hat ought to be.
Thunder catches me looking. Thunder catches everything.
"He's at his cabin," he says, low, so only I can hear it. "He'll be along shortly."
I don't ask how he knows that.
I don't even ask why he thought I was wondering.
I just slide the cutting board onto the table, reach for the carving knife, and start slicing brisket the way Hank Williams used to write songs—slow, careful, with my whole body in it.
The brothers serve themselves the way they always do. Family-style. Loud, talking over each other, somebody making a joke at Banshee's expense that I don't catch and don't want to.
Nash climbs onto the bench between Thunder and Spur because Thunder dragged him down there before they sat down, and Nash is sitting on a phone book Thunder produced from God knows where because the boy can't see over the table otherwise.
I'm at the kitchen island slicing brisket and watching all of this from the side when the screen door opens behind me.
I don't turn around. I know the sound of his boots on the porch. I know the way the door catches when he opens it slowly.
He walks across the bunkhouse without saying anything to anyone. Past the prospects. Past Blight.
He stops at the kitchen island where I'm slicing the brisket, and he stands beside me close enough that the heat off his arm finds the side of mine even though we're not touching.
"Evenin', Hadley."
"Evenin'."
I don't look up. To be honest, I don't trust my face.
He stands there for a second longer than a man would stand there if he was just saying hello. Then he walks to the table.
I watch his back.
The white hat. The cut of his shoulders. The Shotgun Saints patch on the back of his cut.
He takes his seat.
He looks across the table at Thunder and at my son sitting between his brothers.
He doesn't look at me once.
I bring his plate over.
I do it because I bring everybody's plate over. That's the job. That's what they pay me for.
Two eggs scrambled in the morning, sandwich at noon, whatever I make for supper at six. I don't make a thing of it.
But tonight I'm making a thing of it.