Promises to Keep, Nan Rossiter [feel good fiction books .txt] 📗

and Root Beer Book Club, and he’d questioned the legitimacy of their meeting because they’d had burgers, not pizza, but they’d said they would agree to make an exception this one time. He’d also warned that if he was allowed to listen to the beginning of the book, it would only be fair that he keep attending the meetings so he could find out what happens to Opal and Winn-Dixie. And although they’d initially frowned at his proposal, feigning uncertainty because it was a girls-only group, they’d eventually agreed to allow it—but just this one time.

Gage absentmindedly kneaded the eraser in his hand, thinking about how lucky Ben and Macey were to have a little girl like Harper come into their lives, and he hoped that, if he and Maeve were blessed with children, their kids would have at least some of the wonderful traits Harper had. As he thought about this, he pulled open the little oak drawer under his table in which he kept his Palomino Blackwing pencils, erasers, and all kinds of odds and ends, including the key to the oak box his grandfather had made for his rifle, several old photos, and an envelope full of tickets to movies, races, and concerts he’d attended when he was younger. He looked through the envelope, fondly recalling each event, and then paused when he came to a faded ticket for a NASCAR race. It was dated August 28, 1999—his fifteenth birthday, a night he’d never forget. Dutch and his father had taken Cale, Matt, and him to Bristol Motor Speedway. Prior to that night, he and his brothers had only watched NASCAR on TV, but that night at the track, the deafening roar of the cars and the excitement of the crowd had been like nothing they’d ever experienced before. He still remembered how the race had ended . . . Terry Labonte had had the advantage over the other drivers because, with just five laps to go, he’d stopped for fresh tires and then easily motored past everyone into the lead . . . that is, until Dale Earnhardt Sr. had come up behind him—as he loved to do—and bumped his car, spinning him around, and then powering past him for the win. The crowd had gone wild, but the most surprising part for Jack Tennyson’s boys was seeing their ever-composed father pumping his fist and shouting, “Woo-hoo! Bump and run, baby! Bump and run!”

He tucked the ticket back into the pile and studied the next one, dated May 9, 1998—a year earlier. He and Cale had been thirteen and fourteen, and Dutch had taken them to Nashville to see Garth Brooks in concert. He’d never forget that night, either. They’d gone to the Loveless Café first, ordered chargrilled cheeseburgers and iced tea, and then had slices of the most amazing chocolate chess pie he’d ever tasted. Afterward, along with the throngs of other concertgoers, they’d headed to the arena. He and Cale had been familiar with many of the country singer’s famous songs from hearing them on the radio, but they’d been mesmerized by the live performance, especially when Garth had sung their grandfather’s favorite song, “The River,” and they’d looked over to see tears glistening in his eyes. Gage smiled wistfully at the memory and then tucked all the tickets back in the envelope, pulled the narrow drawer out all the way, and reached in back for a small black box. He hadn’t had a chance to open the box since he’d brought it home a week earlier because Maeve was always around now. In fact, she’d been sitting in the living room when he’d come home with it in his pocket, but he’d pretended to be looking for something in the drawer, and then tucked it all the way in back. He had no idea when he would give it to her . . . or what he would say when he did, but at least he had it for when the time felt right. He lifted the lid, and the perfectly cut diamond sparkled in the sunlight, casting tiny rainbows on his table.

A moment later, he heard Gus—who’d been sleeping on the porch—scramble to his feet, barking. At the same time, Pilgrim started squawking frantically, and Gage got up to look out the window. “How did you get in there?” he shouted angrily. He reached into the drawer for the key to his gun case, opened it, lifted out the rifle, loaded it, and went outside. The fox was on the inside of the reinforced fence of the coop, staring down Gus—who was going nuts. “Back off, Gus,” Gage growled, and the big yellow Lab—to his surprise—listened.

Gage lifted his rifle and looked down the sight. The fox was staring right back at him, its dark eyes defiant. Feeling his heart pound, Gage slowly pulled back the trigger until it clicked, and then clenched his jaw determinedly—he had never killed anything before. His dad and Cale had loved to go hunting, but whenever he’d gone, he’d never been able to pull the trigger. It didn’t matter if it was a buck or a grouse, he could only see the beauty of the creature. Afterward, his dad always teased him about not being able to pull the trigger, and finally, he’d just stopped going. The only reason he had a gun at all was because his grandfather had given him one of his old refurbished Winchesters and made a fine oak case to keep it in. Now, the fox with its copper-red fur and white twitching tail was daring him to take its life, and he knew, if he didn’t, it would continue to torment his chickens and they would always have to be cooped up in their pen.

“Damn you,” he whispered, blinking back tears, and then he closed his eyes, and squeezed the trigger. The powerful rifle slammed his shoulder and he fully expected to see the fox running off, but when he opened his eyes, it was lying in the grass. A