The Edge of Misery: The Mitchel Brothers Series Book Two

5

"No... every last one of 'em."

"If you say so."

"I do."

"All right, baby goose," Nessie said, directing Eldon with a hand on his head, "It's up to bed for you."

"But Mama," he whined as his voice slipped into a deep yawn, "I'm not even tired."

"Of course not," Nessie smiled, then turned to Wren and Dorsey. "I'm gonna take him upstairs and settle in myself. Either of you need anythin' 'fore I do?"

"No, Mama," they murmured in unison.

"All right... well, don't stay up too late," she whispered, gently nudging Eldon toward the hallway.

"We won't," Dorsey whispered back with a shake of his head, then raised his voice just enough and said, "Yaboo, Eldon."

"Yaboo, Dorsey," Eldon sleepily replied, rubbing his eyes. "Yaboo Wren."

"Yaboo, baby goose," Wren chuckled, her heart swelling with affection at her baby brother's way of saying 'love you' that had started when Eldon began speaking and attempted to repeat commonly misheard phrases. She hoped he never outgrew it.

"Goodness, you're movin' slow as molasses," Nessie said, her voice carrying back to the kitchen.

"That's cause my feet's is filled with lead," Eldon informed her.

"Does that mean you want me to carry you after all?"

There was a slight pause, then Eldon replied, "But it don't mean I'm a baby."

"Of course not, sweet goose," Nessie grunted, "you're my big boy."

She grinned and listened to Nessie's footsteps echo on the stairs, then returned to the sink and grabbed her wet rag to wash the table as Dorsey spread out a clean dish towel and quickly loaded the leftovers into the center, then tied the corners into a knot.

"Savin' it for later?" She asked, quirking a brow.

He shook his head and walked to the door, "Promised the boys I'd bring 'em some grub 'fore settlin' in; Quincy's having 'em camp out with the herd in case Chet tries somethin' tonight."

Wren swallowed and went to the hutch, removing the tin of shortbread cookies she'd baked that afternoon, and handed it to her brother. "Give 'em these as well."

Dorsey eyed the tin with suspicion, "What's in it?"

"Shortbread cookies. Made 'em fresh today," she said.

"The boys'll be fine—"

"It's the one thing I make that actually tastes decent," Wren growled, shoving the tin into his arms, "so just take the blasted things, would you? For cryin' in the barrel, Dorsey—even Eldon admitted they taste good, and you know he's my toughest critic this side of the Mississippi. If the boys have any complaints, tell 'em to keep it to themselves, or they can take it up with my slingshot."

Dorsey muttered a curse under his breath as he cradled the tin and bundle of food in the crook of his left elbow and hurried out the door, "Pete's sake, Wren. When are you gonna quit bein' so touchy about yer cookin'?"

Wren flinched as the door swung closed. Tears stung her eyes, then fell from her lashes despite her best efforts to control her emotions as she swallowed against the lump in her throat.

Tossing the wet rag she still held toward the sink and not caring when it landed on the floor in front of it with a splat, Wren untied the apron from around her waist, dropped it on the back of a chair, then flung open the door and marched outside.