Page 12 of Frog

“Don’t I know it, but you couldn’t tell that to Spencer.”

“Who’s Spencer?”

“My brother.”

“So your brother named his horse Dave.”

“Yessir, he did, and the rest of us just had to just go along with it.”

“Where’s your brother now?”

“He died in the war,” I told him. “Over there in Iraq.”

“We learned about the war at school.”

I smiled at him.

“My name’s Tristan,” he told me, “but you can call me Tris.”

“Well it’s good to meet you, Tris,” I said, offering him my hand. “I’m Weber Yates.”

He took my hand and shook it.

“I’m Pip,” the little one said, putting out his hand too, the other sliding over the top of my thigh, petting me, though it was doubtful he was even paying attention to what he was doing.

“His name’s Phillip,” Tristan told me. “He just has trouble saying his name.”

I nodded, taking the sticky little hand in mine before I turned my head to the little boy now leaning against me. “And who is this?”

“That’s Micah. He doesn’t talk anymore. He used to, but he stopped.”

Tristan and Phillip had dark midnight-blue eyes, deep cobalt. Micah’s eyes were lighter, brighter, almost the color of the bluebonnets I had grown up with in Texas. They were all three as cute as they could be.

“You don’t never talk?” I asked Micah.

He shook his head.

“Well, that’s all right, talkin’s overrated anyhow. You hungry?”

He nodded and put an arm around my neck, leaning heavily.

I looked up at Cyrus and his sister then, and to my surprise, they both looked sort of startled and at a loss. “Sorry, I got caught up,” I apologized, rising, bringing Micah up with me since it seemed like that was what he wanted. “My name’s Weber Yates, ma’am,” I said, touching the brim of my hat. “It’s nice to meet you and your boys.”

Her mouth was open, but no sound came out. She was staring at me and then Micah and then back to me.

“Web, this is my sister, Carolyn Easton. Lyn, this is Weber, that I told you about.”

She was nodding. “Oh, yes, the cowboy.”

“Yes.”

“Can we feed y’all?” I asked her. “Would that be all right?”

“That would be fine,” she told me, her voice dropping out on her. “But, uhm, they don’t eat anything. They’re the worst eaters ever.”

“Yeah, but,” I began, turning to Micah so we were staring at each other’s faces from very close proximity. “Cowboys always eat breakfast. Y’all will eat that, right? Some pancakes and eggs and bacon and such?”

He nodded.