Author's Note: There is no substitute for hard work…. And there is no substitute for patience and acceptance. – Cesar Chavez

Disclaimer: If I owned any of this, I wouldn't hardly be writing fanfiction about it.

A tiny house occupied by four grown men wears a very different aspect on a working morning than the quiet house on Briar Lane that Mickey had shared so long with his mother.

For one thing, no one had to lie to anyone else about what they were doing all day. For another thing, it was noisy.

Mickey supposed he should be grateful. If the others hadn't woken him with their commotion, there was no telling how long he'd have slept. Texas was sure a great state for sleeping in.

He'd grabbed a quick shower in an effort to wake himself up, and emerged from the bathroom still toweling his hair dry, to encounter the welcome smell of coffee and the sound of Clarence saying to someone on the telephone, "He'll be there directly." He thought nothing of it, reaching into the cupboard for a coffee mug, until the mustached cowhand said, "You'd better leave that, Mickey. That was Ray. He wants you up to his house."

"But—"

"Pronto."

For all he'd overslept, it was still earlier than they normally started work, and he hadn't eaten breakfast yet. Surely he could stay and grab a bite first? He glanced at Hank, to see what he thought.

"Boss don't like to be kept waitin'," the old man said.

"Fine." Mickey closed the cupboard, tossed back his still wet curls, and stepped back into the bathroom to hang the towel on the rack. "See ya'll later," he tossed over his shoulder as he headed for the door.

"Mickey!" Hank called.

"What?" Only the dark head turned back.

The old man smiled into the disgruntled hazel eyes. "Don't you think you'd better put on a shirt?"

He'd rarely been called to Ray's house, his cousin preferring to give him his orders through his subordinates, but he remembered where it was alright. There was the sliding door he'd been standing in front of with a piece of Ray and Donna's luggage and his own blue duffel bag when he'd learned that his assumptions about Ray's purposes in inviting him to this place had been… wrong. Served him right for not asking more questions.

On previous occasions when he'd been called here to receive orders, Ray had been outside. Today the yard was empty, though someone was obviously expected. The umbrella topped picnic table was set for three. Apparently the Krebbs' had not had breakfast yet either. He wondered who had been favored with an invitation to eat with his cousins. Whoever they were, Mickey envied them. He was hungry, and it was going to be a long time until lunch.

He knocked carefully on the glass door.

"It's open!" A woman called.

Donna. He'd not seen much of her, but she never seemed happy when he was around. His original notion that she'd disliked him as a sort of spillover from her cancelled New York trip no longer seemed as likely. No one gossips more than a bunch of cowboys, so he was now well aware that she was rich enough to fly to New York any time she felt like it, though as far as he knew Ray and Donna had not gone out of town since he'd been there.

She surely couldn't blame him for that. He'd barely seen Ray. He was here to work, was all, and anyone could tell him what to do. And did so.

Well, it wasn't unknown for him to tee people off without apparent reason.

He slid the door open and stepped hesitantly into the house. "It's me," he told his cousin's wife.

"Mickey?" She was in the kitchen and whatever she was cooking smelled good enough to make his mouth water.

"Yeah."

"Go back outside."

What?! He wasn't allowed in the house? Even when called there? He'd been joking when he'd referred to himself to Ray as a stray dog. He tried explaining,"We got a call at the bunkhouse that Ray wanted me—"

"Do you think I don't know that? Ray's not ready yet. So go wait outside."

Mickey had thought himself proof against surprise. And hurt. Wrong again. He swallowed whatever it was that was trying to rise from his belly to his throat and fumbled for sliding door's big handle. "Yes, ma'am," he muttered.

"Wait," Donna called. She rounded the end of the counter with a huge platter of French Toast. "Take this outside and put it on the table."

Cruel. He accepted the plate of food from her (it was that or let it fall to the floor) and stared at it. "Terrific," he sighed softly.

"You don't like French Toast?"

He stared at her, wonderingly. Was it fun to torment him? He opened his mouth to telI her it was his favorite, but what came out was, "I've been known to choke it down when I couldn't get anything better."

She frowned, and there were his old friends, the two lines between her brows. "Take it out to the table. Ray'll be here in a minute."

He nodded, got the sliding door open somehow, and escaped outside. He set the platter down, and stepped away from the table, looking again at the three place settings. He wished—

You can't always have your wishes come true.

He wished Ray had just told Clarence over the phone what he wanted Mickey to do today.

Why make him come over here?

He made a little gesture like a shrug with his shoulders, then shoved his hands into the pockets of his jeans. He simultaneously did and did not want to know who they'd invited to breakfast. With luck, whoever it was had overslept, too, so Ray could give him his orders before their guest appeared. He turned away from the table and stared out over the flatness of the ranch. What had he done to deserve this?

A vision of the look on Tim Reilly's face when he saw the damage to the car they'd stolen and wrecked reminded him what he'd done. Okay, so he deserved it. He exhaled, and moved his head to work the crick out of his neck. He hoped Ray and Donna and their mystery guest would have a nice breakfast. Just as soon as he got his assignment and got out of here.

Mickey heard the sliding glass door open. He turned slightly to watch Ray and Donna emerge from the house. He thought Ray would come over and speak to him, but husband and wife both went to the table and seated themselves. Mickey thought of the morning of Amos Krebbs' funeral, when the three of them plus his mother had eaten pancakes and sausage together. He'd been good enough to eat with them there. Funny that they weren't waiting for their guest to arrive. Who was it, anyway?

"Mickey?" Ray asked finally. "Are you gonna stand there all day, or are you gonna sit down and eat?"

What?!

"If you can 'choke it down,'" Donna muttered, transferring a piece of French Toast onto her plate.

"What was that, honey?" Ray asked as Mickey seated himself and lay his napkin awkwardly in his lap.

"Nothing," she lied.

Ray smiled benignly at his wife and his cousin. "After we finish breakfast, I figured we'd go up to the big house. It's about time my cousin met the rest of the family."

Mickey's hand shook a little as he poured himself some coffee.

"What do you think about that, Mickey?" Ray smiled.

Mickey set down the coffeepot, then met his cousin's eyes. He glanced aside. Donna clearly disapproved of the plan. His black eyebrows rose to the challenge. "Does this mean I have to be on my best behavior?"

The answer came in stereo. "Yes!"