Coming Home to Texas by Allie Pleiter Page A

know.”
    â€œI’m sorry they hurt you like that.”
    Keep stitching. Keep creating. Keep moving forward away from the pain . “You and me both, sister.”
    â€œI hope next week with the volunteer program goes really well for you,” Brooke offered, still touching the soft ball of yarn. “I think it’s your turn to have a few fans.”
    As she kept stitching and watched the stars come out over the herd and the pastures, Ellie said a prayer that next week’s class would be fun and uplifting, not another reason to lick new wounds.
    * * *
    Nash had never been especially good with audiences, and today was proving no exception. The semicircle of eight boys gathered near the garage at the back of the church parking lot. Their “you’d better make this interesting” stares made Nash gulp. He’d clearly made a mistake in assuming the boys in his program would want to be here. These eight—sprawled across their chairs and glancing between him and their cell phones—looked as if they were in detention, even though Pastor Theo had told him this was voluntary. If this was voluntary, Nash dreaded to see what mandatory looked like.
    He cleared his throat, earning a shred of attention from half of the group. “A few ground rules before we get started.” That earned groans of disapproval. “First, no phones.” The groans became yelps of protest. “Second, everybody gets their hands dirty.” That earned a few “well, duhs!” from the guys. “Third, everyone gets a chance to drive.”
    Jose, a husky kid with thick black hair and angry eyes, looked up from his phone. “I got no car, so what am I gonna drive?”
    Nash had been waiting for that question. He grabbed the handle of the garage door behind him and said, “This.” With that, he pulled the door up to reveal his shiny Z that he’d backed into the church garage earlier this afternoon.
    â€œWhoa,” said Billy, who had clearly been proud of the old pickup he’d parked in the church lot ten minutes ago. “You kidding?”
    â€œNo, I’m not. But each of you is going to have to earn the chance to get behind this wheel.” Nash walked toward the car, pleased to see all the boys get up and follow him. The Z was a stunner of a car, and he planned to use that to its full advantage. “One hundred thirty-two horsepower may not sound like much today, but she was built to be fast and still is. Her aerodynamics were groundbreaking for the time. Only twenty-five hundred of these were ever made, so she’s a limited edition, gentlemen.” He figured the lure of a chance to drive this would earn him loads of cooperation, and based on the looks on the boys’ faces, that would be true.
    â€œThat’s your car?” Leon, a beanpole of a guy with freckles, asked with wide eyes.
    â€œIt is.”
    â€œAnd you’re just gonna let us drive it?”
    Nash opened the driver’s side door. “No, I’m gonna let each of you earn the chance to drive it. And I expect each of you can and will.”
    â€œWhy would you let us drive your fancy car? We could wreck it,” asked Mick, the toughest-looking boy of the bunch. The kid looked suspicious, as if no one had ever trusted him with anything valuable. It was a face Nash recognized from boys in LA—a symptom of how low expectations of young men usually were bound to come true. Step one was always to set a high expectation, communicating the idea that these kids had potential. It always twisted his heart what a foreign concept that was for many young men—no matter what city or state.
    With that, Nash opened the car door wider and gestured for Mick to sit in the driver’s seat. Mick gave a classic “who, me?” balk, but then jumped right in to take his place behind the wheel. “You like cars. Guys who like cars can respect them. If you all show me you can respect