Arliss swaggered into the store, looking for a pair of snakeskin boots. Wouldn't be a Texan wedding without a pair of snakeskin boots, went the thought that had rang out like a spittoon can struck in the saloon of Arliss' mind over lunch. He had to get a pair in time for tomorrow. What's more, Newell probably needed a pair himself. Now what was Newell's boot size? It'd been a few years now since he'd seen his old kin, not counting the morning's exchange at the airport and on the drive to the hotel. Arliss pulled a pair of ropers from a shelf and looked them over. Yeah, Newell's boots were probably about that same size. Maybe one smaller.
"C'mere, bredder!" He clapped the man on the back and pulled him into a familial embrace.
"Arl, you ol' son of a bitch, it's good to be home," Newell said, but his tone of voice didn't back it up.
"Wait until you see the dinner what's waiting for you at Braymoth," Arliss said, accenting the name of the family farm with the jab of a cigar-sized finger into Newell's ribs. "That is, if you haven't lost the stomach for real food."
Newell was quiet for a moment. "New York's been good to me," he said.
"And how about that woman you met up there? She joining us?"
"Actually," Newell said, blasphemously, "she's vegetarian."
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