North American Detective: I am Proficient in All Kinds of Gun Quick Draws

Arriving at Sheila's place.

Bart and Beck stood in the yard, dragging their feet.

Bart tugged at Dean's sleeve. "Dean, how's your mom doing these days?"

"Pretty good," Dean said. Then, as if remembering something, he added, "It's just that Thompson's been dating lately, and Mom often laments that she's going to be left all alone."

Bart breathed a sigh of relief. If she's in a good mood, at least Sheila won't lay a hand on him.

A pained expression crossed Beck's face. He muttered under his breath, "F**k. I should've spent some money to bring a girl back with me. Now I'm screwed."

Pressuring someone to marry is actually not uncommon here, especially in families with a strong collective atmosphere.

But no matter how reluctant Beck was, the seven or eight-meter distance was eventually covered.

The door to the house was open. Warm light filled the space, and the sound system played upbeat country folk music.

The dining table was laden with dishes and desserts of all sizes. Long candles were arranged in a line, waiting for their host to light them and release their warm glow.

In the living room, near the fireplace, stood a small Christmas tree about one and a half meters tall. It was adorned with colorful lights, ribbons, and gift boxes. A cute, silly-looking little squirrel was crouching at its base.

Sinclair was busily decorating the house with various small snowflake ornaments and colorful ribbons, making the Christmas atmosphere even thicker.

Thompson, too, was on tiptoe, hanging small colorful lights on the wall.

Their mother, Sheila, was humming an Italian folk song, busy in the kitchen baking pizza. Beside her sat a large pot of Italian rice.

Seeing all this, a tender smile touched Dean's lips. "Mom, I've brought your precious eldest son, Beck, and your second brother, Bart, back."

The three of them stopped what they were doing. Thompson glanced hesitantly at Beck, astonished at his large frame, and weakly called out, "Big Brother. Uncle."

Thompson hadn't been as outgoing before. He rarely spoke to his older brother, Beck. Since his Uncle Bart—his mother's second brother—was frequently away, he was closest to his eldest maternal uncle, the one who had taught him to hunt and use a gun.

Sinclair, on the other hand, was much more at ease. She trotted over to welcome them, greeted them sweetly, then held out her small hand. "Big Brother! Uncle! You abandoned cute little Sinclair for so many years and didn't come back. Did you bring presents this time?"

Beck scratched his head, somewhat sheepishly. "Sinclair, you've grown so much! I did get you a gift, but it's for Christmas."

"Shouldn't it be two gifts?" Sinclair pouted, looking at Bart. "Uncle Bart, what about you?"

Bart, who clearly understood Sinclair better than her older brother Beck, smiled and pulled two small badges from his pocket. "These are little trinkets Beck and I got from a Native American settlement. They symbolize courage and beauty. One for you and one for Thompson."

"Thank you!" Sinclair happily took them.

She wasn't really after gifts; it was her special way of asserting her importance to the family.

Hearing the commotion, Sheila also stopped her work. She folded her arms, her pleased expression vanishing as she scoffed, "Hmph. So, the family's missing members have finally deigned to return, have they?"

Beck looked embarrassed. "Mom..."

Bart shrank further behind Beck's tall frame and said meekly, "Sis, long time no see."

His sister had been able to shoot and hunt wild boars at the age of eight. By fifteen or sixteen, she had become the toughest cowgirl among a dozen or so local farms. The number of peers she had bested was unknown.

Their grandfather had more than once lamented that Sheila was a girl; otherwise, she could have led their branch of the family back to New York, reviving the family's glory from the forties and fifties.

If it hadn't been for Dean's father's misfortune—Sheila taking a fancy to him when he came to buy a pony, forcibly abducting him, and him ultimately settling down and having children with her—Sheila might have become the undisputed boss of the local farms by now.

Excitement, poorly concealed and practically overflowing, glinted in Sheila's eyes. Nevertheless, she put on airs, lifted her head, and walked over to the cowering Beck. "Didn't you say on the phone how popular you are with the girls? Well? Where is she?"

"Well..." Beck, burly as he was, flushed red, unable to stammer out a single word.

This fellow, so utterly guileless. No wonder he was struggling so badly in the warehousing business.

Bart couldn't stand it any longer. He mustered his courage and said, "Sheila, you know we travel far and wide. It's rare for any woman to want to endure such hardships with us, and besides..."

"Shut up!" Sheila shot him a sidelong glance. "Bart, as a forty-seven-year-old bachelor, you need to take a good hard look at yourself. Mom has said more than once that she'd rather have given birth to a calf than to you. At least a calf can be milked when it grows up!"

Bart was speechless. Didn't Mom love me best? How could she say that about me in front of Sheila! This is heartbreaking.

After berating them both, Sheila huffed, "Alright, stop blocking the doorway. Come in and eat."

Dean chuckled, tugging Beck and Bart forward. "Mom just talks tough but has a soft heart. She knew you two were coming back today and was so excited. She's been up since before five this morning preparing food, and she even made Thompson and Sinclair decorate the house. She's been busy right up until now."

That's how true family is: they might grumble, but the affection hidden in their hearts always shines through.