Dry Creek Daddy

by Janet Tronstad

  “There’s no need for you to come in,” he announced as he reached for the knob. He kept his back toward Hannah.

  “Mark will need something to drink,” she finally said, figuring the words must have been addressed to him. “Water, at least. Maybe iced tea. Operating that combine is dusty work.”

  She sensed Mark stopping next to her. She never had understood her father’s grudge against the Nelson family. He’d had it before she’d been adopted and it seemed to be still active in his mind.

  Her father turned then. His eyes narrowed as he looked at her directly. “I meant you, too. I can take it from here. I’ll bring out a gallon of water if you both just take a seat on the steps.”

  His words caught her by surprise. She felt them slice through her like a knife. Mark moved closer.

  Then, as her father started to push the door open, she realized what he was doing.

  “Oh, no, you don’t,” Hannah protested as she reached out and touched his shoulder. He turned, but didn’t meet her gaze. “I promised that nurse—the doctor, too—that I would keep an eye on you. You need to let me in the house or we are both sitting out here.”

  Her father hadn’t invited her inside last night, either. Instead he came out on the porch to tell her that she and “that boy of yours” could stay in the small house by the barn.

  “The doctor knows best,” she added. “He said I was to check you out every fifteen minutes for the first few hours. I can’t do that if I can’t see you.”

  Hannah could tell her words were not convincing him.

  “She’s right. You have to cooperate,” Mark said firmly.

  Her father stood there, blocking their view of the inside of the house.

  “My place is a mess,” he finally mumbled as he went inside.

  “That’s not a problem.” Hannah stepped into the doorway after him. She was glad to understand his hesitation. He was embarrassed. That could be fixed.

  It was dark inside and it took a moment for Hannah to see everything.

  “Oh.” She looked around in dismay. The living room was not just cluttered; it had been dismantled. Ragged shades covered the windows and the curtains had been ripped off their rods.

  “Mom and I made those drapes,” Hannah exclaimed as she surveyed the empty rods. Her mother had carefully selected the deep-blue-and-gold floral brocade. She thought it made the house look happy. Hannah had run the sewing machine because her mother was so weak by then. Hannah looked over at her father. “She wanted to give you a place of comfort. An oasis.”

  Mark was standing behind her father and, when her father didn’t look up at her, she raised her questioning eyes to him instead.

  Mark shrugged. “Maybe he was too busy out in the fields to do much housework. It happens.”

  It didn’t happen in this house, Hannah thought. Her father had been as meticulous about things as her mother had been.

  For the first time since Hannah had come back, she was glad her father didn’t want her and Jeremy to stay in this house. Her son needed sunshine and cheer if he was going to beat his illness. The house by the barn, even with the boarded-up window in the one bedroom, would be better than this.

  Her father still wasn’t meeting her eyes and Hannah felt sorry for him. “When we get the crops in, I might be able to sew up some new curtains for you.”

  Her father looked at her then before he shook his head.

  “I’m fine,” he said.

  “How could—” Hannah started but then saw Mark give a slight shake of his head. She swallowed. “No matter. Let’s see about getting a cup of tea made for you.” She looked at her father. “I’m assuming you still like hot tea.”

  He nodded.

  “No cream, extra sugar?” she asked. “English Breakfast?”

  “Yes,” he said. “I’ll take it in the kitchen at the table.”

  Her father walked into the kitchen and closed the door.

  Hannah looked over at Mark, wondering if he’d understood how hard it had been for her to find some common ground with her father. But Mark wasn’t focused on her. Instead, he was staring at the wall behind the sofa.

  She turned around.

  “Oh,” she gasped. What had gone on in this room after she left here four years ago? “My pictures are gone.”

  Her mother had set up the photo wall to display the annual school pictures that Hannah received. There’d been seven large photos displayed in gold metal frames. She had gapped teeth in the first when she was ten years old and smooth curls in the last photo when she was seventeen. Those photos made her feel she belonged here. The only things left on the wall now were the nails from which they’d hung.

  “He had no right to do this,” Mark said fiercely as he walked over to stand beside Hannah.

  He knew what those pictures meant to her. Her mother had been so proud when she’d hung each one.

  “I need to forgive him,” Hannah said as she looked up at Mark. She blinked back her tears. “The Bible says so.”

  “But you’re his daughter,” Mark protested. “This is your home.”

  “Mrs. Hargrove told me he’s stopped going to church,” Hannah whispered. She’d not thought much about that revelation, assuming her father was just catching up on ranch work. Now she wondered.

  “He has no one to blame but himself if he’s lonely,” Mark said as he took a step closer to her. She longed to lean into him like she would have when she was much younger. But she needed to stand strong herself these days and she might as well start now. She couldn’t trust anyone to prop her up.

  She shook her head. “My dad just misses Mom.”

  “We all do,” Mark said and then paused. “Do you forgive everyone?”

  “I try.” Hannah remembered how Mark always seemed to know her heart. She looked up as he stood there. In a moment, the hard years rolled away and she felt a rush of emotions. Maybe it was nothing but nostalgia. She didn’t know, but she had been in love with Mark a long time ago. She saw the same kind of emotion flit through his eyes before he turned thoughtful.

  “Then why did you send back my letters?” he asked.

  “What?” Hannah wondered if his mind was playing tricks on him. She’d never gotten any letters. Nor had she expected any since he was in a coma for so long. She’d taken Jeremy to visit him once in the hospital nursing home over a year ago, but Mark had not been conscious for that. Still, he was looking at her like he expected a response. “I—”

  She was interrupted by the sound of a dish breaking in the kitchen.

  “I better go,” she said as she headed for the doorway. She heard Mark’s footsteps following behind her. She wished he wasn’t here to witness the problems with her father, but she had no choice. She only hoped he would leave before her whole world crashed down upon her.

  Chapter Three

  Mark stood in the doorway, relieved to see the kitchen hadn’t been as trashed as the living room. Yellow striped cotton curtains hung from rods on these windows. The beige countertop was worn, but empty of clutter. Mark was only beginning to understand the ripple effect of that night when he’d been injured. It hadn’t been only his and Hannah’s lives that had been thrown into chaos. His family had been hurt. Her father wounded. And Jeremy—what price had his son paid?

  “You’ve kept the teakettle up nicely,” Hannah said from where she stood at the sink. “It’s polished.” Her father nodded from his place by the refrigerator. She seemed determined to be cheerful as she turned the water on and began to fill the copper kettle. Mark remembered she had often done that when they were children. Most children would complain at least a little about their parents. Not Hannah. She just put on a positive face and pretended everything was all fine.

  “I kept everything up,” her father said as he walked over to the table. “That is, until—”

  Mr. Stelling stood the
re mute before finally pulling out a chair.

  Hannah’s jaw tightened, but she was silent.

  “Until what?” Mark demanded. He might not have much to offer Hannah any longer, but he could at least stand as her champion in this house. He didn’t like that she felt the need to pretend to a satisfaction that couldn’t possibly be there.

  The older man winced as he sat down. “I thought she—” he nodded toward Hannah “—and the boy might want to come for Christmas. I decided I needed to paint the living room before I asked—”

  Mark heard the kettle fall and hit the bottom of the sink. He looked over at Hannah. Her mask was crumbling. Wide-eyed, she was staring at her father in genuine gratitude. Her father might be cranky, but he was not her enemy.

  “But you never even wrote to me,” she said.

  “I didn’t have your address,” her father mumbled. “I was going to get it from Mrs. Hargrove, but I thought I’d do the walls first. Then you called.”

  “But I don’t care about the walls,” Hannah said as she took a step toward her father. She was wiping her wet hands on her jeans as she went. “At least, not much.”

  Mark was struck by something else.

  “You didn’t have her address?” he asked her father.

  The other man shook his head.

  Mark had assumed Mr. Stelling would know where his daughter was. All of the letters Mark had written when he was recovering in the nursing home had been addressed to this house with the notation to forward them. No wonder they had been returned.

  By the time Mark figured it all out, Hannah was standing in her father’s arms. Mark wasn’t sure, but he thought there was a tear or two trailing down her cheeks.

  Lord, thank You. Mark sent the prayer up as he watched the reunion between Hannah and her father. Mark would have given anything to be Hannah’s protector again, but it was not necessary.

  He had nothing useful to do for Hannah, he realized. When they had been children, he’d stopped that boy in their class from teasing her on the playground. Mark had been proud to do that. Even his mother had been pleased with him that day. Accomplishments like that had brought expressions of love from his mother. She beamed when Mark was on the honor roll. She cheered when he won races at the school track meet. She would have screamed encouragement at his rodeos if she’d lived that long. Being a hero in his mother’s eyes had been the way Mark gained her love. He had always assumed that he would be able to lay similar accomplishments at the feet of Hannah and earn her love, too.

  But his days of winning were over. He doubted he’d ever ace another competition. He’d had plenty of compliments in the nursing home, but in the real world, no one was likely to genuinely praise him because he’d remembered how to use a spoon.

  “I was going to paint the walls eggshell white,” Mr. Stelling said as Hannah stepped back. “Your mother always said that was a color that looked good in any light.”

  Hannah nodded. “Yes, she did say that.”

  Hannah’s face wore the expression Mark had hoped to see when she looked at him. She was luminous with love. She just wasn’t looking at him.

  Mark glanced away toward the window. The sky was dark as gunmetal. It could start to rain at any moment.

  “I’d best get that jug of water,” Mark said as he turned toward the sink. He felt about as unnecessary at the moment as a doorstop in a room that had no exits.

  “On the top cabinet,” Mr. Stelling said as he pointed to a high shelf.

  Mark nodded his thanks to the man as he reached for the gallon jug. That was the most civil comment he’d ever heard from Hannah’s father.

  “I’ve got the mechanical part you bought in Miles City out in the back of my pickup,” Mark offered as he pulled the glass container down off the shelf. The replacement part for the combine had ridden there on the trip back from the hospital. “I should have the old one off and the new one on before long.”

  “I can help you with that,” Mr. Stelling offered.

  “The doctor said—” Hannah protested.

  “I won’t be doing anything much,” her father replied. “The faster we get that new part on the combine, the quicker Mark can start harvesting the wheat.”

  Mark took the jug to the sink and turned the cold faucet on. He’d appreciate having some water when the day grew warmer. That is, if it didn’t rain.

  The water soothed him as he let it run. Crops and ranching had been deeper in his blood than he’d realized in high school. He wondered if he would have been content in the world of awards and money he’d dreamed of back then.

  * * *

  Hannah watched her father stand by as Mark filled the jar with water. The next step would be to wrap an old gunny sack around the glass and get the cloth wet. The moisture on the sack would evaporate and keep the bottle’s contents cool. It was an old rancher’s trick that her mother had explained one hot day.

  “I’ll call Mrs. Hargrove,” Hannah said to the men. “She might be able to drive Jeremy back here if I explain what happened today.” She looked at Mark. “I hope you can eat with us. I’ll have something ready at noon. I’m not sure what it will be, but—”

  Mark beamed at her. “Make something Jeremy will like.”

  Hannah smiled. “Are you sure? That would be macaroni and cheese or peanut butter and jelly sandwiches.”

  “Fine with me,” Mark said.

  “The boy should have some vegetables,” her father said gruffly. “He can’t get over whatever ails him on macaroni and cheese.”

  Hannah felt the smile fade from her face. For a moment, she’d forgotten. “Food won’t make any difference.”

  “How come?” Her father barked the words like he was a drill sergeant. “Vitamins and fresh air will cure most anything that’s wrong with a young boy.”

  Hannah could see that her father was curious. It was Mark who worried her more, though. He stood there with a thoughtful look on his face.

  Everyone was silent for a time.

  “Is there anything I can do?” Mark finally asked. “Have you seen a doctor?”

  Hannah nodded. “And I see another one on Wednesday. Then I will just need a little time to—”

  She let her voice trail off. She wasn’t exactly sure what she needed to do to prepare her son for his treatments. And she didn’t want other people telling him things that might worry him. “I’ll have more answers by then, at least.”

  “The boy can visit with me while I recover from my concussion,” her father offered. “I hear from Mrs. Hargrove that he’s quite the chatterbox.”

  “His name is Jeremy,” Hannah said. “And he’d like that.”

  She hadn’t told her son that he had two grandfathers, but Jeremy was fond of Mark’s father and she used to let him visit that grandfather once in a while. Jeremy always had a good time doing that. She’d never felt free to bring him to see her own father but she figured it would work, as well.

  “He’s an easygoing child,” Hannah continued, convincing herself as much as anyone else that the meeting between her father and Jeremy would be positive.

  “I’ve heard he’s got a vivid imagination,” Mark said with a grin. “My sister said he turned her broom into a horse on the first time he visited. She couldn’t sweep the floor for days because he was rounding up cattle.”

  Hannah looked at Mark and nodded. She wasn’t sure how she felt about sharing Jeremy with him. Part of her was glad for both of them, but the other part wished the meeting between them would take place after Jeremy was well again.

  Please, God, make him well again, she prayed as she stood there.

  She was more than willing to share Jeremy with anyone who would love him, but she wanted to be sure her son was strong before she risked him gaining a father who might slight him. She knew Mark was watching her, but she didn’t know what more she could add to her words.


  “He likes horses,” Hannah finally settled for adding.

  Mark nodded. “Does he have any television heroes? You know, from the cartoons?”

  Hannah shrugged. “He’s not a cartoon, but he’s partial to Davy Crockett.”

  Mark laughed in seeming delight. “A frontiersman?”

  “And he loves comic books,” Hannah said, smiling just seeing Mark so happy. “All of those bang-up wow characters are his favorites. The one that climbs walls like a spider and, of course, the cowboys that fight bank robbers. He refuses to go anywhere without at least a few of his comic books. He calls them his heroes.”

  “I used to like comics, too,” Mark said. “He and I are going to have fun.”

  With that, Mark picked up the jar and wrapped it up in the gunny sack her father had pulled from beneath the sink.

  Hannah stood there while Mark walked outside. Her father sat at the table for a few minutes before finally getting to his feet.

  “I’m glad Mark is helping us,” her father said as he looked at Hannah. “But I don’t want you to be getting too friendly with him. You and Jeremy need someone who will be there for you and not be going off to the hospital.”

  Hannah frowned. “He couldn’t help being in that coma.”

  Her father shook his head. “If it wasn’t a coma, it would have been something else. The Nelson men are no good when it comes to women. They stray—even tempting good women when they do. I won’t see you hurt again.”

  “I appreciate the concern,” Hannah said. Her father looked worried, but she didn’t understand why. “Mark has always been good to me.”

  “He’s a chip off the old block,” her father said. “First it was the wild drunkenness—just like his father. Old Man Nelson used to have those blackout spells, too, when he had too much to drink. Next it will be chasing women all over town. Believe me, I know what the Nelson men are capable of doing.”

  With that, her father limped out of the kitchen. “I best go see he gets that part on the combine right.”

  Hannah just stood where she was. She didn’t know what to think. Her father was bitter about something, but it had been that way since she and Mark were kids so it wasn’t the robbery. Whatever it was, it wasn’t fair to blame Mark for something his father must have done.