Winter's End

by Ruth Logan Herne

  Kayla understood that firsthand. She’d faced the winters head-on, challenging the cold, and she’d won. She’d made it through five years and hadn’t caved. So why was there little joy in the knowledge? She took a deep breath and charged in. “I’ve been offered a job in Virginia.”

  She wasn’t sure why she blurted it out. When Marc’s hand clenched the mug tighter, she wished she’d waited.

  “You have a job here.”

  “That I’m leaving in June.”

  “Well.” He took a long draw on his coffee and set down the cup. “That gives me three months.”

  “For?”

  This time he met her eye. “To convince you to stay.”

  Her heart constricted under his gaze, strong and unflinching. There was no doubting his intentions if that look was any indication. Kayla gulped.

  He brushed the curve of her cheek with one hand and smiled. “How’s Dad?”

  Those simple words brought her back to reality. She stepped back, away from his touch, away from his warmth. “I’ve got to get his vitals.”

  Marc glanced at his watch. “You’ve been here an hour.”

  She glanced away. “We…talked. Then Jess got home and I wanted them to have time together while your dad was awake.”

  Marc nodded. “Less often now.”

  “Yes.”

  He moved to the door, then paused, waiting. Passing him, she felt the strength in his presence, the solidity of the man who beckoned her with word and deed.

  A man who kept a careful distance from faith and would most likely hate her for knowing family secrets that could tear his life apart.

  She couldn’t meet Marc’s gaze, not now. She wasn’t as practiced as Pete at hiding the truth. No wonder her shoulders had tightened. She was carrying the weight of the DeHollander family and had no clue how to unburden herself.

  Trust.

  The word filled her consciousness like a stream-filled mountain bed, smooth and flowing.

  I have seen his ways, but I will heal him; I will lead him and restore comfort to him.

  Isaiah’s words echoed within her. As Kayla stepped into Pete’s room, she felt Marc’s supportive presence behind her. Jess looked at them, her face a mix of emotions, her eyes wet with unshed tears. She clasped one of Pete’s hands between both of hers, a sandwich of warmth around his cooling skin.

  “Here she is Dad, and she’s brought reinforcements.”

  Pete smiled, his face drawn with fatigue. Kayla nodded, brisk. “I’ll be quick and get out of here so you can rest.”

  “I’ve got supper in the slow cooker.”

  Kayla didn’t dare turn. “Thanks, but I’ll leave you guys to family stuff tonight. I’m going to catch up on some sleep.”

  “At five o’clock?”

  Marc moved alongside her. From Pete’s quick, tired smile, she was pretty sure he’d just given his father a wink. “Bread from Main Street Bakery.”

  “Fresh butter,” chimed Jess. She seemed to enjoy the game. “And I thought I saw blueberry pie, too.”

  Kayla noted the look in Pete’s eye. She heard a like note in Jess’s entreaty.

  Marc? She had no trouble reading his intent, but a huge problem resisting the deep timbre of his voice, the solid masculine presence over her shoulder. “You won’t be hurt if I eat and run?”

  “No.”

  The word was close enough to be whispered, but wasn’t. As Marc clasped his father’s other hand, his shoulder pressed Kayla’s. “You set the time frame, Kayla.”

  She read the double entendre as she eased back. Marc followed suit.

  “Dad? Can I bring you soup or bread?”

  “No.” Pete’s smile dimmed. “Not so hungry.”

  Marc nodded. “Would you like us to eat in here?”

  “If it’s all the same, I’m ready for a nap.”

  Marc leaned down. “Then I’ll be back in a little while.”

  “For?”

  “To watch you nap.”

  “Not much fun there.”

  Marc didn’t agree. “We’ll be the judge of that, won’t we, Jess?”

  “Mmm-hmm.” Jess stood, as well. “Love you, Daddy.”

  Pete mumbled a reply. His breathing evened out as he slipped into slumber.

  Kayla looked up at Marc as they walked through the dining room. “You haven’t had trouble washing him?”

  “No. He’s frail, but he doesn’t weigh a lot.”

  He hesitated. Kayla sharpened her gaze. “What?”

  “There’s been almost nothing to empty from his bag.”

  No urinary output. Kayla nodded. “That’s normal. As his body gives out, the systems shut down.”

  “If we hydrated him, would that help?”

  Kayla laid a hand on his arm. “Help what?”

  Marc scrubbed a hand of frustration across his face, then dragged it across the back of his neck. “It just seems like I should be doing something.”

  “You are.”

  Marc looked down.

  “You’re letting go. That’s something.”

  He grunted. Kayla squeezed his arm. “Letting go is often harder than intervention that means nothing in the end.”

  He was silent a long moment, then covered her hand with his. “Thanks for staying.”

  What could she say to that? That she loved being here, loved the homey feel of the toasty old house, the smell of good food wafting from the kitchen?

  “Marc, I—”

  “No pressure, Kayla. It’s just nice having you here.”

  Reasons to leave fled with the touch of his hand. She leaned her head against his shoulder. “Thanks.”

  He paused. Jess had gone on ahead. The clatter of ironstone told them she was setting the table. Marc eyed Kayla. His look said more than words ever could. For a brief moment she let herself drown in that look, those gray-green eyes.

  He smiled and propelled her into the kitchen with gentle ease. “I thought you were in a hurry. Let’s eat.”

  I am in a hurry, she thought as she took the seat he held out. For long seconds he rested his hands atop her shoulders, the touch reassuring.

  His warmth was hard to resist. She wished it weren’t so easy to envision a life here with Marc and Jess, and babies underfoot. The spacious old house was meant for family.

  But Marc had two big issues he refused to deal with, his faith and his mother. Neither were open for discussion, and that spelled danger. She had promised herself fullness of life. She’d known the lack firsthand and refused to contemplate that choice again.

  “Shall we say grace?” Jess reached for Marc’s hand on one side and Kayla’s on the other.

  Head bowed, Jess offered a sweet prayer of thanksgiving. At the end she pressed Kayla’s hand in a communal spirit.

  Not Marc. He buttered a piece of bread and asked Jess how her day went.

  Kayla pushed aside foolish hopes and dreams. A girl didn’t make it through life on fantasies. She made it on good hard work, simple faith and well-laid plans.

  Hello, Virginia.

  Chapter Fifteen

  The home health aide yelled Marc’s name as he scrawled his signature across an invoice later that week. “Mr. DeHollander?”

  Her tone brought him across the drive at a run, the new delivery forgotten. “What’s wrong?”

  “Your dad’s breathing’s gone funny. This could be it.”

  Marc’s heart squeezed. Here? Now? In the middle of the day, with no one about? Jess was in school, Kayla was…somewhere else.

  He hurried to the bedroom as he barked quick commands. “Call the school, ask them to get Jess, then call Miss Doherty and ask if she can get over here.”

  “But—”

  “Now.”

  Kayla cued into the aide’s anxiety right off. “Is the family there, Ardith?”

  “The son is. The daughter’s in school.”

  Kayla glanced at the clock. “Tell the school I’ll pick up Jess. We’ll be there in half an hour, give or take.”r />
  “I don’t know that he’s got that long,” the woman warned.

  Kayla blew out a breath. “Then it’s in God’s hands, isn’t it?”

  “Dad?” Marc knelt next to the bed. “It’s me, Dad. How’re you doing?”

  His father’s chest groaned on each light exhale. Marc closed his eyes and sandwiched his father’s hands. “I’m here, Dad. Right here.”

  The noise diminished as Pete struggled to wakefulness. “Marc.”

  “I’m here.”

  “We have to talk.”

  “Dad, I—”

  “Not much time.”

  Marc swallowed the objection. “No.”

  “Your mother.”

  Marc glanced at the picture alongside the bed.

  “She loved you, son.”

  Right then Marc would have agreed to anything to ease Pete’s mind. “I know.”

  His father shook his head. “You don’t. I’m trying to tell you.”

  Marc’s chest constricted. “I’m listening.”

  “She had to go, Marc.”

  Marc kept his silence.

  “She was afraid she’d hurt Jess.”

  Marc frowned. “No one’s going to hurt Jess, Dad. I’ll see to it.”

  Pete frowned, impatient. His hand moved within Marc’s. “Not now. Then. She felt guilty. She didn’t trust herself around the baby.”

  None of this made any sense. “Why would Mom hurt Jess? She was a baby.”

  “Because she wasn’t my child.”

  The words hit Marc like the kick of an angry bull. He pulled back. “She what?”

  “Jess wasn’t my child.” Pete squeezed his son’s hand with a vigor that surprised the young farmer. “Your mother didn’t think I could forgive that.”

  “Who could?” Marc’s anger rose at the thought of another impropriety added to an already-lengthy list.

  “You’ve got to protect her, son.” The effort to confess deflated Pete’s air. His words slowed, softened.

  “I will.” Marc felt the strength ebb from his father’s hands and clung tighter.

  “I wanted to tell you before…”

  Pete paused, dragging for breaths that refused to come. Marc pressed his hand in a tug of love. “It’s okay, Dad. It’s all okay.”

  “It’s not.” His father’s voice thinned, a faint reminder of his true self. “But it can be. Ask Kayla…”

  “Kayla?” Marc loosened one hand and smoothed his father’s hair away from his forehead. His thoughts jumbled at this left turn. “What about Kayla?”

  “She knows.”

  Like that was a surprise. “I’ll talk to her.”

  “Take care of her.”

  “Jess will be fine, Dad. I promise.”

  “Not just Jess.” His father’s chest convulsed. “Kayla, too.”

  “Kayla? But, how…? Never mind.” Why was Marc surprised that his father sensed his growing feelings for Kayla? Hadn’t they always been in tune with one another?

  A light squeeze pressed the back of his hand. “Be gentle, son.”

  “I will.”

  His father shook his head, each word punctuated by a tiny gasp. “You take better care of the cows than you do a woman’s feelings. You might want to…” the words came with no small effort now “…adjust your strategies.”

  Marc thought of the times he’d hurt Jess with insensitive remarks. “I’ll try harder.”

  His father’s face relaxed. “That’s all I ask.”

  Long moments of silence ensued. Marc leaned down. “Dad?”

  Pete’s eyes opened. He smiled, his gaze locked on something beyond Marc, beyond Earth. He sighed one last, long breath and sank deeper into the pillow.

  Silence filled the room. Marc dropped his head to his father’s chest and let the tears come. Warmth ebbed from his grasp of his father’s hand, the heart beneath his ear silent and still.

  Take me for a ride, Daddy!

  Pete turned his gaze to Marc’s mother. “Ari? We got time for a ride?”

  “Supper’s ready in an hour.” She swung across the fence and landed with a small thud at his father’s side. “Take good care of our boy, Pete.”

  His dad nodded, smiling. “I will. Just like I do of his mother.” He’d leaned down and kissed her until Marc offered protest. “Okay, okay, we won’t waste time on kisses.” His dad doffed an imaginary cap to Marc’s mom. “I’ll catch up on those later. Back in an hour.”

  Ari’s voice followed them. “Forty-five minutes, Pete. Save fifteen for cooldown or it’ll be your supper that’s cold.”

  Father and son laughed as they took off cross-pasture. The day rose sweet and pure, the sun high, the breeze cool. Marc sighed against his father’s chest. He could have ridden like this forever. Way too soon his father reined in the horse, urging him back to the farm.

  Dusk settled as they approached the house, the horse cooled, brushed, blanketed and fed.

  An empty kitchen greeted them. There was no supper waiting. No smiles from Mama. His father read the note on the table, crumpled it, then tossed it into the garbage can. “Let’s ride into town, get a bite to eat.”

  “But Mama made chicken and biscuits.” Marc stared at his father, not understanding.

  Marc loved chicken and biscuits. Chunks of chicken in hot, steamy gravy. Biscuits that soaked up the puddles.

  His father laid a hand on the boy’s shoulder. “We rode longer than we should have. Let’s head into town.”

  Marc stared around the kitchen with maturing eyes. There was no sign of the good-smelling supper. Not a dish, not a plate. “Where did it go?”

  Pete sighed. “To the pig, I expect.”

  “My chicken and biscuits? She fed it to the pig?”

  Pete crouched down and met Marc’s gaze. “We promised her we’d be back and we weren’t. We broke our word.”

  “But—”

  Pete straightened and clasped his hand. “There are no buts. We messed up and Mama dumped our dinner.”

  As his empty stomach gurgled and growled in protest, Marc didn’t fight the anger that rose inside him. He reached up and clasped his father’s big, strong hand. “I love you, Dad.”

  His father led him to the door. “I love you, too. We’ll have to write your mom a note, tell her we’re sorry.”

  Sorry? Marc wasn’t a bit sorry. He was mad, through and through, but he wouldn’t argue with his father. Heading to the truck, he glanced back at the house, wishing Mom would appear, flap a towel and say, “Come back, boys! Supper’s still here.”

  Cool, dark windows stared back at him. No warm yellow light, no cheerful voice.

  “Where do you think she went?”

  Pete heaved a sigh as he climbed into the front seat of the truck. “No idea, son.”

  With all his might Marc wished that she’d stay wherever she was, and never come back. Then he and his dad could do whatever they wanted, whenever they wanted.

  That would be perfect.

  “Hey, Donny! Give me a hand, will ya?” Marc’s voice pulled the attention of the lanky farmhand late the next day.

  The younger man drew alongside Marc and worked to keep a frantic mother at bay while Marc castrated her newborn son. Her bawls blended with the high-throated cries of her baby. Hands sure, Marc ear-tagged the calf and administered a shot of Ral-Gro. “Done.”

  In a quick move, Marc hoisted the calf from the back of the truck and deposited him onto the ground. “There you go, fella.”

  Donny sidestepped as the calf careened toward his mother. The cow welcomed him with reassuring licks of her tongue. The baby’s cries went from fear to hunger. He zeroed in on the full udder and comforted himself with a nice, long brunch.

  “That the last one?”

  Marc gave a quick nod. “So far. That’s twenty-six, right? Plus the extra we’ve got at the barn.”

  One of the cows had dropped twins, a rarity in Herefords. Once the mother recognized her first calf, she shunned the other, despite Marc’s diligence
in presenting the baby back to her. Marc tagged them both, but ended up taking the rejected female to the barn for bottle-feeding.

  She’d become one of Jess’s jobs. As calves dropped, Jess was pressed into action despite the push of schoolwork. For these weeks, Jess was as much farmhand as student.

  In one way the intensity was good. It didn’t leave either of them a lot of time to think about what had happened yesterday.

  On the other hand, grief was important. Marc knew that. He knew when the rush of spring calving lay behind them, they’d still return, night after night, to a house that echoed around them, Pete’s quiet presence a thing of the past.

  He didn’t know when he’d be able to make stew again. Just the thought of it made him want to cry. The simmering pot brought back too many memories.

  Getting through the funeral wouldn’t be easy. Having to put off Dad’s burial until the ground softened wasn’t easy, either. Maybe by then he and Jess would have reconciled themselves to a life without a parent. A life bereft of Pete’s common-sense directives.

  Maybe.

  “You okay?”

  Marc blinked. Donny’s look was sympathetic and a little uncomfortable. Marc nodded. “Fine. Can you do a fence check while I work on the engine of the big Deere?”

  “I’m on it. Then I’ll unload that feed order.”

  Marc swung up into the truck. “I’d appreciate it.”

  “They’re both doing okay,” Jess reported when Marc got back to the barn.

  His answering smile felt more like a grimace. “And you?”

  Jess paid close attention to cleaning a stall. “I’m fine. I’ll be glad when tomorrow’s over.”

  Marc frowned. Calling hours were tomorrow, followed by a funeral the next day. Then…

  Nothing. Farmwork. School. Riding contests for Jess. Long days. Dark nights.

  Marc clapped a hand to Jess’s shoulder. She didn’t look up. He dropped a kiss to her hair. “I’ll be glad when tomorrow’s over, too. I’m not big on public spectacles.”

  Jess leaned against him. “But the funeral will be nice. The pastor planned it just the way Dad wanted. It’ll be like having him with me in church again. All his favorites.”