by K. C. Wells
Greg chuckled. “Well, maybe someone needs to keep an eye on you.”
“You volunteering for the job?” Micah joked.
Greg laughed. “It’s not like I’ll have much to do, right? I can crack a whip, if that’s what’s required.”
Micah arched his eyebrows. “Kinky.”
Greg snorted. “Doof.”
Micah’s gaze alighted on the wooden box on top of the cabinet beside the bed. It was still wrapped in plastic.
“That was my Dad’s.” Greg’s voice was quiet. “He left a note saying he wanted me to have it.”
“But you haven’t opened it.” Micah didn’t know how Greg could stand it. Curiosity would have been eating Micah alive by now.
Greg let out a soft sigh. “I know. I will, just… not yet.” He regarded Micah closely. “I love how you and your dad get along. You have this really great relationship.”
“Didn’t you get along with your dad?”
Greg shrugged. “I didn’t really know him all that well. He and Mom split up when I was little, and he wasn’t around when I was growing up. It was only once I got to college that I decided to get to know him. I wanted to know more, like why they split up in the first place.”
“And did you find out?”
“Not really.” Greg’s face clouded over. “All he would say, was that he had to stop living a lie. Mom wouldn’t talk about it either. But then, by that time, she’d met Damon Chambers.”
“Your stepdad?”
Greg nodded. “He’s okay, I guess. I mean, he wanted me to take his name, for us to be a family, but….” He swallowed. “Would you mind if we don’t continue this conversation?”
“As long as we get to finish it eventually.” Micah hated that Greg was hurting.
“Sure. We’re going to have lots of time for talking, right?” He smiled. “It’s not like I’ll be going anywhere for a while.” Greg straightened. “So. How about I put all my stuff together, and we see if they’ll let me out of this place?”
Micah nodded. “That sounds like a plan, except how about you stay put and I pack your things? Then I’ll go find a nurse. I’ll move the car too, so that you don’t have far to hobble once you get outside.”
“Outside.” Greg’s face lit up. “Fresh air. Edible food.”
Micah snorted. “I’d hold off on those kinda comments until you’ve tasted my dad’s cooking.”
“Can your sister cook? Or you? What about you?” Greg gazed at him hopefully.
Micah laughed. “Naomi can cook pasta, and that’s about it. I swear that’s all she eats when she’s in school. Me? My specialty is pizza.”
“Making it from scratch?”
Micah snickered. “Nah—shoving a frozen one into the oven.”
Greg narrowed his gaze. “Hmm. I’m suddenly rethinking this whole, ‘go-and-stay-with-Micah’ deal. Because… malnutrition?” He grinned. “Should I be worried here?”
Micah opened his eyes wide. “I may have exaggerated a little about my dad’s cooking. It is edible. Well, just about.” He looked around for Greg’s backpack, and spied it on the chair. “Let’s get you packed up so we can spring you from prison.” He gave a furtive glance over his shoulder. “Just don’t let the nurse hear me say that.” For some reason, Micah was excited by the prospect of taking Greg home. The past five days had been good. He’d visited every day, often spending three or more hours with Greg. But the conversation about his mom and stepdad was the most personal Greg had gotten in that whole time.
Maybe he’ll feel freer to talk about himself once we’re out of here.
Micah hoped so, because he still had a lot of questions to ask.
Greg gazed out at the passing scenery from the back seat. “There’s not a whole lot out here, is there?”
Micah chuckled. “This is Highway 59, heading toward Gillette, but we hit Wright first. And no, there’s not much to see.”
Greg couldn’t see a thing: everywhere was covered with a deep blanket of snow. “Is it more interesting without the snow?”
Micah laughed. “Not really.” He inclined his head in a northeasterly direction. “Over there is Thunder Basin National Grassland. It has some great views of the Rocky Mountains, but mostly it’s just flat. That’s where I was coming from when I found you.”
Greg looked out at the snow and shivered. “Thank God you did.” His leg was aching. “How long does it take to get to Wright?”
“About seventy-five minutes from the hospital, give or take. We’re not that far now.”
Greg stared at the landscape. “I think… I was coming from the other direction.” When Micah had first mentioned Gillette, the name had struck a chord. Greg was pretty sure he’d passed through Gillette, and that the truck had dropped him off just south of there.
He wasn’t likely to forget Jake’s Tavern in a hurry, that was for sure.
“You okay back there?” Micah peered at him in the rear-view mirror. “You went quiet all of a sudden. Is your leg bothering you?”
“A little.” He had a bag full of pills for the pain, only he wasn’t that keen on taking them.
“Well, when we get you home, you can take your meds. Remember, the nurse said you can take two every four hours. When did you last take some?”
“Just before you arrived,” Greg said absently. He wasn’t thinking about pills—he was recalling a cute guy with dark eyes and a nice line. I guess it just goes to prove you really can’t judge a book by its cover. That pleasant exterior had hidden a whole lot of ugliness.
“No wonder you’re hurting. Do you want to take them now? I’ve got a bottle of water here.”
Greg told himself for what had to be the hundredth time how damn lucky he’d been that night. Micah was one of the good guys. “Actually? Yeah.” He opened his backpack where it sat on the foot mat, rummaging inside it until he found the bag full of pain meds. Micah reached back to hand him the bottle. Greg pressed out two of the capsules and chased them down with a good gulp of cold water. “Thanks.” He held out the bottle.
“You keep it. I’ve got another here.” Micah pointed to the side of the road. “That’s where I found you, by the way.”
Greg jerked up his head and stared at the white landscape. There was nothing to see but snow, miles from anywhere. Those bastards. A shudder rippled through him.
“Hey.” Micah’s gaze met his in the mirror. “You’re all right. You made it.”
“Because of you.” Greg took a couple of calming breaths, expelling his tension along with the sick feeling in the pit of his stomach. Seeing where they’d dumped him only served to make their intentions clear. Then something deep in his belly turned over. What if… what if I wasn’t the only one? What if… they’ve done this before? Hot bile rose up in his throat, and he gagged.
“Greg?” The car veered over to the side of the road and came to a stop. Greg had barely enough time to open the car door before he threw up onto the snow.
Micah unfastened his seat belt, twisted around, and leaned between the seats. “Are you okay?”
The cold air hit Greg’s face and he shivered, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.
“Here.” Micah yanked open the glove box, before thrusting a couple of sheets of paper towel into his hand. Greg took them gratefully, wiping away the last traces of vomit from his face and hand. He balled up the towel, looking for somewhere to put it.
“You might as well throw it out there. It’s biodegradable anyway.” Micah gazed at him closely. “Do you get car sick?”
“No, not usually,” Greg replied truthfully. It wasn’t like he could tell Micah what was in his thoughts. He could only pray he was wrong. Because if there was the slightest possibility that he was correct…. Another shiver coursed through his body, and he pulled the car door shut.
Micah frowned. “I’m getting you home as fast as I can. Dad will have the fire lit, and the house will be warm.”
Right then, Greg doubted he’d ever be warm again. His fears seeped into h
is bones, spreading ice through his veins.
Please, God, let me be wrong.
By the time Micah switched off the engine, Dad was already out of the house and walking toward the car. Micah noticed instantly that he’d cleared a path to the front door.
“It’s a nice-looking house,” Greg commented.
Before Micah could respond, Dad opened the back door, and then crouched down next to Greg. “Here’s how we’re gonna do this. Once you’re out of the car, I’m going to carry you into the house, all right?”
“I have crutches,” Greg protested. “I’m sure I can manage.”
Dad scowled. “The ground is too icy for crutches. And you’re gonna be staying in the downstairs guest room, because no way am I letting you climb the stairs. You can tackle that particular hurdle in a few weeks, but not now. And let’s be honest here. You probably don’t weigh more than a hundred pounds, even with that cast.”
Greg glared at him. “I know I’m skinny, but Jesus!”
Micah snickered. “It’s much easier if you don’t argue with him, really.” Greg grumbled, but Dad was ignoring him, already helping him out of the car. Then he lifted Greg like he weighed nothing, his left arm supporting Greg’s leg. Micah pulled Greg’s backpack from the car, along with his crutches, and followed them to the house, his dad walking carefully over the newly revealed paved path. Micah pushed open the door and Dad turned sideways to enter, making sure to keep Greg’s leg away from the walls. Greg had his arms around Dad’s neck.
Dad carried him through into the living room, where the fire was already blazing, spreading its heat to every corner. He eased Greg down onto the couch in front of it. “Welcome to our home. I thought we’d give you a while to get warm, then we’ll have lunch. Then you can see your room.”
Greg nodded, his gaze traveling around the room. “This is great. Really cozy. And I love the fire.” He turned to Micah. “Where do you paint? Is your studio on this floor? Can I see it?”
Micah laughed. “You’ve just gotten through the door. Take a breath, for God’s sake.” He peered at his dad. “What’s for lunch?”
“Soup. I figured that was easiest. And I just made some bread.”
Greg let out a low whistle. “You make your own bread?” He stared at Micah. “I thought you said he couldn’t cook?”
Dad gave Micah a hard stare. “Oh, he did, did he?” His lips twitched.
Micah snorted. “Hey, don’t go giving him a false impression. Anyone can switch on a bread machine and measure out ingredients.”
Greg glanced from Micah, to Dad, whose face flushed, then back to Micah, before bursting into laughter.
Dad huffed. “Okay, so maybe I’m not the World’s Best Cook.”
Micah went over to him and gave him a hug. “Maybe not, but I think you’re a serious contender for the World’s Best Dad.” Dad’s faced glowed, but he said nothing, opting instead to return Micah’s hug.
“I’ll go fix lunch.” Dad disappeared into the kitchen.
Greg leaned back against the cushions. “So what’s the layout of this floor? Seeing as this is where I’m going to be located for a while.”
“First things first.” Micah grabbed the old coffee table that Dad had brought in from the garage. He placed it at a right angle to the couch, then covered it with a couple of pillows. “This is for your leg. We figured it was the right height.” He helped Greg to sit properly, lifting his leg carefully onto the pillows. “How’s that?”
“Perfect,” Greg said with a sigh. “And I think the meds have just kicked in. I’m feeling kind of muzzy.”
“Then you just sit there and be muzzy,” Micah said with a smile. “You don’t have any place to be, and nothing to do but heal. And if you want to take a nap after lunch, that’s fine. Like Dad said, sleep is good.” When Greg didn’t respond, Micah peered closely at him.
Greg had fallen asleep.
Micah crept out of the room and into the kitchen. He can eat when he wakes up.
Chapter Six
Greg was comfortable, pleasantly full, and content for the first time in a long while. The day seemed to have gone by so slowly, and yet that wasn’t a bad thing at all. He’d dozed on the couch, chatted with Micah, looked through photo albums that Micah’s dad had left beside him, and eaten plenty. His appetite had finally returned, and despite Micah’s jokes about their cooking prowess, he and his dad had prepared a great meal.
It was almost enough to banish Greg’s fears. Almost—but not quite.
By the time nine o’clock rolled around, it was obvious Micah’s ass was dragging. His dad noticed too, and told him to go to bed. It was only once Micah had left them that his dad told Greg that Micah had been up since the crack of dawn, working on a canvas, before coming to collect Greg from the hospital.
“And before you start feeling guilty,” his Dad interjected, “he usually gets up early to paint. He says the light is better. Micah hates to paint by artificial light. Says the colors don’t appear the same in light that isn’t natural.” He smiled. “Not that there’s a whole lotta light early in the morning at this time of the year. But yeah, he’s not a night owl, that boy.” He peered at Greg. “And what about you? Are you a dawn or dusk guy?”
“I guess I’m more of a morning person,” Greg admitted. He sighed. “I can’t thank you enough, sir. This is really kind of you.”
“Hush. Like I said last weekend, you’re Hayden’s kid. There isn’t much I wouldn’t do for ya.” He cleared his throat. “Greg, I like your manners, honest, but… do you think you could call me Joshua? Sir kinda reminds me of my dad, and trust me, that’s not a good thing.”
Greg blinked. “Okay… I guess. It feels a little weird, I have to admit.” Then he thought about it. Micah’s da—Joshua—had been friends with his own dad. Maybe a little familiarity was okay in those circumstances. But that thought led him off down an avenue full of questions. “Do you think… could we talk a bit about my dad?” Top of Greg’s list was that letter. What on earth could his dad have written that would make a grown man weep the way Joshua had done? And what was so all-fired important that Dad had wanted to share with Joshua?
Joshua stilled. “I suppose we should, really. Unless… you’d rather wait until tomorrow? After a good night’s sleep, I mean.”
Greg knew evasion when he heard it, and Strike while the iron is hot was one of his mom’s favorite sayings. “I didn’t know my dad all that well. It was only during the past couple of years that we… reconnected.”
“How come?” Joshua sat beside him on the couch. “What happened between you two?”
“Nothing. But he and mom split up when I was little.” Greg paused, uncertain as to whether he should continue. The opportunity seemed too good to waste. “What I’ve never discovered is the reason why. Mom says nothing about it. All my dad would say was that he wanted to stop living a lie, and I don’t know what he meant by that. Oh, I’ve come up with so many theories, but…” He stared at his clasped hands, lost in his own thoughts.
Joshua’s breathing hitched, and Greg glanced up sharply. “What if… what if I knew why?”
Greg’s heartbeat sped up. “You… you do?”
Joshua regarded him in silence for a moment, then got up from the couch and left the room. Greg stared after him in bewilderment, until Joshua returned, carrying the envelope Greg had delivered. He removed the letter and something else, that he handed to Greg. “This is your dad and me, when we were seventeen.”
Greg gazed at the photos, unable to hold back a smile when he saw the goofball expressions on his dad’s and Joshua’s face. “Looks like you two had a few laughs.”
“God, we did.”
Then Greg studied the final two images, and it was as if a hand tightened around his chest. That look… almost naked emotion, so plain to see that…
Slowly Greg raised his head to meet Joshua’s gaze. “Is there something you want to tell me?”
Joshua sighed. “I think I’ll let your dad do that.” An
d with that, he handed Greg the letter.
Greg’s hand trembled as he held the sheets, covered in a familiar scrawl.
Jackson, WY
April 29, 2017
Joshua,
I know I’ve probably left this too late, but…
You have no idea how many times I’ve thought about trying to find you these last few years. I told myself you were happy, that you had your own life… that you didn’t need me waltzing into it and raking up the past. But then two things happened that made me rethink that decision.
I’m so sorry about your wife, Joshua. I saw her obituary in the paper. It said you were married for twenty-four years, and that you have two children. Then I saw where you live. My God. We’ve been living in the same state for the past twenty years or so, and we never knew.
I hope you had a good life with her. You deserve that.
Yet knowing how close we are? Hell, I could get in my car and drive non-stop for just over nine hours, and I’d be on your doorstep. Not that I will. I still can’t find the courage to come visit you. Too much time has passed. And now… I’m writing this letter, knowing I’ll never mail it to you, because to do that would be like admitting that I’ll never see you again. That would be like giving in to the cancer that’s consuming me.
Cancer. Yes. I’ve got anywhere between three and six months, they tell me. No surgery—I’m beyond that. Beyond chemotherapy and radiation too. The ironic thing is I never even realized I was so ill. This bastard snuck up on me, and by the time I got the diagnosis, it was already too late to do a damn thing about it.
So little time…
I have to get down on paper what I wish I could say to you in person. It’s as close as I’m going to get, so here goes…
I loved you. God, how I loved you. Joshua, my sweet boy, my first—my only—true love. I’ve never forgotten you. Not for one single minute. I got married too, but unlike you, I couldn’t stick at it. Something deep inside of me knew it was wrong, that I only married Debra to please my parents—that I never loved her, at least not the way I loved you. I have a son too. Greg. After years apart, we’re finally building the kind of relationship a father and son should have, only it’s too little, too late. My hope for him is that he finds someone who loves him half as much as I loved you.
