by Freya Barker
“Good idea.” His eyes come to me and I suddenly feel awkward, a little unsure. “I hope you don’t mind, Sofie asked what she should wear for Friday, and I helped her pick something out.”
“That’s fine. I guess I haven’t really thought that far.”
“I hadn’t either,” I confess, thinking about Nicky’s brand new blue dress. “I don’t really have anything funeral appropriate.” The corner of Rafe’s mouth twitches as his gaze drifts down my length. It almost feels like a caress on my skin underneath the washed out Duran Duran concert T-shirt and ripped men’s jeans I’m wearing.
“I can see that,” he says, grinning now. “Suitable for a mosh pit, but maybe not church.”
“Anyway…” I drawl, a little irritated being the subject of his amusement. “Sofie suggested I wear this never-worn dress Nicky bought recently, but I wanted to check with you first.”
His face instantly blanks and he waves his hand dismissively. “Doesn’t matter to me. Use whatever you want. I’m gonna run out and drop this at the funeral home.”
“I don’t know if this is a good idea.”
I look over at my mom, who’s watching as the kids—each with a hand in one of Rafe’s—approach the casket.
“It’ll be okay.” I lightly touch her arm. “They wanted to give her the drawings they made themselves.”
Mom presses her lips together and leans against my dad, who is flanking her on the other side. I don’t even bother holding back my tears as we watch Rafe crouch down, putting an arm around each of his children. He lifts them simultaneously, stepping closer to my sister’s casket.
“She’s wearing my necklace,” I hear Spencer stage-whisper.
“Why don’t you put your drawings right by her hands.” Rafe’s low voice sounds rough as he leans forward so the kids can reach.
I suddenly have a moment of panic when a vision of one of the kids tumbling from Rafe’s hold hits me, and breathe a sigh of relief when he straightens up.
“I love you, Mommy.”
Sofie’s tear-filled voice rips my heart right out of my chest, and I shove my fist against my mouth to stifle a sob.
“Daddy, I have to pee,” her brother announces loudly, causing my father to chuckle. Rafe’s head swings around, smiling through his tears.
“All right, kid. Let me get you guys to Kathleen, she can take you.”
It had actually been Mom’s idea to ask Kathleen to be here for the kids. She’s in the hallway, waiting.
The moment the door closes behind Rafe and the kids, Mom and Dad make their way over to the casket. I stay right where I am.
“Couldn’t you have suggested a dress?”
I squeeze my eyes shut at Mom’s sharp comment when she sees Nicky. It’s always been my mother’s way, to lash out when she hurts, but I know inside she’s torn up in pain. I ignore the comment, just as I ignore Dad’s soft admonishment.
I hear the door open at the same time Mom hisses, “She’s got sparkles all over herself, for cripes’ sake. She’d be mortified”
A large hand presses in the small of my back as Rafe guides me closer to the casket.
“Actually, she wouldn’t,” he jumps in. “That sweater was her favorite, and she’d happily be covered in glitter if it meant it would make her kids happy. She looks perfect.”
I lift my eyes and look at my sister. Except it’s not her anymore; only the shell where she used to live.
Dad kisses his fingertips and presses them over her heart. “See you soon, sweetheart. I’ll see you soon.”
Mom reaches in and brushes a few sparkles off her cheek, before she turns to my father and buries her face in his chest.
Rafe stays where he is, but urges me to move closer. I straighten the two drawings the kids dropped in and take one last look at her before stepping back to let funeral home staff close the casket. When they start bolting down the lid, I instinctively lean into Rafe’s strength and his arm settles around my shoulders.
“Wait,” I call out as they start rolling her toward the door.
I hurry forward and bend down, pressing my lips against the cold wood covering her face.
“Bonus kiss,” I whisper.
Chapter Eight
Rafe
It’s been a long ten days.
Nicky’s absence had been glaringly obvious in the days following the funeral. Leading up to it, I’d had my hands full dealing with things, but the biggest challenge had been to try and get us into some semblance of a regular routine after.
I’d kept the kids home this past week so we could all catch our breath. I only took care of emergency calls and kept up with my farm visits, but I’d left the notice on the door for non-urgent care to contact Rick’s clinic in Winona.
Having Taz around has been a mixed bag. As valuable as it is to have her help look after the kids and the house, it’s also a challenge having her so close. In the last weeks of her life, Nicky had provided a natural boundary, but in the void she left behind; I find it more and more difficult to keep my distance.
It was almost a relief to drop the kids off at school for their first day back, and head straight to the clinic for my first scheduled appointment.
That relief is short-lived when I see my first appointment waiting in the reception area.
“Morning Mrs. Myers. Give me a chance to check in with Lisa and I’ll be right with you.” I indicate for my assistant to follow me to the back, out of earshot. “Please tell me she hasn’t been feeding her dog crap again. I don’t think I have the patience.”
Lisa snorts and shakes her head. “It’s better,” she says, grinning. “Apparently the new food has poor Charlton’s stomach upset. She says he’s gassy.”
I close my eyes and take a deep breath. “I hope to God we have a busy morning scheduled.”
“We do. A lot of folks have been waiting for you to get back, rather than driving to Winona. Mrs. Myers gets only ten minutes of your time.”
“Thank you. Give me five minutes to get caffeinated and then put her in exam one.”
“Coffee in the pot,” Lisa tosses over her shoulder, as she makes her way down the hall and I quickly duck into the small kitchen.
Fortified by Lisa’s potent brew, I find my way to exam room one.
“Dr. Thomas, I’m so very sorry for your loss,” Mrs. Myers blurts out before I even have a foot in the door. “You must be heartbroken. How are those precious little ones doing?”
“Thank you, Mrs. Myers. We’re coping. Now what brings you in today?” I quickly redirect the conversation.
For a brief time it works as she recounts in painstaking detail the workings of Charlton’s bowels in the past two weeks. While I examine the dog, however, she maneuvers her way back to what I’m sure is the real reason of her visit today. “I couldn’t help but notice that sister of hers at the funeral. Natasha?” She makes a clucking sound as she shakes her head. “Good Lord, she looks a fright, doesn’t she? So different from your lovely Veronica.” She emits more disapproving sounds to broadcast her dislike. “Poor Sarah and Ed, they must be beside themselves having to bury their precious daughter. I can’t imagine their shock when the other one showed up.”
Malicious old biddy. At first I try to ignore her, but I can’t stand by and have her feed what I assume is already a thriving, small-town gossip mill.
“Mrs. Myers,” I snap sternly, lifting Charlton and setting him on the floor. “Not that it’s any of your business, but Natasha has been here for weeks already. Her sister wanted her by her side in her final days, and she’s been a lifesaver helping out with the children. I don’t want to hear you speak ill of her.”
She looks shocked, pressing her hand against her chest. “Of course. I would never…” she huffs before tilting her head to the side before she continues, “it’s just…”
“Mrs. Myers, I’m sorry to cut you short, but my next appointment is waiting. Your dog is fine. Any change in diet always takes a bit of adjustment, I’m sure his bowels will settle do
wn soon enough.” I reach around her and pull the door open, revealing Lisa.
“I was about to let you know your next appointment is here,” she announces, bulging her eyes at me.
“Send them in, please. Mrs. Myers is just leaving.”
Lisa, hearing the tension in my voice, takes the older woman by the arm and guides her firmly down the hall.
Appointments keep me busy the rest of the morning and every single one starts with condolences. By the time noon comes around, I need some air. Maybe I’ll pop home and check on things there. See how Taz is doing now the kids are back at school.
I tell myself it’s out of concern for her.
“I’m going to grab some lunch.”
Lisa is at the reception desk, the phone at her ear, and holding a finger up. “Hang on, he just finished his last appointment.” She winces, shooting a silent apology with her eyes. “He can be there in ten.”
“Where am I going?” I ask when she hangs up.
“Van Duren’s farm. He found that new calf in a ditch, tangled up in barbed wire some idiot left out in the field. He says some of it has embedded deep.”
A few choice expletives escape me as I quickly collect what I need and rush out to my truck.
It’s not that these things never happen—they do—but that bull calf is special. Jeff Van Duren has a lot riding on that animal. It’s the only calf left since two of his pregnant cows lost their calves earlier this year.
One of his hands is waiting at the gate when I drive up.
“They’re on the far side, northwest corner, just left of those trees,” he says, pointing, when I roll down the window.
“Can I drive the truck out there?”
“Yeah, stick to the trail along the fence line.”
It’s not looking good. By the time I reach Jeff he’s standing on the edge of the gully looking down, hands clasped behind his neck.
“Careful.” He grabs my arm when I try to make my way down to the animal. “Every time I get close, dang thing struggles and hurts hisself more.”
“Can’t help him if I can’t get to him,” I point out.
“Ain’t you got a dart gun?”
“That’s not gonna work, Jeff. I have a better chance of keeping him calm if I can get my hands on him. Grab me that burlap sack from the back of the truck.”
It takes me a while to ease my way down to the calf, but I’m finally able to drop the burlap over his head.
“Bring my bag,” I call up, trying to get a grip on the animal without getting myself hurt. “Gonna need you to cut the wires while I hold him down.”
Halfway down the slope, Jeff loses his footing and starts sliding, startling the terrified calf.
Taz
The house is so quiet.
I’ve tried to stay busy, ever since Rafe and the kids left this morning, but the silence is starting to get to me.
With the last load of laundry in the dryer, the house clean, and dinner prep done early, I’ve run out of things to do. Sort of. More like I’ve run out of excuses not to tackle Nicky’s clothes.
Mom said something last week when she and Dad dropped by. Then Rafe suggested over the weekend that maybe I’d want to go through her closet.
I don’t. Not really. Touching her stuff, smelling her scent, feeling her absence—I’m not ready to leave this numb blanket I’ve covered myself under. I’m afraid if I even lift a corner, I’ll get sucked into an emotional vortex I won’t be able to find my way out of.
It’s safer this way.
I had a weak moment yesterday when my parents dropped by after church. Mom seemed flat, only making an effort to be engaged with the kids, but barely speaking to Rafe or me. When they left, Dad unexpectedly pulled me into a hug, whispering to me to “give her some time.”
It was more than I’d had from my parents since coming back, and it had me running up the stairs so I could deal with the wave of emotions it evoked in private. I didn’t expect Rafe to follow me, but I suddenly found myself pressed against his chest. I’m ashamed to admit I clung to him, selfishly grabbing the comfort he offered with both hands.
Selfishly—yes—because even after the tears dried, I didn’t make any effort to step away. I’m not sure how long we stood there, but Rafe ended up pulling my arms from around him and disappearing downstairs. It took me a while, but by the time I came down, I’d shoved all my emotions back under that heavy blanket of numbness.
It feels like we’re all on shaky ground, moving cautiously around each other, trying hard not to be the one to upset the fragile balance.
Unable to help myself, I walk over to the bay window and check to see if Rafe’s truck is there. I saw him leave a couple of hours ago, but apparently he hasn’t returned yet. It’s only two; it’ll be another hour and a half before the kids get off the bus.
Maybe I can bake cookies or something for their snack. It’ll give me something to do.
I check the pantry and pull out what ingredients I can find. Hope the kids like oatmeal raisin cookies, because the bag of chocolate chips only had five chips left. Looks like someone’s been snacking.
I’m about to shove the first tray in the oven when I hear the front door and Rafe comes walking into the kitchen—covered in blood.
“Jesus! What happened to you?”
I drop the tray and rush over, my hands already doing a cursory exam of his body before he has a chance to respond.
“I’m fine,” he says, trying to grab my hands but I brush his away. “It’s not all mine.”
I look up in his face and notice a pretty deep gash on the side of his forehead, in addition to a collection of smaller cuts and scrapes. “Wrestling feral cats today?” I mutter, pulling him over to the kitchen table and pushing him down in a chair. “Don’t move.”
He’s still sitting where I left him when I return with the first aid kit. I set it on the table beside him and dig through to find some gauze pads and hydrogen peroxide. I notice him wince when I start cleaning the gash on his forehead.
“Sorry,” I mumble.
“It was a calf.”
I stop and look down into his blue eyes, realizing how close we are. “What?”
“I was wrestling a calf,” he clarifies. “Except it was tangled in barbed wire.”
“I see.” My voice sounds breathless. “How is the calf?”
“He’ll live.”
Warning lights go off when his gaze drops down to my mouth and I force myself to focus on his injury. My hands shake slightly as I finish cleaning the wound and use butterfly bandages to close it.
“That could’ve done with a few stitches. It may leave a scar.”
“Don’t care about that.”
He wouldn’t. He’s not particularly vain. Heck, I doubt he ever even uses a brush or a comb on that unruly mop.
“Anywhere else?” I ask, as I dig my fingers into his hair, probing his scalp for more injuries.
“I don’t know.” He sounds almost pained.
I drop my eyes to his face to find his closed. When I look down farther I see the front of his shirt is a mess. “Take off your shirt.”
“What?” His eyes fly open.
“Some of the blood is wet. I think it’s yours.”
He looks down and pulls the shirt away from his skin. “Well, shit.”
“Let me have a look.”
I busy myself with the contents of the first aid kit as he reaches behind his back to pull the T-shirt off. I take in a deep breath, grab a wad of gauze in my hand, and drop down on my knees in front of him. Biting hard on my bottom lip to avoid groaning at the sight of his lightly dusted chest, I zoom in on the jagged tear above the left nipple oozing blood.
His skin is hot to the touch, and I mentally list every bone in the human body to resist the temptation to let my fingers explore. My hands work by rote, efficiently cleaning and closing that cut as well. Thank fuck for that, because the rest of me is in turmoil.
It’s impossible not to notice his musky scent, the h
eavy muscles of his thighs framing me, or the rapid beat of his heart under my hands. So the moment I tape down the last bandage, I shoot to my feet. Pins and needles in my lower extremities have me stumble a step back and large hands grab me by the hips to stabilize me. I’m not sure if it’s him or me, but one of us hisses at the touch and our eyes lock.
The loud beeping of my phone alarm startles me out of my trance and into action. Rafe’s hands drop from my hips.
“I’ll go get the kids from the bus stop, and you should grab a shower before you scare the crap out of them,” I assign, stuffing supplies back in the zippered kit. “Just don’t soak those cuts.”
“Go.” He gets up and stills my frantic hands with his. “I’ll clean this up.”
I don’t need to be asked twice. I grab my phone off the counter, shove it in my pocket, and head for the front door, hoping like hell he doesn’t notice my wobbly legs.
That was too close for comfort.
Chapter Nine
Rafe
“I don’t want to go to school.”
I glance over at my daughter, who has a familiar stubborn expression on her face.
“Come on, Sofie, get your stuff. You’re gonna miss the bus,” I try to coax her, but I can tell from the now quivering bottom lip we’re heading for a meltdown.
“I don’t care.”
“But I do. Let’s go, Pipsqueak.” I get up from the kitchen table and collect the breakfast dishes, hoping my actions will prompt her. Instead, when I turn back from the sink I see she’s dropped her head on her arms on the table.
“It’s pizza day today.” Spencer, already standing by the door toting his Spiderman backpack, tries to help.
My eyes dart to the calendar on the fridge. Sure enough, on today’s date pizza day is marked in Nicky’s tidy handwriting. So much for the lunches I packed them both. I should’ve checked the schedule.
