by Jillian Hart
Simon, his son.
Something bumped his hat brim, knocking his hat askew. “Betty, is that you?”
The cow answered by seizing his Stetson at the brim with her teeth.
“Come to keep me company, did you?” He twisted around, not surprised to see her leaning over the fence, waving her prize in the air. “Think you’re pretty sassy, don’t you, stealing my hat?”
Chocolate brown eyes sparkled at him full of love. Hard not to get on his feet and pet her.
“You’re nothing but trouble, girl, you know that?” He rubbed her behind the ears, just where she liked it. “Don’t know why I put up with you.”
She batted her long curly lashes at him, confident of the reason why. Betty had figured him out long ago.
“Just don’t let it get around,” he grumbled. “It would ruin my reputation for sure.”
He leaned back against the fence rails, more tangled up inside than ever. At least his initial anger had dialed down to a background simmer.
Now there was a new one. Millie had roped him in again. He should have known better, but no, he just had to help her solve her problems. Why? Maybe it was time to be honest. He’d done it because he wanted to see her smile. He wanted to be near her. His feelings for her, that was the problem. And that kiss he’d given her—he squeezed his eyes shut, ignoring the sunshine on his face and the soft plop of his hat falling into the grass. Despair overwhelmed him. If this was what caring got you, he wanted nothing to do with it.
Betty lipped his shoulder, offering sympathy in the only way she knew how.
* * *
It had been a miserable afternoon. She couldn’t escape it. As the stepladder wobbled on the carpet, Millie splayed a hand on the living room wall to steady herself and risked going up on tiptoes. Her fingers wrapped around the old curtain rod, she wiggled it loose from its moorings and dust rose in a nose-stinging cloud. At least a bat didn’t come out, too. See, there were still a lot of things to be grateful for.
And Simon. Always Simon. Her gaze strayed to the boy in the field. Carefree, he tromped through the tall grass alongside the black pinto mustang, exploring Sundae’s new home together. Looked like the two had struck up an instant accord. What would happen now? Hunter had changed. Would he want Simon? Would he fight her for custody?
Worry quivered in her stomach. She couldn’t make it stop. Maybe concentrating on her work would distract her, not that it had yet. She shook the rod, the curtains plopped to the rug and she choked on more dust. Obviously they hadn’t been washed since Mom died.
The oven timer beeped. She hopped down, her feet hit the floor and she scooped up the dusty curtains. She dropped them into the laundry room, zipped to the kitchen and plunged her hands into oven mitts.
The warm, fragrant aroma of banana bread filled the air as she removed four loaf pans from the oven. She set them on racks to cool. That made a dozen loaves sitting on the counter, each one golden brown and perfect. There was enough for each man who’d come to help with the barn fire and to deliver along with the former milkers’ paychecks. The milk check had come in the day’s mail. Relieved at that, she spun the oven knob to Off, tossed the mitts into their drawer and heard a car in the driveway.
Hunter? Icy skittles zinged through her, leaving her shaking. Was it him? So not ready to see him, she peered through the doorway and spotted a pickup. It wasn’t Hunter’s. Big relief. Mr. Hoffsteader hopped down, lifted a hand to wave and ambled around the front of his truck. Adorable Myra Hoffsteader waited for her husband to open her door, placed her hand in his and slipped daintily to the ground.
Now there was true love. Millie propped a shoulder against the doorframe, watching the pair. His devotion, her adoration.
Nothing could be more beautiful.
“Millie!” Myra bustled over carrying a covered casserole. “I see you’re doing some housework. Can’t say this place doesn’t need it.”
“I’m doing my best.” She held open the screen. “Come in, both of you. I’ll pour you a glass of lemonade.”
“Oh, we just dropped by to give you this.” Myra ambled in, leaving her husband to settle on the porch swing. “I wanted to be sure and be the first to bring over a meal. Whip may not be a member of our church, but you and your son are.”
“This is very kind of you.”
“You’re one of us now. We all loved your mother. Janice was such a sweet soul. She’d want us to lend a hand. How is your father doing?”
“Sleeping. His nurse is watching over him.” He’d stayed on the porch for about thirty minutes, but it tired him out. His exhaustion concerned her. “We’re doing our best to keep him comfortable.”
“You’re a good girl, Millie.” Myra slipped the dish on the counter with a clunk. “Now, put this in the oven at two-fifty for forty minutes. All it needs is a warm-up. My, it looks like you’ve been busy in here. Your mother’s recipe?”
“How could I use anything else?” She grabbed a box of plastic wrap and tore off a length. “I owe a big thanks to a lot of people. Mom’s banana bread seems like a good start.”
“Where’s that boy of yours?” Myra glanced around, as if looking for him. Her bright eyes squinted, her gray curls bobbed.
“He’s out with the horses.” She nodded toward the window, her hand busily wrapping up a warm loaf. “Hunter brought over a little mustang for him to learn to ride on.”
“Wasn’t that nice? It must be hard to see Hunter after all this time. I noticed you two talking at the church picnic.”
“I can’t deny it.” She handed over the delicious-smelling bread. “Here. It’s best when it’s warm.”
“You remind me of your mother, dear.” Myra took the bundle, breathing in deep, her smile nostalgic. “She used to bake for others, too.”
“We used to bake together.” So easy to remember her mother’s voice filling the kitchen, the pad of her shoes and the squeak of the oven door as she peered in at the baking bread. Of being a little girl, happy just to be with her mom. She walked Myra to the door. “Thank you for the meal. I can’t tell you how much it helps.”
“My pleasure.” Myra beamed. “Now, what I’m about to say might not be any of my business, but can I keep from poking my nose in? Oh, no. No one probably knows what Hunter went through after you ran off, he’s the sort who keeps to himself, but I saw. I’m his neighbor.”
“I was hurt, too.” Myra was right, this really wasn’t any of her business, but she didn’t want to be impolite. “Thanks again—”
“No, you need to listen to this, dear. I know your son is his. With those dimples, no, there is too much of Hunter in the boy.”
“How long have you known?”
“In the grocery store that first day you were back.” Myra’s sympathy wreathed her gentle face. “That’s when I realized what a terrible thing your father had done.”
“My father?” That was a surprise. “What did he do?”
“After you left, there was a rumor going around that you had another beau over in Bozeman you were seeing on the side. When you ran away from home, you ran to him.” Emotion glinted in Myra’s eyes. “Guess who likely started that rumor.”
“My dad.” It sounded exactly like something he would do.
“I heard him in town confirming it anytime someone would ask if it was true. I’m sorry, honey, was I wrong to tell you?”
“No. I’m glad you did.” She patted Mrs. Hoffsteader’s hand and opened the door for her. “This explains a lot.”
“The rumor about destroyed Hunter. He loved you dearly, Millie, even if he wasn’t the sort to admit it.” Full of caring, Myra gave her a hug. “I’m not so old that I can’t see he feels the same way now.”
“No, not Hunter.” She could not imagine that. Even with all he’d done for her, and that kiss— She squeezed her eyes shut. Do
not think about his kiss.
“Are you two gals done shootin’ the breeze?” Mr. Hoffsteader ambled over. “That bread smells so good, my stomach is rumbling.”
“Well, Millie, guess I’d best get home and feed him.” She sparkled, a woman in love. “Call if you need anything, and you think over what I said.”
“I’ll try.” She watched Mr. Hoffsteader guide his wife down the steps and help her into his truck. Some loves lasted, that was clear. Other loves were never meant to be.
Chapter Fifteen
The who, who of an owl accompanied her through the dark house. Her reflection stared back at her in the curtainless windows; she hadn’t gotten the chance to put them up. The sleeping house echoed around her as she padded into the kitchen. Simon’s most recent bouquet of wildflowers sat on the counter.
Not bothering with a light, she snagged the lemonade pitcher from the fridge, fished a clean glass from the dishwasher and poured. She sipped the icy drink in silence, listening to the refrigerator click on and hum. Outside a raccoon prowled the back porch rail, stopped and peered in at her through the window. Hunter had been right about the raccoons in the shed.
Hunter. She couldn’t afford to think about him. When she did, her chest felt ready to crack. It was too bad she could no longer deny the truth she’d been fighting. She’d fallen in love with the man a second time, a man who couldn’t love her back. Never would.
Her Bible sat in the dark, the white cover reflecting the faintest light as if to draw her closer. She set her glass on the tabletop, slipped into a chair and fingered through the fine, gossamer pages. Those precious words had helped her through every hardship, encouraging her heart and uplifting her spirit. I never could have made it this far without You, she prayed. Thank You.
All she had to do was to keep going. Now that the milk check had come, she’d been able to prepay two of the milkers for the next week. She’d be able to eke by for the rest of the summer. She no longer had to accept his help in the barn every day. That was progress, right?
“Millie?” A weak voice rasped through the dark. “Millie, are you there?”
“I’m coming, Dad.” She pushed from the table. She didn’t like how weak he sounded. When she hurried into the room, only the nightlight’s glow illuminated him. He seemed to shrink in the last few hours, his face more skull-like than ever as the night nurse, Sara, finished adjusting his pillow.
Terrible dread clutched her. “What do you need, Dad?”
“I’m cold.” He bit the words out as if his being chilly was her fault.
With a resigned sigh, she grabbed a throw from the chest at the foot of the bed and shook it out over him. “Better? I can get another if you need it.”
“This’ll do,” he growled. “Sit down and stay with me. I can’t stand having strangers around.”
“The nurses are here to help you. You get that, right?” She drew the chair closer to his bedside.
“I don’t need their help,” he rasped out. “I told that doctor I didn’t want them standing around watching me die and figuring out what stuff to steal.”
“I’m sorry, Sara,” she told the night nurse who rose from a chair in the corner. As if there was anything valuable in this house, she thought. Honestly. “Why don’t I take over and give you a break.”
“Fine by me.” Sara passed by, stopping to squeeze Millie’s hand in understanding, and disappeared down the hall.
Weary, she pulled the chair closer. “Maybe you should close your eyes and try resting, Dad.”
“Should I? If I close ’em, I might not be able to open ’em again.” He tried to chuckle but coughed instead. Apparently, he thought dying jokes were funny. “What? Get that look off your face. It’s a fact of life. You live, you die. You’re weak if you can’t handle it.”
“You weren’t always like this.” Seeing him like this, wasting away, brimming with hostility and spite made it impossible to believe there was any good in him. There was once. She dropped into the chair, leaning close. “Remember when I was little and we would go to the town’s Fourth of July Days at the park?”
“Haven’t thought about it in a long while.”
“Me either.” She shrugged as the memories unspooled from a different time. Dad had been young and energetic with good health, his hair thick and dark. His laughter had boomed above the cheer of the crowd as she’d knelt in the sawdust, holding up her find. A shiny quarter. “Good goin’, girl!” he’d called, while beside him Mom clapped, pretty and sweet in a sundress. Encouraged, she’d kept digging through the pile along with the other kids, discovering wrapped candy and a dollar bill. She ran to her parents with both fists full and handed over her treasures for Dad to hold, so she could dig for more. “It’s a good memory. I’d almost forgotten.”
“You were a little thing back then.” He grunted the words without a hint of emotion, as if that time meant nothing to him.
She hoped it did somewhere and that down deep beneath the hard man he’d become lived a speck of affection.
“I don’t know what happened to you, but you used to be cute.” His tone softened a hint, but that was all. If he was capable of feeling love these days, it didn’t show. He closed his eyes and let out a breath.
He was gone.
“Dad?” She stopped breathing. Icy shock rolled through her. “Dad?”
“Let me see.” Sara bustled in to check his pulse and shook her head. “I’m sorry, honey.”
“Me, too.” Grief clogged her throat. Hot tears spilled down her cheeks. She felt sorry for the stubborn, selfish and cruel person her father had become. She cried for the good side of him, as small as that side had been, for the dad who held her candy, who cheered her on, who had taught her to ride a tricycle.
She didn’t know where a soul like Whip’s went when his life was done, but she prayed God would have mercy on him.
* * *
Cold steel. That’s how he had to be. Hunter hopped out of the truck in Millie’s driveway, pocketed his keys and adjusted his hat brim to cut the long rays of the morning sun. Distant, that was all he had to be. Civil. Chances were good he could probably do it.
“Hi.”
The kid startled him. The boy—his son—popped out of the tall grasses beyond the lawn. It didn’t take much to see the hopeful glint in deep blue eyes, so like his own. Why hadn’t he noticed it sooner?
Because he’d been too hurt by the past to even consider that Millie’s child could be his. He’d seen what he’d expected to—Millie reflected in her son—because he hadn’t wanted to wonder about the stranger he’d assumed the father to be.
“Howdy, there.” He heard the harshness in his tone, proof his defenses were all the way up and full strength. He blew out a sigh. Not what he needed to be for his kid. “What’ve you been up to?”
“Filling the water tub to the top.” Wet patches all over the boy affirmed he’d been playing with the hose. “Sundae and Lena were thirsty. I wanted to take good care of ’em.”
“Looks to me like you’re doing a good job. Did you feed them grain this morning?”
“Yep. I carried a bucket all the way from the barn.” Simon marched across the lawn with his glasses sliding down his nose. His dark hair stood straight up as the wind ruffled it.
My son, he thought, feeling it in his heart.
“It wasn’t too heavy, and the horses were sure glad to see me comin’.” Simon hopped alongside him. “They leaned against the fence and neighed and tried to take the bucket from me when I dumped it in their trough. They were funny.”
“Sounds like it.” He saw himself in Simon’s face. Dimples. The nose. The way he tilted his head to one side when he thought. “When I come back later today, after I cut the hay, I’ll make good on my promise.”
“Good, ’cuz I really want to learn to ride. Really, re
ally, really. Mom says it’s a lot of fun, and I like horses. What’s your horse’s name?”
“Dakota.” His chest squeezed. He’d never much thought of being a father, had always associated it with doom, but clomping up the porch steps next to this little boy just turned him inside out. He prayed he wouldn’t mess this up too much. “Is your mom inside?”
“Yeah.” Simon hung his head, gave a sad sigh and his feet slowed to a stop on the porch. “She’s busy gettin’ the house ready.”
“Ready for what?” Then it hit him. No home-care worker’s car in the driveway. The hollow feeling of loss like a hush surrounding the house. “Did Whip pass?”
A single nod.
“I’m sorry.” His hand rested on the boy’s small shoulder. Sorrow for his loss and fatherly affection filled him up with way too much feeling. The magnitude was nearly too much to handle. “Are you sad?”
“A little. He let me watch TV with him sometimes. It would have been nice to have a grandpa.”
“I know what you mean, kid.” People you cared about weren’t always what you needed them to be, or weren’t good for you to be around. No way did he want to be that for his son. “Do you want to talk about it? Your grandpa dying is a big thing to deal with.”
“Nah, I’m good.” Simon squared his shoulders in a grown-up way. “But Mom’s not.”
“Want me to talk to her?”
A vigorous nod. A silent plea.
“Then that’s what I’ll do.” Comforting Millie was the last thing he wanted to do, but he had to deal with her. She was his son’s mother. “I’ll be out in a bit, okay? Maybe you can show me the cats before I go.”
“Okay.” Simon lit up some. “I’ve almost got one of ’em coming up to me. I’ve got to have a bowl of milk, but still. We’re almost friends.”
“You keep at it.” He ruffled the boy’s hair, fighting the affection crowding his rib cage. Trying to stop his feelings had become second nature. Something he had to learn to quit. Resolved, he yanked open the screen and stepped inside the house that felt empty and hushed, proof death had visited.
