He was gone just as she was beginning to understand him.
One tear and then another slid down her cheek. She closed her eyes and shoved it all down until her chest ached. “Sorry, Daddy. Two got out,” she said. He’d been her anchor when she hadn’t even known she needed one.
She slid her hand from her father’s and dried her cheeks with a tissue on the nightstand. Even in her raw grief, she couldn’t lie to herself. He hadn’t been a perfect dad, but neither had she been a perfect daughter. Their relationship had often been difficult, but she loved him. Loved him with a deep, soul-devastating ache. She took a breath past the pain in her chest and blew it out. “You did the best you could.” She understood that now. Understood it, given his own difficult past. “I’m sorry I wasn’t here when you passed. I’m sorry you were alone. I’m sorry about a lot of things.”
She kissed his cool cheek. There was no reason to stay by his bedside. He wasn’t there. “I love you, Daddy.” Emotion clogged her throat and she managed a weak “Good-bye.”
She moved out into the hall and made the difficult call to the JH. Vince stood beside her, his hand on her back as he spoke in a low tone to the nurses. Predictably, the Parton sisters fell apart, while Snooks and Tyrus were deeply saddened but not surprised. They were tough old cowboys like Clive and would make sure the JH ran smoothly like always.
She didn’t know how she was going to live without her anchor, and over the next five days, she just went through the motions. She ate little and slept less. Her life was a blur. A numb, hazy blur of people stopping by the JH to talk and remember her father. A constant stream of casseroles and Clive stories. A fog of picking out a casket and burial clothes. Of signing documents and writing the obituary. Of discovering that her father had died of heart failure due to deep vein thrombosis. Meeting with the estate lawyer, Mr. Koonz, and the executor of Clive’s will.
She’d sat within the lawyer’s office, the scent of leather and wood polish filling her blurry head. She sat with five of her father’s loyal employees and listened as each was bequeathed fifty thousand dollars and guaranteed employment at JH Ranch for as long as they chose. The lawyer mentioned a trust to an unnamed beneficiary that Sadie assumed was set up for children she might have.
Everything else in his estate was left to Sadie. Everything from his old Ford truck and unexpired insurance policies to the JH.
There was a time, a few short weeks ago, when the weight of responsibility would have overwhelmed her. It overwhelmed her now, only maybe not as much. Now the JH felt a bit more like an anchor than a noose.
He left a letter for Sadie. One that was short and to the point:
“Talking never came easy to me. I loved your mama and I loved you. I wasn’t the best daddy and I regret that. Don’t let the folks at the funeral home put makeup on me, and keep the lid to my casket closed. You know how I hate people gawking and gossiping.”
And through the worst of it, Vince was there. His strong, solid presence just when she seemed to need him. He’d helped her gather her father’s things, then driven her to the funeral home the next day. Mostly he’d been with her at night. When everyone was gone. When the house was too quiet. When she was alone with her own thoughts and the numbing grief threatened to swamp her. He came and pressed his body into hers. His solid warmth chasing the chill from her bones. It wasn’t about sex. It was more like he came to see how she was holding up and stayed for a few hours.
He never made the mistake of falling asleep in her bed again, and when she woke from a restless sleep in the darkness, he was always gone.
Chapter Fifteen
It seemed the entire population of the Texas panhandle turned out for the funeral of Clive Hollowell. Mourners from as far away as Denver and Tulsa and Laredo packed the pews of the largest Baptist church in Lovett. Like a lot of Southern Baptists, Clive had been baptized at the age of four after his profession of faith. Other than at his wife’s funeral, no one could actually recall ever seeing Clive’s tall frame sitting in the pews of the First Baptist Church on the corner of Third and Houston. But through the years, a lot of Hollowell money had flowed into the church coffers. Money that had paid for additions and renovations and the new forty-five-foot steeple and carillon bells.
Senior Pastor Grover Tinsdale delivered the sermon, hitting all the high points about sin and souls and God welcoming His son Clive back. After the pastor took his seat, Sadie moved to the pulpit and gave the eulogy. There was no question about whether she would give it. She was a Hollowell. The last Hollowell. She stood on the dais in her black sleeveless sheath, her hair pulled back, her eyes dry.
Below her sat her father’s casket, made of simple pine with the JH brand burned into it, as was due an old cowboy. And like all old cowboys, he’d been buried with his boots on. As was his wish, Sadie insisted the casket be closed, and an arrangement of sunflowers and asters, daisies and blue bonnets, which grew wild on the JH, covered the top.
In contrast to the simple casket, the front of the church was crammed with elaborate floral tributes. Crosses and wreaths and sprays crowded around big photos of Clive and his horses. Sadie stood above all that splendor, her voice clear as she spoke about her father. The Parton sisters loudly wept in the front pew, and she knew that there were those in the congregation who would judge her. They would hear her clear voice and see her dry eyes and whisper that she was an unfeeling and cold person. An ungrateful daughter who’d closed his casket so people couldn’t say their good-byes as was proper.
She talked about her father’s love of the land and the people who’d worked for him. She spoke of his love for his paint horses. Grown men and women cried openly, but she didn’t shed a tear.
Her daddy would be proud.
Following the funeral, the graveside service was held at Holy Cross Cemetery. Clive was laid to rest with generations of Hollowells and beside his wife. Afterward, the JH was opened up for mourners. The Parton sisters and dozens of other members of the First Baptist Church made cucumber and chicken salad sandwiches. They’d set up banquet tables beneath tents on the lawn, and the women of Lovett arrived with funeral food in hand. Recipes handed down through the generations loaded the tables with fried chicken and every conceivable casserole. Salads and five different kinds of deviled eggs, vegetables and breads, and a whole table filled with desserts. It was washed down with sweet tea and lemonade.
Everyone agreed that the service was lovely, and a fine tribute to someone of Clive’s stature and reputation. And it just went without saying that no funeral would be considered a success without a few scandals. The first was of course Sadie Jo’s emotional distance while real mourners fell on each other’s necks. She was no doubt much too busy counting her inheritance to really grieve. The second happened when B.J. Henderson declared that Tamara Perdue’s homemade pickled relish was better than his wife, Margie’s. Everyone knew that Tamara wasn’t above poaching another woman’s man. B.J.’s declaration sent Margie into a tailspin, and Tamara’s relish ended up on the losing end of an accidental dose of Tabasco.
“Where’s your young man?” Aunt Nelma yelled across the parlor at Sadie, who stood near the fireplace sipping her iced tea and just trying to get through the day.
First, Vince wasn’t her young man. He was her friend with benefits. He’d been a great friend the past five days, but he was still just an FWB. If she let herself forget that, if she ever let herself crave his solid presence in her life, even for one second, she’d be in deep, deep trouble. And second, Sadie knew for a fact that Nelma was “wearing her ears” and there was no reason to yell. “Vince is at the Gas and Go. I believe he is painting today.”
“Your man is handy,” she said loud enough to be heard in the next county. “It’s always nice to have a man who is handy to fix stuff and such. Does he have a good dental plan?”
Sadie had absolutely no idea about Vince’s “dental plan” nor was she likely to ever know, and there was absolutely no reason for him to attend her father’s servi
ce. Vince hadn’t known Clive, and while Sadie might have found comfort in the weight of his hand on the small of her back, it was best that he didn’t attend. His being here would have added another, juicier layer of gossip that she didn’t need.
Vince had been real sweet to take her to Amarillo the day her daddy died and the funeral home after, but he wasn’t her boyfriend. No matter how much she liked him, she could never forget their relationship was temporary, and as she’d discovered since she’d blown into town two short months ago, life turned on a dime and everything changed in the blink of an eye.
Her life was certainly changed. She had a lot to think about. A lot to figure out. But not today. Today was her daddy’s funeral. She just had to get through today, one minute, one hour at a time.
“You poor orphaned child.” Aunt Ivella wrapped her arms around Sadie’s neck. She smelled like hairspray and powder. “How are you holding up?”
Honestly, she didn’t know. “I’m okay.”
“Well, nothin’ dries as quick as a tear.” Ivella pulled back. “It was a lovely service and so many people. Lord, they had to find a second book.”
Sadie didn’t understand the whole guest book thing at funerals. Perhaps some people found it a comfort, but she didn’t ever foresee a day when she would look at it.
“You better get yourself somethin’ to eat. There’s plenty. Charlotte made her cherry pie. The kind she makes every Christmas.”
“I will.” She took a sip of her tea. “Thanks for coming, Aunt Ivella.”
“Of course I came. You’re family, Sadie Jo.”
Dozens of relatives from her mother’s side had shown up to pay their respects. Most of them had dropped off a casserole or pound cake and left after an hour. The elderly aunts had dug in and were there for the long haul.
“And even though Clive could be difficult,” Ivella continued, “he was family, too.”
Which was one of the nicest things Ivella had ever said about her late sister’s husband. Sadie had made a point of thanking everyone who attended the service and who’d come to the house, but she was sure she’d missed someone. Someone who would talk about the snub for the next decade.
She excused herself from the parlor and ran into Uncle Frasier and Aunt Pansy Jean. It was past four in the afternoon, and Frasier was white-knuckling it until the cocktail hour. Frasier told a slightly off-color joke and Pansy Jean gossiped about Margie and Tamara’s pickled relish throw-down. “Tamara Perdue is just naturally horizontal,” she said.
After a few moments, Sadie slid into the kitchen and filled her glass with tea. She added a little ice to the glass and rolled her head from side to side. She was getting a crick from so many hugs, and her feet were starting to ache from her three-inch pumps. She wondered if anyone would notice if she sneaked upstairs to change her shoes.
“I hear you’re spending time with Vincent.”
Sadie recognized that tobacco-rough voice before she turned. “Hello, Mrs. Jinks.” Luraleen wore a pink prairie shirt and long bead earrings hanging to the bony shoulders of her “Fabulous Las Vegas” T-shirt. The older woman held a covered dish in her hands. “I didn’t know that you were back.”
“I got home this mornin’. I came to pay my respects and bring you a Frito pie, is all.” She shoved it at Sadie. “I always liked your daddy. He was respectful to everyone.”
Sadie took the dish. “Thank you.” She was right. Clive had been respectful and had taught her to be respectful, too. “We have a full buffet if you’re hungry.”
“So are you stayin’ in town now?”
“I’m not sure of my plans.” And even if she was sure, Luraleen Jinks would be the last person she would tell anything. “I have a while yet to figure it out.”
“Don’t take too long. Girls can’t wait as long as boys,” she said, her voice a raspy wheeze. “You’ve gone back on your raisin’, but now your daddy is gone.” She held up one bony finger. “You need to remember your place around here.”
Sadie just smiled and handed the dish to Carolynn as she moved past. “Thank you again for coming out and paying your respects.” She turned and said next to the cook’s ear, “I’m going to my room to lie down.”
“Of course, sugar. Clara Anne and I will make sure everything is taken care of down here. You go rest.”
Without a backward glance, she moved up the back stairs and down the hall lined with photos of her ancestors. She slipped into her room and out of her shoes. She wanted a few moments of peace and sat on the edge of her bed. Just a little quiet, but voices drifted through the window and up the stairs. Laughter mixed with hushed, respectful tones. She was exhausted but didn’t bother to lie down. She knew sleep would just be an exercise in frustration.
She rose and moved down the hall to the closed doors of her father’s bedroom. She stood with her hand on the tarnished brass knob for several seconds before she took a deep breath and opened the door. She’d been in here only once since her father’s death. The day she’d had to grab his one and only suit, shirt, and string tie. Her daddy had been a man of few words and fewer personal belongings. An old ring quilt lay at the foot of the wrought-iron bed. Three portraits sat on the old wooden dresser: Johanna’s Miss Texas picture, the couple’s wedding portrait, and Sadie’s graduation picture. On the mantel above the rock fireplace hung a painting of Captain Church Hill, one of his favorite and most successful Tovero stallions. Captain Church Hill had died ten years ago.
Tears slid from the corners of her eyes and she bit the edge of her trembling lip as she remembered her daddy talking to her about the history and bloodlines of his paint horses. He’d never really talked to her about growing up on the JH. She’d always just thought it was because he was grouchy and uncommunicative. And both those things were true, but she now knew that he had been raised by a volatile father and he’d had his own unfulfilled dreams of becoming a “king of the road.”
A crash from below made Sadie jump. Her heart pounded and she took a step back out of the room. She brushed the tears from her cheeks.
She felt like a cup that was about to overflow. She couldn’t stand in the hall staring at her father’s things and she couldn’t return downstairs. The thought of sipping more tea and smiling politely felt like one drop too many.
She moved into her bedroom and shoved her feet into her old boots. She slapped her Stetson on her head and grabbed her little black clutch from the bedside table. The heels of her boots made a soft thud on the hardwood floor of the hall and down the stairs. She passed several people on her way out the front door, but she didn’t stop to say hello. She just kept walking. Past the line of parked cars, down the dusty road. The hat shaded her eyes from the late afternoon sun and she kept going. Anxiety and grief gripped her heart. What was she going to do now that her daddy was gone? What was she going to do about the JH? She didn’t have to live on the ranch. She had several options. Get involved in the day-to-day management of the ranch, let the current ranch manager and foremen take over completely, or something in between. She had a meeting with Dickie Briscoe, Snooks Perry, and Tyrus Pratt Monday morning. The ranch manager and two foremen wanted to talk to her about her plans and options. She was now the sole owner of ten thousand acres, several thousand head of cattle, and a dozen registered American paint horses. She was fairly certain she owned a few cattle dogs and a slew of barn cats, too.
A part of her wanted to run, like always. To jump in her car and leave it all behind. Yet there was also a part, a new and intriguing part, that wanted to stick around and see what she could do.
A slight breeze blew the wild grasses and dust. She stopped in the middle of the road and looked back at the house. She figured she’d walked about a mile. She should go back.
“Everyone says Sadie is leaving town as soon as she gets her daddy’s money.”
Vince glanced up at Becca. He hadn’t seen her for about a week. Thought maybe she’d forgotten about him. No such luck. “Is that what everyone is saying?”
“Yep.”
He tossed her a cold Dr Pepper out of a Coleman cooler on the floor of the office at the Gas and Go. Today her hair was a short bubble. A little strange but not as strange as the lopsided do she’d had a few days ago. “I don’t know her plans.” She hadn’t discussed them with him.
“Aren’t you dating Sadie Jo?”
He knelt and rummaged through the deepest part of his toolbox sitting in the middle of the room. The renovations were taking longer than he’d planned. Instead of working, he’d spent the day looking at apartments, and now he was going to have to stop everything and take a trip to Seattle sooner than he’d expected.
“Aren’t you?”
“Aren’t I what?”
“Dating Sadie Jo?”
His sex life wasn’t Becca’s business. “I don’t know that I’d call it dating.”
“What do you call it?”
He glanced up at the annoying little twenty-one-year-old. “I call it none of your business.”
Becca frowned and popped open the can. “I saw the way you looked at her, Vince.”
“When?”
“Last week when I was here and she drove up.” She leaned a shoulder in the doorway where the jamb had been a few days prior. He hadn’t planned to remove the wood doors and moldings, but decades of Luraleen’s cigarette stench had seeped into the wood and made it smell like a bar in old Vegas. “You had sparks in your eyes for her.”
That was fucking ridiculous. If there had been anything in his eyes, it had been pure lust. “I don’t spark,” he told the girl who wore glitter on her eyelids. He continued to rummage for his level and added, “I’ve never sparked.”
“Oh, you sparked.”
His face felt hot, and if he didn’t know better, he’d think he was embarrassed. Which was just damn ridiculous. He didn’t get embarrassed.
“Remember when we met at Tally’s wedding?”
He wasn’t likely to forget. He rose and grabbed his tool belt off the desk.
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