“That’s what I’m saying,” Sunday confirmed, meeting Flynn’s eyes. “Your uncle went to . . .” She frowned, her brows knit together, her frustration obvious. She didn’t wait for him to fill in the blank, though. “He went and looked at some mares today.”
“Were they great? Were they?” Heavenly asked, enthusiasm and excitement finally breaking free of her iron control. She was bouncing on the balls of her feet, nearly bursting with energy. “What color? Brown? I don’t mind plain old brown mares. They’re lovely. Or black? Black horses are cool.”
“One is gray with a white star on her head. One is rust.”
“Red? One of them is red?” Heavenly nearly squealed, grabbing Sunday’s arm. “Did you hear that, Mom? Did you?”
The fact that she’d been called Mom by a girl who continually insisted on calling her by her first name wasn’t lost on Sunday. She swallowed hard, and Flynn thought she might be forcing back tears. “They sound wonderful. They really do, sweetheart.”
“Were they, Uncle Flynn? I mean, it’s not just about the way they look. I know that.” She was trying to rein in her enthusiasm, but wasn’t having much success. Her entire body was moving, bouncing, filled with energy and excitement.
“I thought so, but I want you and your mom to meet them before any final decisions can be made.”
“Now?” Heavenly lifted the hem of her nightgown and let it fall. “I just need a sec to get changed. I won’t even put on makeup. I’ll be quick. Don’t leave without me.”
She darted for the door, and he caught her arm, pulling her up short.
She stiffened.
That was Heavenly, guarded, careful. Always needing personal space. Especially from the men in her life.
He knew that. Had known it from the first day they’d met. She’d been tense around Sunday, but she’d been nearly catatonic with Matt and Flynn. Silent. Still. Not willing to answer questions, to eat, to relax.
He’d kept his distance then, and he kept it now. Releasing her arm and stepping back. “It’s after midnight, Heavenly. We can’t go look at horses.”
“Oh. Right. I forgot. Tomorrow, then?”
He met Sunday’s eyes, and she nodded.
“Sure. I’ll call the guy who owns them first thing in the morning and see if he has the time.”
“What if he’s already given them to someone? What if they’re already gone?” Heavenly asked, and Sunday hugged her again.
“Then your uncle will help us find other horses. Now, go on to bed. You’re going to have a long day tomorrow if you go with your uncle.”
“Right. Like I’ll be able to sleep!” Heavenly grumbled, but she hurried off, the bounce still in her steps.
“I really appreciate this, Flynn,” Sunday said, turning to face him. Those scars she’d tried to hide, dark pink and purple. The trach scar in the hollow of her throat. The one that slid from the top of her sternum down her abdomen. She’d had a lot of internal bleeding.
So much, she’d coded twice before the ambulance arrived at the hospital.
But she was standing there now. On her own two feet. Maybe not completely whole, but not completely broken, either.
“Appreciate what? Me finding a couple of mares your family might enjoy?”
“You taking the time to bring Heavenly to look at them. I don’t remember ever seeing her this excited. Not that I have a lot of memories of her.” She smiled, but there was a hint of regret in her eyes.
“I’m taking Heavenly and you to look at the horses,” he corrected.
Her smile fell away.
“I can’t go to Portland.”
“Palouse,” he corrected.
“Same difference,” she argued.
“How? We’re talking an hour-long trip compared to a five-and-a-half-hour one.”
“It’ll still take a half day. I can’t be away from the kids for that long.” She tossed the words out and then crouched to pet the dog. Maybe hoping Flynn would buy her excuse and leave her alone.
Wasn’t going to happen.
“You were away from them for months, Sunday. They all survived.”
“And look how much I missed out on. Heavenly had a boyfriend,” she whispered, finally meeting his eyes. “Do you realize what a disaster that could have been?”
“If it’s Heavenly you’re worried about, you’ll be spending half a day with her. Plenty of time to hash out all the rules of engagement when it comes to relationships with boys.”
“Flynn,” she began, but he was tired. He’d spent the last couple of days working with a group of townspeople to fence the back pasture and build a corral. The sun had been blazing hot, the days dry, and he’d returned every night, bone-tired and parched.
He loved getting things done, but he was working full-out during the heat of late summer, and he felt it. In his arms, his shoulders, his back. He’d had a headache for three days running. A thirst that no amount of water seemed to be able to quench. But there was still work to do. The barn needed an overhaul. The fields needed to be plowed and planted with field grass and alfalfa. He and the kids had cut irrigation ditches into the sunbaked earth, but he wanted to dig a well, too. Put in a livestock watering system that would catch rain and feed it into a trough.
He had six months of work to do before he returned to the ranch. And less than two months to do it. The wedding was in October. He planned to return to Texas the first week of November. Time was ticking away, and he didn’t plan to waste it explaining a simple concept to a very intelligent woman.
He also didn’t want to waste valuable minutes listening to Sunday’s excuses. He didn’t want to discuss things, reason them through, try to convince her of anything.
If she didn’t understand that her daughter needed her, Flynn wasn’t going to spend time and energy explaining it.
But, of course, she did understand.
And that pissed him off.
Royally.
“You don’t want to come, don’t come. But don’t make up a bunch of excuses, okay? Just be honest. Say you don’t feel like it, or you’re too worn out, or you don’t care enough,” he said.
“Of course I care enough!” she countered.
“Tell you what. Let’s withhold judgment on that for a few years? We’ll see what Heavenly has to say when she tells her kids the story of getting her first horse.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” she demanded, getting to her feet. Too quickly.
The color drained from her face, and he almost grabbed her arm, held her up, because he was afraid she was going to pass out again.
But she held on to the wall, shooting him a look that was meant to freeze him in place.
He’d have ignored it, but he’d never made a habit of overshooting boundaries and forcing himself into situations where he wasn’t wanted or needed. Plus, she was still on her feet, still shooting daggers in his direction.
“It’s not what we tell ourselves or other people that is important,” he said, because she’d asked a question, and he wanted to give her an answer. “It’s what our kids say after they’ve left our home. It’s what they say after we’re gone. It’s the stories they pass down to their kids and to their grandkids that tell the truth about a matter.”
“Is that another Emmersonism?” she asked, the irritation seeping from her face and from her eyes. She knew what he was saying, but she’d known before he’d explained.
“It’s a Flynnism. Learned from watching my father and listening to him. Funny. No matter what he said to other people about his great and awesome parenting abilities? It didn’t change what my brothers and I said to one another, and it didn’t change what we told other people when we left the home. It didn’t change the truth, Sunday. It never could.”
“Flynn, I’m sorry. I—”
“I need to get some sleep. It’s been a long couple of weeks, and tomorrow is going to be another long day.” He cut her off. “Good night.”
That was it.
He was done.
/> Out of there, because he wasn’t going to say more.
He sure as heck wasn’t going to pile guilt on the head of a woman who already had too much of it.
He strode to the door, walked into the hall, gave Rembrandt the command to break from stay, and shut the door.
Quietly.
Gently.
Because he wasn’t his father.
And he never would be.
Chapter Eight
She set the alarm for five a.m. She was awake at four. Digging through her dresser drawers, trying to remember what she used to wear when she rode the old stallion her father had owned.
She settled on jeans, a lightweight button-down shirt that had probably belonged to Matt, and dusty cowboy boots she dug from a box of old shoes that her mother had kept in the closet. Apparently, Sunday hadn’t been able to part with them.
Every pair of shoes had held a memory.
Once.
Now they were just shoes. Old and dusty. Worn from years of walking and running and jogging and dancing. She’d throw them out. Eventually.
For now, though, she closed the box, shoved it back into the closet, and walked back across the room, the cowboy boots a little snug but not uncomfortable.
They must have been hers.
Long ago.
When her parents had been alive.
She could see herself in the mirror, ghostly pale and moving with jerky, disjointed steps that had made her cringe when she’d seen herself in a video Twila had uploaded for a project she was working on.
Something to do with the wedding, she’d said as she’d leaned over her keyboard and clicked the mouse.
Twila hadn’t explained what she was creating or how it was connected to the wedding. Sunday didn’t even think she’d said whose wedding she was creating it for. She’d assumed it was for Clementine and Porter’s, but she hadn’t asked.
That seemed to be her pattern lately.
Being there just enough to say she was.
But not enough to matter.
She hadn’t written down the words Flynn had spoken before he’d left her room. She hadn’t really wanted to remember them. But like Matt’s betrayal, she hadn’t been able to forget.
She couldn’t quote him word for word, but the gist of what he’d been saying was lodged in her heart and in her brain, beating an endless rhythm that she couldn’t ignore. No matter how much she wanted to.
She lifted the calendar from her dresser. She thought Twila had bought it for her, but she didn’t know. What she knew was that important events were written in boldly colored ink. Pink. Red. Blue. Orange. Yellow. Green. Purple. A key had been drawn in at the bottom of each page, neatly explaining the color system. Pink for Moisey’s events. Red for Heavenly’s. Purple for Twila.
The calendar had been there for at least two months.
She couldn’t remember the day it had arrived.
She couldn’t remember who had brought it.
But she’d known it was there.
God! How could she not? It was positioned dead-center in the middle of the dresser, next to the only complete family photo she had. Taken at church, she thought. Probably after Heavenly’s adoption was finalized. All the kids were in it. Oya just a tiny baby in Sunday’s arms. Matt standing close, his arm circling Sunday’s waist, his gaze on the photographer, his smile broad.
Sunday was looking at Heavenly. Smiling as if every dream she’d ever had were coming true.
She’d known, even then, that Matt was cheating. She’d written about it in the journals long before the adoption paperwork was final.
She’d hidden her heartache well.
Either that, or she hadn’t felt it.
Maybe she’d grown tired of investing in someone who wasn’t always invested in her.
She didn’t know, because she couldn’t remember.
All she could do was read journal entries and try to piece together the life she’d been living.
She touched the photo, and then the calendar, running her finger over the top page. Every month, someone removed it to reveal the one below.
Not Sunday.
She hadn’t touched it since it had been placed there.
She’d barely looked at it, because she hadn’t been expected to attend meetings or go to ball games or take the kids on playdates. Since the accident, there’d always been someone to do that for her. Someone to step into her role and make certain the kids had what they needed.
Only, maybe, what they needed was her.
She turned the page of the calendar, looking ahead to the beginning of the school year, counting the days. Just fifteen before the routine began again. Waking early. Going to bed early. Homework and sports and projects.
Rosie had helped them at the end of the last school year.
And Rumer. Sullivan. Porter.
There’d been a lot of trouble. She’d heard about it from friends and from the kids. Her brothers-in-law hadn’t mentioned it. They’d dealt with the twins’ antics, Heavenly’s attitudes. Moisey’s daydreams and drama. They’d taken Twila to the library and all the kids clothes shopping and taught Oya how to walk.
They hadn’t complained about the work.
They hadn’t mentioned how difficult it was.
They hadn’t told her how ill-equipped they were—three childless bachelors suddenly parents to six kids.
They’d done what they had to, and now it was her turn.
To step up. To step in. To make her kids’ story one she would be happy to hear in years to come.
But, dear God, she was so scared!
Somehow in the months she’d spent in the hospital and rehab, she’d forgotten how to be a mother. She’d forgotten how to be there the way a parent should. She’d forgotten how to go with the flow and enjoy the ride and be part of something that wasn’t just about her and her recovery.
She’d become someone she didn’t know and didn’t much like and felt helpless to change.
She flicked off the light, tired of looking at the calendar and at herself—that ghostlike reflection in the mirror. That shade of who she’d been.
“You want to know the truth, Matt?” she whispered, sitting on the edge of the bed.
Rembrandt jumped up beside her, curling into a ball with his nose tucked near her thigh.
“I blame you for this,” she said.
The words hung there, ineffectual and impotent, incapable of changing anything.
A tear slipped down her cheek, and she brushed it away, as surprised by it as she was by the fact that she was sitting in bed before dawn, talking to a husband who’d have left her if he could have done so without hurting the kids.
She didn’t think he’d ever said that.
But she wasn’t sure.
She didn’t remember ever having an argument with Matt. She didn’t remember fighting with him. They’d had an easy, calm relationship that Sunday had been told was the envy of others.
She would rather have fought than been lied to.
All the flowers and the candy and the sweet words? They meant nothing, because she knew he’d been giving the same to other women.
He’d been good to her, sure. But he’d been good to them, too.
That was a truth she couldn’t forget. No matter how much she wanted to.
It was also one she couldn’t change, so she needed to stop torturing herself with it, pulling it out when the house was quiet and studying it as if it could explain everything that had happened in her life.
This was where she was: a young widow with six kids, a stitched-together body, and a hole-filled mind.
“I blame you for it, Matt. I want you to know that. You did this to me and to us. With your fancy car and fancy stuff and all your big dreams that you pretended didn’t matter. They must have mattered. If they hadn’t, you wouldn’t have been wining and dining other women while I ate boxed mac and cheese with the kids. Really, when all is said and done, you were a lying, cheating bastard who cared more about what he wanted
than what he had.”
Saying it didn’t make her feel better.
It didn’t make her feel worse.
It just was . . .
Something she’d thought too many times for too many months. Something she’d had to breathe into the air and release into the cosmos.
The truth didn’t change from lack of speaking it.
If her marriage had taught her nothing else, it had taught her that.
“But I did love you,” she whispered. “I did, and maybe we could have made it work. If we’d both wanted it enough.”
A floorboard creaked outside the door, and she tensed, waiting for one of the children to knock. Instead, she heard the soft clatter of something skittering across the floor.
Whatever it was, Rembrandt didn’t seem perturbed. He snored softly as she crossed the room and yanked open the door.
She expected to see one of the twins scurrying away. Perhaps running from some prank he was trying to play.
The hall nightlight gleamed soft yellow, illuminating closed doors and the silent corridor. She stepped across the threshold, her toe kicking something. A small rock. Shaped like a heart. Black and glossy. Onyx maybe.
She had no idea where Maddox would have found a stone like this one, but she tucked it in her pocket and walked to his room, knocking softly before she opened the door. The boys shared bunkbeds. Maddox on the top, Milo on the bottom.
Tonight, they were both on the floor, lying inside a fort they’d constructed out of sheets and chairs. She knew they were asleep the way a mother always knows, and she retreated, closing the door quietly behind her.
She checked the other rooms, making sure no one was up and wandering the house. Or worse, outside finding trouble.
Moisey had fallen asleep sitting up, a tiara on her head. Twila had a book beside her bed and one near her pillow.
Oya lay with her butt to the air, her thumb in her mouth, and Sunday resisted the urge to lift her out of the crib, hold her close, try to memorize the way it felt to hold a baby in her arms.
She didn’t open Heavenly’s door.
She knew the teenager was probably awake, texting someone or watching a movie on her phone. Or maybe, like Sunday, she’d scoured her closet for appropriate horse-riding clothes and was sitting on her bed, waiting impatiently for the sun to rise.
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