Duane didn’t lock the second floor bathroom door.

Therefore, upon waking, stumbling out of bed, tucking my toiletry bag under my arm, and shuffling to the bathroom, I had another lesson in the importance of knocking. The interaction also negated any need I might have had for caffeine to bring me fully awake.

He screamed.

I gasped then growled and grumbled as I marched out of the bathroom. “Is this all you boys do? Hide in the upstairs bathroom? Get a hobby for hootenanny’s sake!”

I didn’t bother to shut the door behind me. Instead, I raced down the steps to the first floor and used the bathroom under the stairs. When I was finished with my morning routine, I tucked my toiletries behind the sink and stared at my reflection in the mirror.

Really, I was fighting the urge to run back upstairs and read. I did this by giving myself a stern stink-eye.

Reading, for me, was like breathing. It was probably akin to masturbation for my brain. Getting off on the fantasy within the pages of a good novel felt necessary to my survival. If I wasn’t asleep, knitting, or working, I was reading. This was for several reasons, all of them focused around the infinitely superior and enviable lives of fictional heroines to real-life people.

Take romance for instance. Fictional women in romance novels never get their period. They never have morning breath. They orgasm seventeen times a day. And they never seem to have jobs with bosses.

These clean, well-satisfied, perma-minty-breathed women have fulfilling careers as florists, bakery owners, hair stylists, or some other kind of adorable small business where they decorate all day. If they do have a boss, he’s a cool guy (or gal) who’s invested in the woman’s love life. Or, he’s a super hot billionaire trying to get in her pants.

My boss cares about two things: Am I on time? Are all my patients alive and well at the end of my shift?

And the men in romance novels are too good to be true; but I love it, and I love them. Enter stage right the independently wealthy venture capitalist suffering from the ennui of perfection until a plucky interior decorator enters stage left and shakes up his life and his heart with perky catch phrases and a cute nose that wrinkles when she sneezes.

I suck at decorating. The walls of my apartment are bare. I am allergic to most store-bought flowers. If I owned a bakery, I’d be broke and weigh seven hundred pounds, because I love cake.

I thought longingly of my eReader upstairs in my room. I hadn’t read since the day before yesterday, and that was on the plane.

What I needed to do was face my brood of brothers and figure out next steps.

What I wanted to do was hide in my room with my latest novel and escape into a world without bearded, masturbating hillbillies, and a world where my beloved mother wasn’t dying.

In the end, I surrendered to reality and made my way to the kitchen in search of coffee. I hoped at least one or two of them would be up. I hoped maybe I might persuade the others to have a family meeting sometime in the afternoon.

However, the scene that greeted me in the kitchen was surprising. Heck, it was downright baffling.

Roscoe, my youngest brother, was standing at our old gas stove making omelets. He was showered and dressed in jeans, a T-shirt, and tennis shoes, all of which appeared to be in good order. I hadn’t really noticed much last night after my fainting spell, but now I saw that Roscoe wore his brown beard trimmed close to his face, the hair on his head cut short and stylish. In fact, it looked as if his hair had product in it.

Bizarre.

I rubbed my forehead, half wondering if I was still asleep. The entire picture in the kitchen was completely bizarre. My brothers were up at 7:30 a.m. They all appeared to be dressed for work—work!—and were interacting like mild mannered, well-adjusted, productive members of society. I was so confused.

Tangentially I noted that the roosters were at it again in the backyard, several of them crowing like the devil. I was beginning to get used to the sound; it was becoming the background music to the soundtrack of Tennessee.

Roscoe glanced over his shoulder and gave me a tight smile. It looked sad. “Hey, Ash. How you holding up? Want an omelet?”

I nodded, staring at him for another full ten seconds. “Yes. Yes, please. That would be great.”

“You want toast too?” Cletus asked. “I can make you some toast.” He was dressed in blue Dickies, which were worn but clean, and had a patch with his name sewn on the left pocket of his work jumpsuit.

“That would be great. Thanks, Cletus.”

“She likes butter and strawberry jam, right Ash?” Billy, standing next to Cletus—wearing black suit, white shirt, and black tie—indicated to me with his coffee cup, his expression detached.

My eyebrows lifted at Billy’s remembrance of my toast preferences as well as the fact that he was wearing a suit. “That’s right.”

Billy muttered something under his breath, just low enough for me not to hear.

“What was that?” I questioned him.

His blue eyes, same shape and color as mine, lifted and he gave me a cool glare. “I said you’ve been gone for eight years. It’s a wonder we know anything about you.”

I frowned at him, and was about to question him further when Jethro cut into the conversation.

“I heard a scream.” He made this statement from the kitchen table. He was dressed in what appeared to be some kind of park ranger uniform. An open newspaper—a newspaper?!—was on the table in front of him along with a half-eaten omelet. “Was that scream from you or Duane?”

I sighed. “That was Duane.” Then a thought occurred to me. “Today is Wednesday. I thought no one was assigned to Wednesday.”

“Unassigned days are wild card days, first come, first serve deal. He’s been up there since sunrise.” Roscoe shook his head.

I rolled my eyes, wished I hadn’t asked the question. “Anyway, I forgot to knock again. It was my fault.”

“We should get a bell for your neck.” Billy’s blue eyes regarded me thoughtfully beneath dark brown eyebrows. He made this suggestion matter-of-factly, like it was a very reasonable, good idea. To him, it probably was.

Of the brothers, Billy was the most serious and stern. I could count on one hand all the times I’d heard him laugh while we were growing up. His cool attitude this morning notwithstanding, I also suspected he was the smartest in the traditional sense. Facts and figuring came easy to him, especially anything to do with machines.

“Might as well just change my name to Bessie while you’re at it,” I mumbled.

“‘…women are still cats and birds, or at best cows.’”

This little gem came from the corner of the kitchen behind me, and was received by the rest of the room with a tangible stretch of silence. I frowned at the words—their implied meaning and their origin—and at the voice that spoke them.

As I suspected, when I turned I found Drew leaning against the counter, sipping coffee, and eying me over the rim of his cup with those silvery blues.

He was dressed in a uniform, the kind a very official, super important park ranger might wear. Unlike Jethro’s, his had a lot more pockets, a badge, and a gun. A cowboy hat was at his elbow on the counter; he also wore cowboy boots. I noted with detachment that his beard and hair had undergone a transformation. His facial hair had been trimmed, though his blond beard was still impressive. The unkempt locks on his head had been brushed, pulled back, and fastened behind his neck.

I noted these things with a small degree of womanly interest. It was instinctual, incidental, the way a person would notice a Maserati racing down the street and think, That’s a nice car.

His tidy, official-looking appearance—nay, his commanding appearance—did nothing to endear him to me, especially not after calling me a cow.

Therefore, I spoke my thoughts before I could catch myself. “Really? You’re really going to quote Nietzsche to me? To me? Nietzsche? To the sole female in the room?” I motioned to the kitchen with a flailing, frustrated hand wave. “When I first wake up? Before I’ve had coffee? After finding one of my brothers mating with his hand upstairs for the second time in as many days, and I’m the cow?”

“Can’t mate with hooves,” Drew said, his delivery deadpan.

“And yet, many men prefer the company of sheep over their hands, or even women.” I said this sweetly before I gave him my back and glared at Jethro. “I need to talk to you.”

I tilted my head toward the family room and walked out of the kitchen, waiting for Jethro to follow. I didn’t have to wait very long; but to my infinite aggravation, Dr. Drew Runous, PhD, trailed right behind my brother tucking his leather notebook into one of the side pockets of his cargo pants.

I scowled at him before looking at my oldest brother. I was careful to keep my voice even, sincere, and free of sarcasm when I said pointedly to Jethro, “Is it possible for us to have a conversation without your boss being present?”

Jethro rubbed the back of his neck and sighed. “The thing is, Ash, we’ve all been talking this morning, and it turns out…Momma appointed Drew here as her power of attorney.”

“What?” My eyes bounced back and forth between them.

I was sure that I’d heard incorrectly. Maybe Jethro had said MOMMA painted dew-hair as their flower of anatomy. Honestly, that would have made more sense to me than the possibility that Drew held my mother’s power of attorney.

“Ash, let me explain-”

“What did you say?”

Jethro swallowed thickly, met my stare, and repeated his pronouncement in a level tone. “Momma appointed Drew as her power of attorney.”

Drew nodded once. He had the decency to stay silent and keep his face devoid of expression.

I sputtered for a minute. Then I consulted the ceiling. It was silent on the matter and, strangely, didn’t seem to share my outrage.

At last I managed to speak. “Medical or financial?”

“Both.” Jethro’s mouth twisted to the side in a half smile, sheepish and bracing. “He holds her medical power of attorney, her financial power of attorney, and he’s the executor of her will.”

My mouth opened, but nothing emerged for seven seconds.

Then I laughed.

I laughed and laughed.

I laughed because I was frustrated and angry and sad and overwhelmed. I held my stomach and doubled over, my eyes blurring with tears of hilarity and misery and grief. Jethro guided me to the couch and sat next to me, his hand on my upper back.

Somewhere outside, the roosters crowed. I hated those damn roosters, always crowing, always making a fuss for no reason.

Drew opted to remain standing, his expression patient and sober.

“Ashley.” Jethro’s voice was tight and concerned.

“Just a minute,” I managed to say when I’d caught my breath. I wiped my eyes and added, “I just need a minute.”

It took several minutes. Maybe ten minutes during which I swung back and forth between the urge to erupt in absurd laughter and unleash a tide of mind-blowing anger.

After the initial red haze of fury began to recede, I tried to see past my frustration and hurt to the real issue. My mother was sick. She was dying, and likely would be gone in six weeks…or so. Things needed to happen. Arrangements needed to be made, and we needed to prepare.

This, none of this, was about me. It was about her, providing care and comfort to my momma in her final days with as much selflessness as she’d given me all my life. I rejected my instinct to take her decision to trust Dr. Nobody with her medical and financial wellbeing as an indication that she had no faith in me, her daughter.

I refused to be petty. I would waste no time on anger, and at the very least, I would do my best not to take this personally. She’d raised me better than that.

When I was quite finished, and at a complete loss as to what to say or how to proceed, I gathered a breath and released it on a big sigh.

“When did this happen?” I asked the room, not caring who answered.

“Three months ago,” Drew responded, and he cleared his throat, his eyes flickering to Jethro’s then back to mine.

I glanced between them. “Did you know she was sick?”

“No.” Drew shook his head, his shoulders slumping. He appeared to be frustrated, and I believed him. “She didn’t tell me she was sick. She just said she didn’t want any of you to be burdened with making decisions down the road.”

“Well….” I said, finding myself dangerously close to actual tears. I sucked in another calming breath and endeavored to keep my tone open-minded and free of derision, though I wanted to slap the beard right off his face.

“It would seem,” I began, and then I stopped. I pressed my lips together, cleared my throat, and swallowed, taking a moment to steady my voice. “It would seem that you are the decider. So, Dr. Decider, please tell me what I can do to help you.”

His eyes narrowed and searched mine. He seemed confused by my response. Obviously, it sure as heck wasn’t what he’d been expecting me to say. Most likely, I guessed, he thought I was going to launch a full-scale attack with woman-hysterics, accusations, and manipulative maneuverings.

But that wasn’t how I rolled. Prolonged irrationality wasn’t in my wheelhouse. Recrimination was not my homeboy.

So we stared at each other.

I cleared my face of all expression and waited for direction. This was a ninja trait I’d perfected while interacting with egomaniac physicians. I clenched my teeth to keep from telling him what I thought he could do with his power of attorney, where he could shove it, and whether the sun shined in that particular locale.

Finally he spoke, “Your mother appointed me to this role because she didn’t want any of you to have to think about end-of-life decisions. She did this to spare you, not to hurt you.” It was obvious he was choosing his words carefully. His tone was reasonable, imploring, even gentle.

I nodded. He made sense, but it didn’t make me feel any better.

I glanced around the room. “She’s coming home today. What have you decided regarding her care?”

He grimaced, frowned, sighed. “I’m not trying to usurp your role, Ashley.” He sounded frustrated.

I glared at him again, my jaw set. I spoke slowly so I wouldn’t be tempted to scream. “And I’m not arguing with you. You have all the power in this situation. I just want to know what I can do to help.”

Jethro finally spoke up, placing a hand on my knee. “I just found out, Ashley. I had no idea either. But I trust Drew. And Momma obviously trusted him. You know how she is, not wanting to burden anybody. Drives me crazy.”

I gave my brother a small, conspiratorial smile. Jethro’s confession softened my hard edges. I covered his hand with mine and squeezed. “No point in getting twisted up in things that don’t matter. What matters is that Momma is coming home today.”

I returned my gaze to Drew. “If you’re waiting for me to freak out, that’s what my little laughing fit was. I’m over it. It’s done. Nothing I can do about this situation other than live through it. So, again, what have you all decided, and what can I do to help?”

Drew crossed his arms over his chest and glared down at me with skepticism. “We all talked a little this morning about how to handle the next few weeks, but….”

He paused when he saw my eyes widen. My blood pressure spiked, my vision turned red, yet I ignored my murderous impulses. I breathed in and out and listened with all outward appearance of calm.

“But your brothers said that you were likely the only one who had some rough idea of what to expect and how best to plan and proceed. This is assuming that you’ll be staying in Tennessee.”

I nodded, my acute hypertension gradually declining to near baseline levels. Drew was asking for my opinion. I didn’t know if it was a token olive branch or if he’d just handed me an olive orchard. Regardless, it was a step in the right direction.

“Okay, well, I think we should put her in the den. It’s downstairs, has a door, and is on the quiet side of the house. I can tell you that hospice will be providing two nurses, one to stay during the day, and one to stop in at night to monitor her condition. Regardless, I’m going to put a cot in the den and sleep in there with her.”

Drew frowned. “You’ll need sleep, good sleep. If you stay with your mother, your sleep is likely to be interrupted. How can you take care of her if you’re exhausted during the day?”

I swallowed my sharp retort that where I slept was none of his business. “Someone in the family should stay with her all the time. I don’t want her left alone.”

“The nurse will check in on her.”

“But the nurse isn’t her family.”

He narrowed his eyes at me then looked to my brother. “There are seven of you. You’ll each take a one-night shift a week.”

Before I could object, Jethro nodded and said, “We’ll make a schedule.”

I closed my eyes briefly and fought the urge to say, You boys have a gift for making schedules.

“So, you’ll be staying for the duration?” Drew pressed me. “How is this going to affect your employment in Chicago?”

His question stunned me to the point that I was bereft of words. He sounded like a father asking his daughter to justify the soundness of her decisions. He almost sounded like he cared. It was unnerving; especially since my father was the least responsible and caring man I’d ever known and had never made a sound decision in his life.

An honest, guileless response—likely because I was so taken aback by the question—tumbled from my lips. “I’m part of a union. We have insurance that covers taking time to tend to critically ill family members. They have to hold my job for three months.”

He considered this and nodded. “Of course there are other issues, like house upkeep, bill paying, groceries, incidentals, and the like.” Drew stared at me for a moment—actually, he stared through me—and I could tell he was re-tallying and considering all that would have to be done. “You should return your rental car and drive your momma’s car while you’re here. And I’ll give you access to her checking account for household expenses, but I’ll take care of the monthly bills.”

Drew’s pragmatism surprised me. I hadn’t thought of who would be paying the bills.

I nodded and stuttered, “That…that makes sense.” Because it did make sense. In fact, I was grateful. I didn’t particularly want to be the one having to think about paying bills and related logistics. I wanted to focus on Momma, on taking care of her and spending time with her.

“I also suggest we hire a house cleaner. Your brothers aren’t up to the task, and you shouldn’t be bothered with it.”

I nodded again. “O-okay,” I stammered, again surprised.

A long moment passed. At first, the atmosphere in the room grew lighter as Drew and I watched each other. But then his stare grew increasingly intense, sharp, heated. My neck began to itch. I didn’t know him well enough to guess at what he was thinking, so I sat very still and waited, trying not to blush under his obvious scrutiny.

“Right.” Jethro said, breaking the moment.

Drew blinked as if he were coming out of a daze and turned his focus to my brother.

“This plan sounds solid,” Jethro said, and he put his arm around my shoulders and squeezed, then stood and nodded like everything was settled. “I’ll tell the others how this is going to work. I can start putting together a schedule.” He looked down at me and added, “Roscoe will be here with you all day; he can help you take your rental car back, and he’ll be here when Momma arrives.”

“Okay, sounds good.” I stood as well, crossed my arms over my chest. Everything was happening so fast.

“I’m fixin’ to put my coffee in a travel mug, then we can head out.” Jethro gave Drew a nod and walked back to the kitchen.

I stared at the carpet and thought about the order of things to accomplish. Dress, eat, drive to town, drop off the rental car. I also needed to find out Elizabeth and Sandra’s arrival time. Maybe I could pick them up at the airport.

I felt the heat of Drew’s solid hand on my back just before he spoke. “I didn’t peg you for the type to surrender so easily.”

I looked up to find him standing a foot away. His gray-blue eyes ensnared mine and bored into me as though he was dually trying to figure me out and will me into submission. He’d said the words with a low intimacy that I felt in my knees and hips. The word surrender seemed to echo in the room and through my body.

The shift in the atmosphere was palpable, yet I found myself wondering if I were the only one who noticed. Was it a byproduct of my wonky, grief-induced vulnerability? Were my emotions susceptible to delusion? Was I imagining the galvanized tension between us?

I issued him a miniscule smile, hoping to convey irritation, while I tried to regain the abrupt loss of my body’s ability to regulate its temperature. I was hot, flustered, ill prepared, and emotionally unequipped to interact with fictionally handsome men speaking to me in intimate tones and staring at me like I was cake.

And what the heck was wrong with me that I was even noticing Drew’s tone of voice? Let alone his fictional handsomeness. My mother had just been given a terminal diagnosis for heaven’s sake. I was wrong in the head.

I swallowed, finding strength in my self-recrimination. I leaned close and whispered, “Understand this, cowboy: I’ve surrendered nothing.”

Inexplicably, he grinned. It was small and knowing and smugly sexy, and I found it intensely irritating. He quoted Nietzsche again, “‘Perhaps truth is a woman who has grounds for not showing her grounds.’”

I stepped away, immediately finding relief from my muddled hormones by putting some distance between us. I held his gaze for a beat then walked backward to the stairs as I dismissively informed him of a real truth. “You can kiss my grits and my grounds, Nietzsche. And while you’re at it, go jump in a lake.”

“Which lake?”

I turned away and took the stairs two at a time, not liking that my palms had grown hot. “I don’t care,” I called out, “Preferably one with no water.”