Chapter Three
Snow started falling right around sunset, giant flakes fluttering through fading light, coating the ground and trees with a glittery layer of white. Rumer watched the swirling flakes, listened to the soft whistle of wind beneath the eaves, and wished she were anywhere but in Lu’s kitchen cleaning up after one of Minnie’s infamous spaghetti pie dinners. She’d only eaten three or four bites, but she felt like she had a lead weight in her stomach. And, the mess.
God!
How could a woman as smart as Minnie manage to create this kind of kitchen chaos: sauce on the counters, the floors, the cupboards. Sticky bits of pasta everywhere. Cheese smashed into the grout in the tile floor.
Maybe cleaning it wouldn’t have been so bad if she hadn’t already spearheaded the cleaning effort at Pleasant Valley Organic Farm.
Two horrendous kitchen messes in one day was too much.
She dunked a bowl into steaming water, the scent of garlic and parsley filling her nose. She wanted to gag, but she didn’t think Minnie would appreciate it. She stood a few feet away, squirting cleaner on the oven and trying to scrub off caked-on goo. She’d been at it for ten minutes, and Rumer was beginning to think she was purposely being slow so she wouldn’t have to deal with the rest of the mess she’d created.
“I’m thinking next time, we order in,” Lu muttered, grabbing a plate from the drying rack, swiping a cloth over it, and placing it in the cupboard.
“That might be a good idea,” Rumer agreed.
“Why?” Minnie was still scrubbing at whatever had been cooked onto the stovetop. “You didn’t enjoy my cooking?”
“I enjoyed it about as much as I enjoyed my heart attack,” Lu responded.
“That’s real nice, Ma,” Minnie mumbled, running the rag under the faucet and going back to the stove.
“I wasn’t trying to be mean, Min,” Lu responded. “I was just making a statement of fact. You’re good at other things. No need to be upset if you don’t have a talent for the culinary arts.”
“What does talent have to do with it?” Minnie finished at the stove and went to work on the floor, swishing the mop around over bits of congealed sauce and noodles. “It’s all about measuring,” she continued. “If you measure the ingredients properly, the dish will always turn out.”
“You must have been distracted and measured wrong,” Lu insisted. Just like she did every time Minnie cooked. They’d been having this same tired argument for as long as Rumer had known them.
Thirteen years.
It seemed like forever and no time at all.
“Of course, I was distracted. Seeing my beautiful daffodil suit—”
“Daisy,” Rumer corrected absently.
“What?” Minnie stopped mopping and speared her with a look that would have stopped the tongue of most people.
Not Rumer.
She knew her aunt well enough to know she was more bluster than bully. “There were daisy buttons on the jacket. Not daffodils.”
“I was referring to the color,” Minnie huffed. “The color it was before you dragged it through dirt and mud and stomped on it,” she added.
“I explained what happened, Minnie, and I promised to replace the suit.”
“Replace? Replace!? That is a genuine nineteen-seventies original. It can’t be replaced.”
“I’ll get you something else, then. I’m sure I can find a vintage outfit at Goodwill or Andrea’s Clothes Cupboard.”
“Andrea’s Clothes Cupboard is a disaster. Bugs and cigarette smoke. The stuff she’s offering for sale reeks.” Minnie smoothed her raven-black hair, the pixie cut she preferred only adding to her gamine appearance. Like Rumer, she had small bones and a delicate build. Rumer’s mother had been tall and curvy and beautiful. At least, in all the photos Lu had, Victoria was those things. In Rumer’s memory, she was sallow-skinned and blank-eyed, head thrown back and mouth gaping open. Scrawny. Anxious. Picking at her skin and refusing food.
“I’ll drive out to Spokane. They’ll have something there.” Rumer wasn’t in the mood for arguing with her aunt. She hadn’t been in the mood for overcooked spaghetti pie. As a matter of fact, she hadn’t been in the mood for much of anything since she’d left Pleasant Valley Farm.
The problem was, she kept picturing Heavenly—her scrawny body shoved into too-tight clothes, her eyes filled with more knowledge than a twelve-year-old should have. She kept wondering if she should have said something to Sullivan, told him to keep an eye on her, make sure she didn’t get into the kind of trouble girls like her tended toward.
She could have named every single one of them.
She’d lived them all. Survived them. Overcome them. Thanks to Lu and Minnie.
Thinking about that made her soften, and she sighed, rinsing the last pot and draining the sink. “I really am sorry, Minnie. I should have been more careful.”
Minnie raised a raven-black brow. “I accept your apology, and I’m sorry for being such a grinch about it. You know how I am about my stuff.”
“Insane?” Lu cut in, and Minnie smiled.
“There’s some truth in that. I’ll admit it. But, I like what I like, and I’m not going to change that.”
“As long as you have your own place to keep all that stuff you like, it’s not my business. Speaking of which, Dana Wilson called me today. She said she was at your place for a consultation, and you had so many boxes piled up in the living room, she could barely make it through to your office.”
“Dana needs to stop gossiping. That’s why she’s got so many problems with her stomach,” Minnie said.
“Yeah. Well, she said the boxes are a hazard, and you know how she is. She’ll probably mention it to Derrick, and then he’ll put on his county inspector hat and pay you a visit. After all my medical stuff, that’s the last kind of trouble either of us need.”
“Derrick may be her husband, but he and I go way back. He’s not going to come to my house without a warning. Not that it matters, I’m cleaning stuff out. Those boxes are filled with items I’m donating.”
“Donating?” Lu sounded as surprised as Rumer felt.
“Don’t act so surprised, Ma. Even old horses can be taught to carry a rider.”
“You’re not old,” Rumer pointed out. “Or a horse.”
“I turn forty in less than a month. It’s time to make some changes. Besides, I’m a naturopath. How can I tell my clients to declutter, destress, and embrace peaceful living, if I’m not doing the same?”
“You’ve been a naturopath for fifteen years, hon. You’ve been heading toward forty since the day you were born.” Lu swiped sauce off the counter, not meeting Minnie’s eyes.
“And, I’ve suddenly realized it.”
That was it.
Just that statement, and the kitchen went dead silent.
The old cuckoo clock on the wall ticked away the minutes while Rumer scrubbed the cupboard and tried to think of something to say.
Something besides Are you thinking of moving away? Doing something different? Leaving Lu behind?
“I’m thinking, that this means you’re ready to do what your sister did,” Lu finally said.
“If I’d been planning to do what Victoria did, I’d have run away at sixteen, gotten pregnant, raised the kid in a . . .” She met Rumer’s eyes. “I’d have left a long time ago.”
“But you are planning on leaving, right?” Lu demanded, tossing her cloth into the sink and putting her hands on her hips. She’d lost weight since the bypass surgery, her well-padded hips now narrow, her bones jutting out from beneath a fitted T-shirt.
“I never said that.”
“That’s no answer.”
“Lu,” Rumer interrupted. “You’re getting upset. The doctor told you that you have to take it easy.”
“I’ve done nothing but take it easy for weeks, and of course I’m upset. Minnie is planning to leave.”
“Ma, really . . .” Minnie sighed. “Look, you’ve been bugging me for years, telling me to get rid of some of my stuff. I’m finally doing it. You should be thrilled.”
“I’d be thrilled if I weren’t suspicious.”
“Of what?”
“We’ll see,” Lu said cryptically, dropping into a chair, her face pale. She’d be sixty-five in the spring, but she looked older, years of sun exposure and decades of smoking creasing her face and aging her skin. She’d given up smoking in exchange for Rumer’s promise to attend college. That had been eleven or twelve years ago. Even after all this time, she still tapped her fingers on the table when she sat for too long or patted her pockets as if searching for a cigarette.
“How about some tea?” Rumer offered, wanting to move the conversation away from Minnie’s plans. She’d walk over to the trailer later, sit down with her aunt, and have a cup of coffee or a glass of wine. Maybe Minnie would tell her what she didn’t seem to want to share with Lu.
If Minnie left the homestead . . .
Rumer didn’t want to think about that.
Lu was great at training horses, working with clients, and helping families. She did okay with the books and with payroll, but Minnie had set up the nonprofit. She filed the taxes, kept the accounting logs, calculated how much feed and hay needed to be ordered each month. Along with being licensed as a naturopathic doctor, she had a master’s in business administration. Without her, the business might fail, and if it failed, Lu might not have a reason to get out of bed in the morning, do her therapy. Heal.
“No coffee for me,” Lu said, rubbing the back of her neck and eyeing the clock. “I’ve got to go feed Hamilton. Otherwise, he’ll be standing outside my window tonight, yowling for dinner.”
“I’ll take care of him.” Rumer grabbed her coat from a hook by the back door and shoved her arms into it. She’d rather feed the barn cat than stand in the kitchen worrying about a future she couldn’t control.
“Thanks, hun. I’m tired. I think I’ll go tuck myself in.”
“It’s not even eight yet,” Minnie protested.
“My body doesn’t care what time it is. Neither does my brain. It sucks to get old, girls. Take my advice. Don’t do it.” Lu shuffled across the room and probably would have gone to her room and locked the door if the doorbell hadn’t rung.
“Who’s that?” Minnie whispered as if some demon were standing outside the door.
“Good question. Nobody I know would come for a visit at this time of night.” Lu grabbed a frying pan from the dish rack. “Which means it’s a stranger. And, what kind of stranger would show up here?”
“Just about any kind,” Rumer responded.
“We live in the middle of nowhere. Strangers don’t just show up. They come for a reason or they don’t come at all. I’ll go get the shotgun.” Minnie sprinted down the narrow hallway that led to the bedrooms before Rumer could tell her not to bother with the gun.
The doorbell rang again, and Rumer reached for the doorknob.
“Don’t,” Lu commanded. “It could be a serial killer, a thief, a druggie hopped up on PCP thinking he’s hunting zombies.”
“Have you been watching horror movies on your computer?”
“This is the reality of the world we’re living in,” Lu huffed, lifting the frying pan above her head as Rumer opened the door.
She wasn’t expecting a killer, a thief, or a druggie. She sure as heck wasn’t expecting Sullivan, either. But there he was, standing on Lu’s front porch, his dark hair gleaming in the dim light, Minnie’s daffodil jacket in his hand. No apron this evening. No kids that Rumer could see. She glanced past him, eyeing the shiny SUV that sat in the driveway.
“I didn’t bring them. If that’s what you’re wondering,” Sullivan said before she could ask. “I asked someone from their church to sit with them for a few hours.”
“Who are you? What do you want?” Lu asked, her knuckles white from clutching the heavy pan, her dark eyes drilling into Sullivan.
“Sullivan Bradshaw. I came to return Rumer’s jacket.” He held it up, and Lu scowled.
“That’s what most killers say.”
Sullivan’s lips quirked but he had the decency not to smile. “That they’re returning a jacket?”
“That they have a good excuse for being where they shouldn’t.” She lowered the pan, gave him a good once-over, and called, “Forget the shotgun, Minnesota. He looks shifty, but I think we can take him down if we need to.”
“Minnesota?” Sullivan mouthed as he met Rumer’s eyes.
“My aunt. Minnie.”
“The one who let you borrow the suit?”
“That’s right.”
“She might be happy to know her jacket has been returned.” No judgment. No condescending smirk or angry diatribe about his ability to fend off a couple of women. He seemed more intrigued than scared. More interested than annoyed.
Which was a whole heck of a lot better than Jake had done the first time he’d been to the homestead.
But, then, Jake didn’t like animals. He hated dirt, fresh air, sunshine, heat. All the things that Sunshine Acres had in abundance during the summer. He’d spent his first night there mourning the fact that there was no television, no air conditioner, no comfortable king-size bed.
And yet, for some reason, Rumer had still thought they were the perfect match.
She shoved the thought away. She’d promised herself she wasn’t going to waste time thinking about all the time she’d wasted on him and on their joke of a relationship.
The fact was, she hadn’t been heartbroken when she’d discovered his infidelity. She hadn’t even been all that angry. She’d been . . .
Relieved?
That wasn’t quite the right word, but it was close enough.
“I’m sure she’ll be thrilled to have this back.” Rumer took the jacket Sullivan was offering. “Thanks for bringing it by.”
“It’s the least I could do. The cake was delicious. Twila enjoyed it.”
“What cake?” Minnie emerged from the hallway, the shotgun in hand. Of course. Because not only could the Truehart women not find a good man or sew a straight hem, they also tended to attract men who couldn’t be trusted. Minnie had the worst record of all of them—married twice to men who’d used her as a punching bag and a doormat. She’d divorced the second bastard on her twenty-third birthday. As far as Rumer knew, she hadn’t been in a relationship since.
“I made Lu’s pound cake recipe,” Rumer explained, taking the shotgun and checking to make certain it wasn’t loaded. As far as she knew, there wasn’t ammunition in the house. That was kept in a locked box in the attic. Still, it didn’t hurt to be cautious.
“For my niece. Today is her tenth birthday,” Sullivan added. He didn’t seem intimidated by the shotgun or Minnie. As a matter of fact, he’d stepped across the threshold and was standing in the tiny foyer that separated the entry from the living room. Melting snow dripped from his hair onto the old linoleum, and he swiped moisture from his face. “I’m sorry I startled all of you. I tried to call but your voice mail is full, Rumer.”
“Is it?” She knew it was. Jake kept calling about stupid things. Like whether she wanted the photos she’d hung on the wall in their living room.
His living room now.
She had her own place—a cute little apartment within walking distance of the school. She’d moved in three months before Lu’s heart attack, and she had no intention of filling it with reminders of the past.
“It is,” he replied, his attention on Minnie, who’d put on the jacket and was buttoning it over her stained white apron.
“I’m sorry about that.” Rumer grabbed his arm and tugged him back outside. “Thanks for bringing the jacket. Drive safely.”
“Actually,” he responded before she could retreat, “I was hoping to discuss the position with you.”
“Position?” she repeated as if she didn’t know darn well what he was talking about.
The job she’d gone out of her way to apply for.
The one she’d been thinking about most of the afternoon.
The one she’d sworn to herself she wouldn’t take if it was offered, because she didn’t need that kind of trouble.
“The one you interviewed for this morning,” he responded, flashing his dimple.
“I’d love to discuss that with you, Sullivan,” she lied, “but, I have a cat to feed.”
She walked back inside, and would have closed the door, but Lu was standing in the entry with a bag of cat food in one hand, Rumer’s coat in the other.
“Hamilton hates to wait,” she announced, shoving both into Rumer’s arms.
“I’ll go out the back door,” Rumer replied, but Lu refused to move.
“It’s quicker out through the front. I’ll keep the porch light on, so you can find your way back. Go on now,” she insisted.
So, of course, Rumer did.
That was the way Lu had raised her. From age fourteen on, she’d been taught to respect authority, to follow the rules, to be responsible for her actions.
So, yeah, she stepped back outside.
Lu closed the door with a quiet thud, and Rumer was standing out in the cold with cat food in one hand and her coat in the other. She hadn’t even put on her snow boots.
She set the bag of food on the old rocker that had been there longer than Rumer had been alive. She wasn’t surprised when Sullivan took the coat and helped her into it.
“Thanks,” she muttered, sounding about as irritated as she felt.
She knew what Lu was doing, because she knew Lu. Good-looking guy? Shove her granddaughter at him, because all the decades and generations of romantic failures by Truehart women couldn’t stop her from wanting at least one of them to have a happily-ever-after.
“You’re annoyed,” he responded, pulling the collar of the coat up, his knuckles brushing the side of her neck and then her jaw. She refused to acknowledge the way her heart jumped at the contact, the way her entire body seemed to want to lean toward him.
God!
She was an idiot.
“Not with you,” she replied, grabbing the cat food and heading down the slippery porch stairs.
“With your grandmother?” he guessed, following her across the yard and around the side of the house.
“You didn’t drive all this way to discuss my family problems,” she replied as they reached the wooden fence that separated the yard from the fallow field beyond it.
The barn was just across it, a pale shadow in the swirling snow.
“That doesn’t mean it has to be off the table,” he replied, following her as she opened a gate and headed across the field.
“You came to offer me the job, right?” She didn’t want a personal discussion, and she didn’t want to drag out the inevitable.
“Right.”
“I can’t accept it.”
“Okay.”
Just that.
No argument.
No fishing for an explanation. Just okay, and she wasn’t sure what to think about that. She sure didn’t want him to beg or plead. She didn’t want him to give a dozen reasons why she should take the job, and she didn’t want to have to explain the reasons why she couldn’t.
He opened the barn door, holding it as she walked inside.
She caught a whiff of strawberries and cream as she walked past, found herself wondering how the celebration had gone. Wondering if they’d sung happy birthday to Twila, if she’d smiled, if the twins had managed to stay out of trouble for long enough to enjoy a slice of cake.
“Not my circus. Not my monkeys,” she mumbled.
“What’s that?” Sullivan asked.
“Nothing.” She flipped on a light, illuminating the cavernous space. Horse tackle hung from one wall, saddles from another. Plastic bins of chicken and goat feed sat in the center of the space, discarded farm equipment piled near the back.
A few mice scurried away from the pellets of food that had fallen near the bins. She could hear them scrabbling into their nests behind the walls.
She walked to the back, knowing without looking that Sullivan was following.
“You don’t have to hang around until I finish,” she said, opening a door that led into Lu’s office. The cat bowl was there. Right next to the spindle-back chair. Rumer had bought a comfortable office chair for Lu a few Christmases ago. It was in the stable, sitting near the entrance to the indoor riding arena. As far as she knew, Lu had never once sat in it.
“I don’t mind.”
“It’s snowing hard out there.” She poured food into the bowl, shaking it around to try to draw Hamilton out of his hiding place.
“My SUV does well on snowy roads,” he replied, walking into the small room and looking around. She could almost see it through his eyes—the unpainted walls and card-table desk. The metal file cabinet shoved against a wall, one drawer opened a crack. No computer. No modern conveniences. Not even a space heater to keep it warm.
“Even with a vehicle that handles them well, the roads will be difficult. It’s going to take time to get home, and the kids might get worried.” She shook the bowl again, eyeing the corners of the room and then the exposed rafters. Still no sign of Hamilton.
“My guess is that they’re having a lot more fun with Renee Wheeler than they would be with me.”
“She’s the church lady?”
“The twins’ Sunday school teacher. She helped with the funeral and has made a bunch of meals for us. I think one of the boys let her know that I’m not much of a cook.”
“So, it’s not just baking you struggle with?” she asked, and he grinned.
“I can open a can and heat soup. I also make a mean grilled cheese. Other than that it’s precooked meals or takeout.”
“Most kids love takeout.”
“Sunday was all about wholesome, healthy eating. Every time I feed the kids McDonald’s, I feel like I’m betraying her.” He was still smiling, but some of the amusement was gone from his eyes.
“I’m sure she’d understand.”
“You’re right. And, that’s the problem. Sunday would understand. She’d tell me it was okay, that the kids would survive a month or two or three of less-than-nutritious meals. And, that makes me want to honor her wishes, make sure the kids have as many healthy meals as I can provide. Which, if it were totally up to me, would be none.”
“It’s not that difficult to learn to cook.” She set the bowl down, determined to turn off the light and head back home. She didn’t want to stand in the tiny office listening to Sullivan talk about his sister-in-law, the kids, and his own desire to do right by all of them. It made it all too real—the little family going through a horrible time, the uncle who’d stepped in to try to help, the tragedy of it all.
“That’s what I’ve been told a dozen or more times.”
“By Heavenly?”
“She’s too busy giving me attitude to give me advice.”
“Twila, then?”
“Right. I keep telling her that I’d be happy to do a little culinary studying if I weren’t busy trying to keep up with six kids, housework, and my research paper.”
“You’re in school?”
“On sabbatical. I teach art history at the Portland State University.”
That surprised her.
She wasn’t sure why. It wasn’t like she’d spent any time thinking about what he might do for a living. It was more that if she’d had to guess, she’d have guessed military or law enforcement. He had that look: tough, rugged, unflappable.
“You’re surprised.” He spoke into the silence, and she shrugged.
“I guess I’ve just never seen an art history professor outside his natural habitat.”
He laughed, the sound ringing through the barn and chasing a few starlings from their nests in the eaves. “We do tend to keep close to our ivory towers. Only my tower is more like a broom closet on the third floor of the fine arts building.”
“A broom closet, huh?” She was amused and shouldn’t be. He was just a guy who she happened to have crossed paths with. For an hour, their lives had converged. In a week, they’d both have forgotten the meeting.
“It’s a little bigger than that but not much bigger than this. I do have a real desk, though. And, a nice chair.”
“Lu had both. She gave the desk to Minnie and the chair is in the stables.”
“She probably spends most of her time there.”
“She did. Before her heart attack.” She reached for the light switch, ready to be done with the conversation because it felt too friendly, too nice. Too much like they could have continued talking forever and not gotten tired of it.
“Hold on.” He grabbed her hand, and she was so surprised, she didn’t pull away.
“What?”
“I thought I saw something moving in the rafters.” He pulled her back, his attention on the ceiling.
“There are dozens of mice in here. Birds. Sometimes raccoons. That’s why we have . . .”
Her voice trailed off as Hamilton appeared, his oversize body perched on tiny paws. Even with his extra weight, he was graceful, leaping from one ceiling joist to another.
“That,” Sullivan said, “is the fattest cat I’ve ever seen.”
“Shhhh,” she responded, watching as Hamilton disappeared behind the drywall, “you’ll hurt his feelings.”
“You sound like Twila. She’s always worried about the hog, scared it’s going to be too cold or too hot or eat something that’ll kill it.”
“With what I saw coming out of your kitchen, that last worry isn’t too much of a stretch.”
He laughed again, the sound fading away as Hamilton’s furry face appeared in a hole that was about as big as the palm of Rumer’s hand.
“He’s not going to try to get out through that,” Sullivan said.
“Watch him,” she responded.
Sure enough, the cat stuck his head through the hole, his golden eyes and black-and-gray face framed by drywall. He meowed softly and somehow managed to shimmy his plump body through the small opening. Seconds later, he had his head in the bowl and was purring loudly.
“I’ve seen a lot of things these past few weeks, but that was, by far, the most entertaining.” Sullivan squeezed her hand and then released it.
Funny, she hadn’t realized he was still holding it until that moment.
Or, maybe, it wasn’t funny.
She’d never been a touchy-feely person. As a matter of fact, she’d been the kind of kid who’d refused hugs and barely accepted handshakes. She liked to keep distance between herself and others. Maybe because she’d spent so much of her childhood in tiny apartments or single-wide trailers or packed into an old car with all her mother’s crap.
“Hamilton has eaten. I can tell Lu that I saw him consume half his weight in food. My job here is done,” she said lightly, flicking off the light and stepping out of the office.
He followed, grabbing the bag of cat food on his way out and holding it as they walked back through the barn.
His cell phone rang as they reached the door, and he pulled it out.
“Damn,” he said so softly she almost didn’t hear.
“Home?” she asked.
“The hospital,” he responded as he answered.
He didn’t say much. A question or two about treatment options. An assurance that he’d be there soon. Then he tucked the phone back in his pocket.
“Bad news?”
“Yeah. Sunday’s brain is swelling again. She’s going into surgery. I need to get to the hospital. Thanks again for everything you did today.” He was jogging, moving back across the field, snow still swirling in the darkening twilight.
She could have let him go.
That would have been the easy thing to do.
It probably would have been the best thing, too, but she kept picturing little Moisey standing in the middle of the road in her oversize tank top and shimmering tutu. She kept remembering Heavenly’s scrawny frame shoved into too-tight clothes. She kept thinking about six kids whose lives had been upended, and no matter how much she told herself to, she couldn’t go inside and pretend she didn’t know that something horrible might be happening.
She followed Sullivan to his SUV, the voice of caution and reason screaming in the back of her mind, telling her she was making a mistake. Warning her to retreat.
Sullivan handed her the cat food and hopped in the driver’s seat. That was her cue to back away, to offer some easy platitude that would sound nice and mean nothing.
“Are you bringing the kids to the hospital?” she asked instead, and he stilled, the key halfway to the ignition.
“I wasn’t planning to.”
“It might be good for the older ones to see her before surgery.” She didn’t say just in case, but she was pretty certain he heard the unspoken words.
He raked a hand through his snow-damp hair and grimaced. “You’re right, but I can’t bring the older ones and leave the younger ones at home. I’ll take all of them. Except Oya. She’s not allowed in the ICU.”
“Will the boys’ Sunday school teacher be willing to stay with her?”
“Probably. Maybe. I don’t know. I’ll figure it out when I get to the house.” He smiled but it was more of a grimace than anything else.
“If you think you might need help,” she began.
Don’t! her brain screamed. Do. Not. Say. It.
“I could follow you over,” she finished, the words tumbling out.
For a split second, she thought he was too busy starting the SUV to hear her.
Then, he met her eyes, and she could see his fatigue, his worry, the weight of the responsibility he was carrying.
“I can’t ask you to do that,” he said.
“You didn’t. I offered.”
“How about you ride with me, then? This thing can handle seven passengers, and it’s probably better on the road than your truck.”
No! Just no! A thousand times no! her brain shrieked.
“Give me a minute to grab my purse and put on some boots,” her mouth said, and then she was sprinting across the yard and up the porch steps, the cat food bouncing out of the still-opened bag as she barreled into the house and ran for her shoes.
* * *
Sullivan had always appreciated irony.
He loved it in art, in books, in musical scores.
He didn’t like it much right now, though, because Sunday looked better than she had since the accident. The bruises on her face were healing, fading from dark purple to green and yellow. The swelling was down, too, the broken bones slowly healing. The gash on her temple was a jagged purple line, dotted on either side from the staples the doctors had used to close it. They’d been removed a few days ago, and now she had no staples, no stitches in her cheek or the side of her neck.
She looked better, but she was dying.
The irony of that nearly stole his breath.
She’d been three years behind him in school, but they’d been in the same classes. She’d been smart, driven, and passionate about learning. She’d also been kind, generous, warmhearted. It hadn’t surprised him when Matt had fallen for her, but it had surprised everyone that she’d fallen, too.
She wasn’t the kind of girl that anyone thought would go for one of the Bradshaw boys. They were trouble. She wasn’t.
Somehow, it had happened.
Somehow, she and Matt had made it work.
Now, he was gone, and she was hooked up to machines that measured her pulse, her oxygen, that breathed for her because her lungs had been punctured by jagged pieces of her broken ribs.
She was fighting for her life, the head injury she’d suffered causing her brain to swell. Again. This would be the second surgery to relieve pressure. If it failed . . .
He didn’t want to think about that.
He sure as hell didn’t want to have to make decisions about it. Especially not with Moisey sitting beside him, but the surgeon was asking about living wills, trying to be subtle because there was a child in the room. Sullivan and his brothers hadn’t been named guardians in the will, but they’d been named co-executors of the estate. They’d also been given medical power of attorney for all six kids and for Sunday and Matt.
That had surprised all of them.
None of them wanted the responsibility. None of them were willing to turn away from it. When his brothers had been around, they’d made decisions together, hashing things out, deciding what was best for all the kids and for Sunday.
But, Sullivan was there now. Alone. He was the one who would have to sign on the dotted line, agree that if Sunday’s heart stopped, they would revive her.
Or not.
He’d already called Porter and Flynn. Neither had picked up. He’d sent texts. No response to those either. Not surprising. Flynn worked long hours in areas where there was very little cell phone reception. Porter worked private security for a company in Los Angeles. When he was on a job, he didn’t take calls or answer texts. Sometimes for days.
That left Sullivan to make the choice, because Sunday didn’t have a living will.
He squeezed the bridge of his nose, trying to concentrate on what the surgeon was telling him. Mostly he heard disparate words. Skull. Section. Replaced. Expand.
He might have heard more if he hadn’t been watching Moisey watch Sunday. She was leaning toward the bed, her hair a mass of wild curls, her hands resting on the rail. She’d painted her nails. Or someone else had. They were bright green and red. Christmas colors, maybe.
“Do you have any questions, Mr. Bradshaw?” the surgeon asked.
He did, but he doubted a doctor could answer them.
He wanted to know why a kid like Moisey, one who’d been born into abject poverty, who’d lost both birth parents to famine, was having to face the possibility of losing another set of parents. He wanted to know what he could say to make things better, what he could do to keep Sunday around for her kids.
“No,” he responded.
The doctor nodded as if she understood.
“I’ll have you sign the forms electronically.” She moved to the computer that sat on a rolling table. “We’re readying the OR. The sooner we get started”—she glanced at Moisey—“the better the chance of a good outcome.”
Moisey turned to look at them. There were circles beneath her eyes, dark smudges against her coffee-colored skin.
Had they been there that morning?
Had he looked?
“Is she going to die?” she asked bluntly, her voice falling into the silence and filling it.
“We’re going to do everything we can to make her better,” the surgeon responded, all business as she typed something into the computer.
“Everything you can do might not be enough,” Moisey said.
That got the doctor’s attention. She stopped typing, her gaze going from Moisey to Sullivan. It settled there. As if she expected him to say something, maybe expected that he’d have a better response than anything she could come up with.
He should have.
He was an adult, for God’s sake.
He’d lived through a lot of tough times, faced a lot of tragedy. He worked with angsty teens and young adults, kids who were worried about grades, about the future, about relationships. It wasn’t his favorite part of the job, but there hadn’t been a time yet when he hadn’t known what to say.
Now he was struggling.
Afraid to overstate things or understate them. Afraid whatever he managed to come up with would only fan the flames of Moisey’s fear.
“I think your time is up. Your siblings are going to put up a fuss if they think you’ve gotten an extra minute when they didn’t,” he said. It was a total copout. Absolute evasion at its finest.
He wasn’t proud of it, but it worked.
She leaned forward and kissed Sunday’s cheek, avoiding the fading bruises and finding one tiny spot of unblemished flesh.
“I love you, Mommy,” she whispered.
The door opened before she moved away, and Rumer peeked in.
“Moisey?” she said quietly. “It’s someone else’s turn.”
“Who’s someone? I’m the youngest kid here, and I was last to see Mom, so no one should be waiting,” Moisey responded.
“Your pastor. He wants to pray with your mom before her surgery.”
“She can’t pray with that tube down her throat.” Moisey sniffed, and Sullivan had the horrible feeling she was about to cry. He could handle her spunk and her backtalk a lot more easily than tears.
“We don’t have to speak out loud for God to hear,” Rumer said, holding out her hand.
To Sullivan’s surprise, Moisey crossed the room and took it. She looked tiny, her legs sticking out from beneath a bright orange skirt, thick purple tights pulled up over shins that he knew were covered with scrapes and bruises. She’d dressed for the weather because Renee had insisted, but she’d chosen her own color scheme—fuchsia snow boots with faux fur trim that had once been white but was now dotted with colored marker, grape-colored gloves, spruce-blue coat. He couldn’t see her shirt, but he’d lay odds it was as bright as the rest of her outfit.
She looked back at Sunday, a single tear sliding down her cheek.
And, God! His heart hurt for her, for her siblings, for Sunday, who’d have given anything to keep them from ever being hurt again.
“It’ll be okay,” he said.
She met his eyes, and he saw a world of maturity in her gaze, a lifetime of knowledge she shouldn’t have. She knew it might not be okay. She knew Sunday might die. She knew how fragile life could be.
“I think I’ll have a cookie and hot chocolate,” she said, her voice wooden and raspy, the tear still damp on her cheek.
Then, she bounced out of the room as if none of it had happened, and there was nothing left for Sullivan to do but sign the online forms and pray things really would be okay.