Chapter Six
So...
Caring for six kids and a huge house was a lot harder than teaching third grade. It was also harder than mucking stalls, cleaning pigsties, and herding sea monkeys. Rumer was only guessing about the latter since she’d never actually attempted to herd brine shrimp.
She might be tempted, though.
After this gig, just about anything seemed possible.
She finished scrubbing the last of the dinner dishes, the glass casserole finally free of the weird mixture of noodles, mystery meat, and red sauce it had contained. It hadn’t been quite as bad as Minnie’s spaghetti pie, but it had come darn close. The meal train conductor had dropped it off after school, offering a quick explanation before thrusting it into Rumer’s hands. She’d left a cloth grocery bag, too, filled with wilted salad in ziplock baggies, tomatoes with bits of molded flesh, and a store-bought cake that had been about as hard as the rock Milo had begun carrying around.
Yeah.
A rock.
That he’d named Henry.
Apparently, Milo had been wanting a dog for a couple of years. His parents had promised that he could have one on his birthday if he proved that he was responsible enough. A pet rock, according to Milo, was the first step in proving that he was.
Not that his parents were around to see it.
And, maybe that was the point.
Maybe he just needed to feel like he was still connected to them, that somehow, despite the fact that they weren’t there, they would follow through on the promise they’d made to him.
Just thinking about it made Rumer’s throat tight and her eyes sting. She’d only been working for the Bradshaws for three days, and she was already getting a little too attached.
But, that was the point, right? To love them exactly the way their mother did until she returned to them.
She dried the dish and slid it into a cupboard, wiped down the counter, and grabbed the bucket of slop from the mudroom. Carrying it out to the hog was supposed to be Heavenly’s job, but she was in her room with the door closed and locked, fuming because Milo had cut up one of her teeny-tiny shirts to make clothes for Henry.
She’d been mad as a hatter, her eyes flashing, her cornrows vibrating with fury. She’d wanted him punished, and she’d wanted it to happen STAT. Rumer would have been happy to give some consequences if Milo hadn’t found the shirt lying on the floor in the mudroom. He’d assumed it was an old rag. He’d explained the entire thing in excruciating detail as he’d clutched the cloth-covered rock like it was his best friend.
In Rumer’s estimation, a teeny-tiny shirt left on the mudroom floor could easily be mistaken for trash or rags. She couldn’t punish him for making a mistake. She’d told Heavenly that and suggested that the tween’s attitude was a great way to get out of eating the mystery meat casserole they’d been gifted, because if she didn’t cool it with the death glare, she’d be dismissed to her room.
Heavenly hadn’t waited to be dismissed. She’d pushed away from the table and stomped to her room, slamming the door for good measure.
Not a bad show, but Rumer would have done a lot better at that age.
She unlocked the back door and stepped out into the cold night air. It was quiet here. Peaceful in a way she’d never found the homestead. Maybe because they were farther from the highway. There were no visible house or streetlights. No noisy traffic passing by. Nothing but the velvety darkness and the quiet.
She made her way across the yard, opening the gate that led into the pasture. Bessie’s pen was a quarter mile away, its dirt floor layered daily with fresh hay. She’d helped the twins do that, the same way she’d helped Twila fix fence posts near the west edge of the pasture, helped Moisey make lunches for all her school-age siblings, and helped Heavenly with her math homework.
Keeping the kids busy was part of the plan.
So far it was going as well as could be expected.
She made it across the field without sloshing too much of the mystery casserole goop. Too bad for the hog, because Rumer had tasted a piece of mystery meat, and she’d nearly gagged. Hopefully, Bessie wouldn’t get sick and die from it.
She approached the pen as quietly as she could. Bessie seemed sweet enough, but she was a hog, and she might squeal and bellow if she was woken from a sound sleep. Rumer had managed to get all the kids in bed on time, and she didn’t want to give any of them an excuse to get up again. After three long days of kid and housekeeping duty, she needed a little peace.
She also didn’t want Sullivan to emerge from his room.
He’d been there most of the day, working on his research paper. He’d come out once or twice to check on Oya and to ask if the school had called yet.
They’d both known that a phone call was inevitable. Rumer had been up to the school three times in three days. Currently, Moisey was back at school and Maddox was out—suspended for tackling another little boy who’d told him his mother was going to die.
The elementary school teachers and principal were being as patient as anyone could be expected to be, but Benevolence Elementary wasn’t a haven for troubled kids. It was filled with middle-class students from middle-class backgrounds. Most of them went home to people who cared about them. Those who didn’t hid their troubles with façades of polite civility. No fights in the halls. No shoves off swings. No throwing a handful of crumbled cookie into a rival’s hair. The Bradshaw bunch had done all those things and more. Rumer had seen the files. The trouble the kids were having hadn’t begun with the accident, and it wasn’t going to end when Sunday came home.
Obviously, the problems—whatever they were—needed to be dealt with, but Rumer had no background on the kids, no idea where they’d come from or what they’d experienced before joining their family. She’d asked Sullivan, and he’d seemed just as clueless. He wasn’t even sure which child had joined the family first.
She’d figured that out by asking Twila. The boys had been first, adopted through foster care. Then, Moisey, who was from Ethiopia. Twila had joined the family three years ago, and a year after that the Bradshaws had taken in Heavenly as a foster. Oya was Heavenly’s half sister, and she’d joined the family three days after she was born. That adoption had been finalized before Oya was a month old. Right after that, adoption paperwork was filed for Heavenly. She’d become an official member of the family a few months before the accident.
Rumer might not have case files and backgrounds, but she could imagine what their lives were like before they’d become Bradshaws. Their heartbreaking beginnings should have had a great ending. Everyone she spoke to mentioned how loving Sunday and Matt were, how determined they’d been to provide a loving home for their children.
That was great. It was even noble. Sometimes, though, love wasn’t enough. Sometimes kids needed firm rules and set boundaries. She wasn’t sure if that’s what Sunday and Matt had done, but it was what she was attempting.
Excusing behavior because of background and circumstances would only set the kids up for failure. That was Rumer’s opinion, and the school shared it. You punch, kick, or tackle another student and you’re suspended. Three suspensions, and expulsion was possible. It didn’t matter what your reasons were, it didn’t matter how justified you felt. Do the crime, do the time. Period. No exceptions.
Moisey was on suspension number one.
Maddox was on his second.
At the rate they were going, they’d be expelled before Christmas break.
She shuddered, opening the gate that led into the pigpen.
“Hey, Bessie,” she called. “It’s just me, bringing you some dinner. Hopefully, it won’t kill you off.”
“Is there a reason why you think it would?” Sullivan asked, his voice so unexpected, she jumped. The slop splashed her shoes and jeans.
“Dang, you scared the stuffing out of me. Again,” she muttered, trudging over to Bessie’s trough. She’d have dumped the slop in, but Sullivan had followed her through the pen.
He took the bucket, poured the slop into the trough, and stepped away as Bessie nosed her way toward the food.
“Is something in here I should be worried about feeding her?” he asked. “Because, if she dies, Twila will never get over it.”
“Nothing but the casserole someone from the meal train brought.”
“Is that what I smelled cooking?”
“I’m afraid so.”
“Did the kids eat it?”
“A few bites each, then I relented and let them have sandwiches.”
“And, they’re still alive?” he asked.
It took a moment for the question to register. When it did, she laughed. “God! I hope so. I didn’t think to check their pulses before they left the table.”
“Assuming they are—and since I heard the twins whispering in their rooms before I came out here, I think that’s a safe bet—Bessie should be fine.”
“The twins are awake? Last time I checked on them, they looked sound asleep.”
“They’re good actors.” He rubbed the back of his neck, watching as Bessie chowed down on the slop. “Then again, based on how badly that stuff stunk when it was cooking, it’s possible they passed out for a few minutes.”
“You could smell it?”
“Couldn’t you?”
“Yes, but it’s a big house. I was hoping it hadn’t permeated the walls.”
“It had, and it was bad enough to turn my stomach.”
“Is that why you didn’t come down for dinner?” She’d sent Moisey up to tell him it was ready. Moisey returned saying that he’d eat later.
“No. I’d finally made progress on my research, and I didn’t want to stop. Of course, if the food had smelled as good as last night’s dinner, I probably would have stopped anyway.” He smiled, and her heart skipped a beat.
Literally. It beat and then nothing. Just an empty feeling in her chest and the odd thought that in all her years of dating, she’d never had a guy’s smile stop her heart.
“Maybe I should ask for the recipe. I could make it every time you’re feeling unproductive. The smell might motivate you to stay in your room and keep working.”
He chuckled. “That won’t be necessary. With you at the house, I’m getting a lot more done.”
“You never told me what you were writing about.”
“I didn’t want to bore you.”
“Who says I’d be bored?”
“My experience tells me that most people aren’t nearly as interested in art as I am.”
“I’m not most people.”
“I’ve noticed,” he said so quietly she almost didn’t hear.
Almost, but she did, and she wasn’t sure if she should feel complimented or criticized.
“So, tell me,” she prodded, anxious to move past his words, to put them out of her head and forget them, “what are you working on?”
“A research paper about eighteenth-century women painters and their influence on romanticism.” He walked out of the pigpen, waited for her to follow, and closed the gate.
“Were there eighteenth-century women painters? Good ones, I mean. Ones who influenced art movements,” she asked, curious and a little surprised. He’d said he taught art history, but she’d imagined him to be the kind of guy who preferred modern to antique and masculine to feminine.
“Women are in every aspect of art history. Just like they are in the history of everything else: medicine, architecture, science, literature, music, design. We just don’t hear much about them, because their work was often overlooked or hidden away.”
“Or appropriated by a man who claimed it as his own.”
“Sometimes, but I’m not doing cultural or gender studies. I’m looking at the past and trying to see how esthetic movements changed and morphed into other things. Women haven’t been given enough credit for their part in that. I want to make sure they do.”
She ran that around in her head for a moment. The words. The purpose. The passion she heard behind them.
“See?” he said. “Boring.”
“If you’re taking my silence for boredom, don’t. I’m quiet when I’m interested in something.”
He smiled. “Nice save, Rumer Truehart.”
She’d heard her name a million times, but the way he said it—with warmth and humor and understanding—made every extra word and thought fly away. She was left with nothing but the truth. Plain and simple and straightforward. The way Lu had always encouraged her to be.
“I’ve never been much of a liar, Sullivan. Not even for good causes. My childhood was chaos. Loud and dirty and mean. I learned to talk fast and think faster, and my first nine years happened at warp speed. I still tend to talk fast, move fast, and act fast, but when something interests me, I slow down enough to take it in. Otherwise, I might miss the beauty of it.”
“You have an interesting perspective. One that a lot of people could benefit from.”
“Do any of them happen to be Bradshaw children?”
“Probably. As far as I can tell, the only one of them who ever stops is Twila,” he said.
“Heavenly is pretty quiet, too.”
“But, she doesn’t stop moving and doing. Haven’t you noticed? If she’s not picking at one of her siblings, she’s wiping a counter or taking out garbage or upstairs dancing or singing or writing.”
“I’ve noticed, and I’ve been trying to put that energy to good use. I’ll be taking the kids to Lu’s Saturday morning—”
“You have the weekends off,” he reminded her.
“And?”
“You might want some time away from the kids.”
“I told Heavenly and Maddox they could help at the stables. I never go back on my word. Not when it’s given to children. They’re going to help. The rest of the kids might as well do the same. Except for Oya, of course. You and your brothers will have bottle- and diaper-changing duty.”
“Three to one are good odds. I’m sure we can handle it.” He stopped at the old-fashioned water pump, moonlight glinting off his dark hair and a pair of glasses he only wore when he was working.
Reading glasses?
Maybe, but she hadn’t wanted to ask, because she had no business being curious about him.
“And, maybe you can get more research done. Are you close to finishing?”
“Not as close as I’d like to be. It’s not easy to find influential female painters from the time period, and what we know about them is limited. I’d planned on visiting a few libraries in DC and New York, maybe taking a trip up to Boston to speak with some colleagues, but this happened.”
“And suddenly you were parenting six kids instead of going on research trips?”
“Right. If I’d known I was going to be playing Dad to this bunch, I’d have chosen an easier research project.”
“I doubt it,” she said, and he set the bucket under the spout and met her eyes.
“Why do you say that?”
“You don’t seem like the kind of person who backs down from a challenge. I mean, look at all this.” She waved toward the dark fields that stretched out as far as she could see, then the farmhouse. “There are a lot of people who wouldn’t do what you and your brothers have. Some of them would have parceled the kids out to other people. Some would have let the state take the kids and place them in foster homes.”
“Truth?” He grabbed the pump handle, his biceps well defined beneath a flannel shirt that he’d layered over a black tee. “I’m one of those people. I wouldn’t do this. I don’t want to do it. I never planned on doing it but Matthias was my brother. These are his kids. I’m not going to turn my back on family.”
“Like I said, there are a lot of people who wouldn’t do what you’re doing. A research paper on women painters in the eighteenth century is tame in comparison.”
“Yeah. We’ll see how things look in a couple of weeks.”
“What do you mean?”
“The hospital called a few minutes ago. Sunday still hasn’t improved. They want to move her to a rehab facility.”
“That doesn’t sound like a bad thing.”
“It’s for long-term palliative care. The kind you give to people who aren’t going to get better.”
“Oh.” That was it. All she managed to say, and it wasn’t nearly enough.
The kids were counting on their mother getting better.
Right now, their entire lives were wrapped up in that hope.
Every night at dinner, one of them prayed for their mother’s return. Every night when Rumer tucked them into bed, she listened to each one ask for the same thing.
Except for Heavenly.
She didn’t pray. She didn’t ask to be tucked in. She didn’t talk about Sunday’s return or plan what they’d do to celebrate once she came home. Heavenly’s heart had been broken before. She wasn’t willing to let it be broken again.
Rumer could see that as clearly as she could see the moon rising over distant mountains.
“Poor kid,” she murmured, and she thought Sullivan must have known who she was talking about. He nodded, leaning over to pump water into the bucket and rinse it out.
She watched, because . . .
What else was she supposed to do?
Walk back into the house and leave him outside alone?
Stare out toward the river or toward the house?
When he finished, he straightened, turning to face her again. “I’m not sure what to tell them, Rumer. That’s the problem.”
“You don’t have to say anything, yet.”
“If nothing changes, the hospital plans to move her Monday. People in town are going to know at least some of the details. They’re going to come to conclusions and discuss them in front of children. Those children—”
“Are going to get tackled by Maddox when they say Sunday is going to die?”
“Something like that.” He ran a hand down his jaw and shook his head. “He only has one more shot after this last one.”
“The school made me very aware of that.”
“They’re great that way,” he said dryly. “Not so great at stopping the kid before he does something stupid.”
“Twenty-six kids. One teacher. The odds are always against her.”
He smiled. “You have a point. And, my point is that I’m going to have to tell the kids something. There’s no way to avoid it. I’m just not sure how much to say.”
“Have you called your brothers yet?” she asked.
“I planned to do it out here. Where Heavenly couldn’t hear. I don’t want her telling the younger kids that their mother will never get better.” He handed her the bucket, and took out his phone.
“You know,” she said, before he made the call, “the kids haven’t been to the hospital since her surgery.”
“Life has been hectic. You see how it is—school, homework, after-school activities. There aren’t enough hours in the day to pack it all into, so I’ve only been bringing them on the weekends.”
“Maybe she’d like to see more of them.”
“Rumer, she doesn’t see or hear anything.”
“You don’t know that.”
“No, I guess I don’t, but the kids are always worse after they visit her. They cry more, they fight more, they hide in their rooms more. I want the best for Sunday, but I have to protect the kids, too.” He sounded . . . heartbroken.
“Damn,” he continued. “I wish my brothers were here making these choices with me.”
“They’re coming this weekend, right?”
“Friday night.”
“When does the hospital plan to move Sunday?”
“If she doesn’t respond to stimuli before then, Monday.”
“And, if she does?”
“They’ll send her to a different facility. One that specializes in brain injuries. Either way, the doctors have done all they can. The ball is in her court, and she’s either going to come out of this or she’s not.” He turned away. “I need to call Porter and Flynn and let them know. The drunk driver’s insurance is covering the hospital bill, and the trucking company he was working for has set up a trust fund for future expenses, but long-term palliative care might be outside the scope of that.”
“There are a lot of logistics involved in all of this, and I don’t want to downplay that, but I really think we should bring the kids to see her tomorrow and the next day and the next.”
“Rumer,” he sighed, but he hadn’t walked away.
“I know it sounds crazy, and I know it’s a long shot, but she responded to me when I was talking about the kids. I know she did.” She touched his arm. Just fingers on warm, soft flannel, but he met her eyes, and her palm settled right where it was. Against fabric and muscle and warmth. Whatever she meant to say was lost in that moment, in the weight of that touch and the quick heat of their connection.
“It doesn’t sound crazy,” he said, shifting his arm so that her hand slid away. But, they were still so close, she could feel the warmth of his body, the tension in his muscles.
“Then, let’s do it. We’ve got nothing to lose, and everything to gain.”
“Your mother should have named you Pollyanna,” he muttered, tucking a curl behind her ear, his finger lingering against her skin. There for a moment longer than they needed to be, and then gone.
“My mother didn’t name me. She was too stoned.”
“Someone named you,” he responded, and she could see the questions in his eyes.
She could have told him everything—the story she’d been told on her birthday every year for as long as she’d lived with her mother.
She didn’t, because she didn’t want to explore whatever was building between them. She wanted to walk away from it and from him, pretend he was just part of the bargain she’d made, a job requirement she had to meet to get the money she needed. “One of my mother’s suppliers.”
That was it.
All she would say.
“And?”
“And, some things are better left in the past. Should I tell the kids we’re going to the hospital after school tomorrow? They have a few activities scheduled, but we can cancel.”
She changed the subject, and he let her.
Why wouldn’t he?
They were employer and employee and there didn’t need to be anything personal between them.
“I’m willing to give it a shot. Anything is better than waiting around, hoping for the best.” He took a step away, and she could breathe again.
Which was funny, because she hadn’t realized how tight her chest had become, how little oxygen she was inhaling.
She waited as he walked away, watching as the moonlight cast his shadow across the wheatgrass. She thought he’d keep going. That’s what every other man in her life would have done. Walk away and move on to the next activity, the next conversation, the next more interesting thing on the horizon.
Instead, he glanced back. “Aren’t you coming?”
“I thought I’d take a walk and get some fresh air.” She hadn’t really been thinking that, but she was now, because going back into the house and up to her room suddenly seemed like the loneliest thing in the world.
“I’ll come with you,” he said, walking back and taking her arm, his fingers curved around the crease of her elbow.
“That’s not necessary, Sullivan.”
“I’m not going to leave you out here by yourself.”
“I don’t see why you shouldn’t,” she responded, telling herself to step away. But, of course, she didn’t.
There was something about him. . . .
Something that reminded her of childish dreams and girlhood crushes, of days when she’d thought that maybe she really could be the first Truehart woman to find true love.
“It’s dark,” he responded. “You’re a beautiful woman—”
She snorted.
“What?”
“I’ve been called a lot of things in my life, Sullivan. Beautiful isn’t one of them.”
“Then, you’ve been hanging around the wrong people.” He said it as if it were fact. As if there was no way on God’s green earth she could have been hanging around the right ones.
“Or, the honest ones,” she replied, and felt his fingers tighten on her arm. Just a quick twitch of tension where there’d been none, there and gone so quickly she thought she might have imagined it.
“You’re not the only one who strives for honesty,” he said as they reached the gate and stepped out of the field. “I don’t make it a habit of buttering people up to get what I want.”
“I didn’t realize you wanted anything.”
“Of course I do,” he replied, stopping near an old elm that stood in the middle of the yard. “I want you to stay.”
“And, I already said I would.”
“Exactly. So, how about we start the conversation again. Or, finish?”
“What conversation?” she said, backing up because they were so close she could see her reflection in the lenses of his glasses, so close she could have levered up on her toes and brushed her lips against his.
“The one where I say it’s dark and you’re a beautiful woman?” he reminded her, and she was certain his gaze had dropped to her lips and rested there for a moment before returning to her eyes.
“Right,” she muttered, taking another step back and bumping into a wooden swing that hung from a thick branch. “Go ahead. Continue.”
“You are a beautiful woman, and it’s dark. We’re out in the middle of nowhere with nothing but hay and cows for miles around.”
“Bessie’s around.”
“Bessie is too full of casserole to be of any help if some transient decides to see what’s going on here at the farm and finds you walking around alone and unarmed.”
“This is small-town America, Sullivan. The likelihood of that happening is slim to none.”
“The likelihood of a well-qualified job candidate showing up out of the blue to interview for a position I didn’t know I was offering is slim to none, too, but it happened.”
He had a point.
He also had firm lips and gorgeous eyes and the kind of rugged good looks that made her think of firefighters and military men, heroes and heartbreakers and knights in shining armor.
She took another step back and bumped into a swing that hung from a thick branch.
Not a tire swing.
No. That would have made things too easy.
This was a long plank of wood that hit at thigh level. She stumbled, fell backward, and probably would have done the least graceful flip in the history of mankind if Sullivan hadn’t grabbed her by the waist.
He pulled her upright, his hands resting just above her hip bones, his fingers splayed along her lower spine. Her heart did that thing again. The one where it just kind of stopped and then started beating so fast she thought it might jump right out of her chest.
“Thanks,” she murmured, and he nodded, but he didn’t release her.
She didn’t want him to.
Which was stupid and dangerous and asking for trouble.
But, she couldn’t make herself move away, and she couldn’t make herself tell him to let her go.
“I think,” he said, looking into her eyes and her face, studying her like a painting that he wanted to memorize and re-create, “you should probably go inside.”
“I think you’re probably right,” she responded, but her hands had found their way to his arms, her fingers curling into the sleeves of his coat. She wanted to slide them along his biceps and shoulders, run her fingers through his thick hair.
For a moment, neither of them moved. She wasn’t even sure they breathed. Then his hands dropped away, and he stepped back, cold air rushing in where nothing but warmth had been.
“I’m going to call my brothers,” he said, his tone gruff, his voice gritty. Apparently, he wasn’t any more excited about this thing that was between them than she was. “I’ll be in after that. Unless you still want to get some air. If you do, I’ll walk with you and call my brothers afterward.”
She thought about that for all of two seconds. Thought about walking through fields of wheatgrass with Sullivan beside her, about moonlight in his hair and on his face, about the way it would feel and what it might be—the beginning of something they’d both regret.
“No. I’ve had enough air for one night,” she managed to say, and then she did what any turkey with a good sense of self-preservation would do on Thanksgiving Day: She ran.
* * *
Sullivan watched as she reached the house and ran into the mudroom. He continued watching as the kitchen light went off, imagining that he could hear her footsteps on the wooden stairs the same way he had for the past three nights. Moments later, the light in the attic bedroom went on, and she was a shadow at the window, pulling down the shades.
And Sullivan?
He was still standing there like some love-besotted fool, staring up at the window.
“Damn,” he muttered, dropping onto the swing that she’d almost fallen over. What the hell was wrong with him?
He had a million problems, and Rumer wasn’t going to be one of them. She was beautiful and tempting, and he’d come this close to kissing her under the elm tree.
He hadn’t.
He wouldn’t.
Because, that wouldn’t be fair to either of them.
Life was currently at an all-time high level of crazy. He had big decisions to make, limited time to make them, and a lot of pressure to make them right.
He didn’t have time to lose himself in the arms of a gorgeous woman. Even if he did, he didn’t think Rumer was the kind of woman who’d want to get lost. Not unless it was forever.
And for Sullivan, forever was about as likely as a beam of moonlight landing on Sunday’s face and waking her.
Another one of Moisey’s fantasies, and he let himself concentrate on that, on wondering what kind of trouble she might get into in her bid to make that happen.
A moonbeam on her mother’s face. Magic flowers to make a potion. Moisey had dozens of ideas for bringing her mother back from the brink of whatever chasm she was standing on.
He could imagine her climbing out the window of her second-story bedroom and using the downspout to scramble to the ground.
He could also imagine her falling and breaking her neck.
He frowned, walking to the front of the house and eyeing the window in question. Moisey shared a room with Twila—white twin beds with soft gray sheets and comforters, small desks shoved up against a neutral blue wall. The light was off. Of course. Twila was great at following the rules to a T. She liked order and predictability. She loved organization and neatness. Her side of the room was a clutter-free zone. Moisey’s was filled with origami creations and dried flowers, yarn dolls and bits of bright fabric.
Twila never complained, but then, she seemed to enjoy Moisey’s free-spirited approach to life. Maybe she lived vicariously through her sister. Whatever the case, the two seemed to get along well, their room one of the few argument-free zones in the house.
He eyed the window and the downspout that was a few feet away from it. Too far for Moisey to reach, and hopefully, too far for her to think much about. He knew his niece well enough to know that once a seed was planted in her, it grew quickly.
He wasn’t sure who had told her that moonbeams could wake people who were in a coma, but someone had, and she’d told him all about it when he’d said good night. She’d also told him it was going to be a full moon—the perfect time for magic to happen.
And, probably, for little girls to get lost or hurt or worse.
He made a mental note to check the window and the integrity of the screen. He could imagine Moisey opening the window and pressing her nose to the mesh, trying to figure out a way to get down without falling. He could also imagine the screen coming loose and Moisey tumbling twenty feet to the ground.
Not a good image, and not a good thought.
He shoved it away. Tomorrow, he’d talk to Moisey and make certain she understood that magic wasn’t real. He’d also talk to Rumer and let her know that Moisey might be hatching another plan to escape. He should have mentioned it tonight, but he’d been sidetracked by other things—the hospital’s call, Sunday’s lack of improvement, Rumer’s full lips and sweet smile.
“Damn,” he said again, because there were no kids around to hear it. He’d cleaned up his language for them, and been doing a pretty good job of keeping it clean.
Sometimes, though, he wanted to go back to the time when he didn’t have to worry about what little ears were hearing and little mouths were repeating. He wanted to go back to a time when the kids he dealt with were college age and no responsibility of his.
Sometimes?
Every minute of every day, because this life wasn’t something he’d ever have signed up for.
His cell phone rang, and he answered, stepping away from the house, because he could picture Heavenly in her room, ear pressed to the floor or the vent or the window, trying to get as much information as she could.
“Hello?” he barked, all his frustration seeming to spill out in that one word.
“You sound cheerful,” Flynn said.
“I’m about as cheerful as a mouse trapped in a cat carrier.”
“Have things gotten worse?”
“With Sunday or with the kids?”
“I just got your message about the surgery.”
“I left it four days ago,” he said dryly.
“I know, and I’m sorry. I was out in the middle of nowhere finding and branding calves. That’s a weeklong process that I squeezed into four days because I didn’t want to be off the grid for too long.”
“I figured it was something like that.”
“You know if there’s an emergency, you can call the house, right? My housekeeper will send someone out for me.”
“It wasn’t an emergency. Or, at least, not one that you could have done anything about.”
“How’d the surgery go?”
“Okay.” He paused, because this was going to be hard to say. Admitting that they might have reached the end of the road, that there might not be any more improvement, didn’t feel right. It felt like a betrayal of the deepest kind of trust. As if he’d given up on Sunday much too soon.
“I hear the word but in your voice,” Flynn said quietly. That was Flynn. Of the four Bradshaw men, he was the calm one, the quiet one. The one who thought a lot of things he’d never say.
“The doctors are talking about palliative care.”
A heartbeat of silence, and then, “They don’t think she’s going to wake up?”
“That’s the impression I get.”
“What do you think?”
“I wish I knew. I’d like to have some hard facts to share with the kids. Right now, we’re all just in limbo. Thank God for Rumer. If she weren’t around—”
“Rumer?”
“The housekeeper.”
“You found one already?”
“That was the purpose of the ad, right? For me to find someone to help around here.”
“It was the purpose, but Porter and I weren’t sure if you’d get a response. We were thinking we’d have to run the ad in Spokane, Oregon, and Seattle. Just to get a bigger pool of potential candidates. Is Rumer local?”
“To Benevolence? No. She’s from River Way.”
“That tiny town to the southeast?”
“If you can call it a town, yes.”
“And, she just happened to be in Benevolence and picked up a copy of the local paper?”
“I have no idea how she got a copy of the paper, but she had it, she saw the ad, she applied. I hired her.”
“How long has she been working there?”
“This was day three. Night four.”
“She’s a live-in?”
“On the weekdays. On the weekends, she goes home.”
“Her credentials?”
“A special education teacher with a master’s degree.”
“And, she was living in River Way and just happened to see our ad?”
“As implausible as it seems, yes.”
“You know what I think about things that are too good to be true? They usually are.”
“Agreed, but Porter ran a background check. It was clear. He spoke to her employer in Seattle, and she’s in good standing with the school. They’re looking forward to her returning in the fall.”
“So, why isn’t she there now?”
He explained as quickly and succinctly as possible. Flynn might be the quiet brother, but he was also the most opinionated and the most stubborn.
“I guess that sounds reasonable,” Flynn said when he finished.
“I’m a lot of things, Flynn. Stupid isn’t one of them. I wouldn’t let someone with an unknown background care for Matt’s kids.”
“I know.” Flynn sighed, the sound carrying a world of worry, concern, and frustration. “I hate being out of the loop, and I hate not being there. If I didn’t have this ranch, I’d quit my job and move back to that area, but this is a thriving business with a dozen people counting on it for income.”
“You don’t have to explain.”
“I feel like I do. I’m the oldest. I should be making the sacrifice.”
“What sacrifice? I’m still working. I’m just doing it in a different location.” The last thing he wanted was for either of his brothers to feel guilty. Sure, he’d had the bad fortune to be the only one who could relocate immediately, but they were a family, and they were working together to solve the problem.
“You’re downplaying things, Sullivan. None of us want to parent that crew. You’re the one who’s doing it.”
“With some help.”
“The housekeeper. Right. I guess I’ll meet her this weekend.”
“What time are you flying in?”
“Early. I’m leaving here Thursday night, and I’ll land around five a.m.”
“I’ll be there.”
“No need. I’m renting a car. I’ve got a meeting in Seattle Monday morning, so I’m flying out from there.”
“Are you coming here first, or heading to the hospital?”
“There. We need to sit down and come up with a plan of action. I’m not in love with the palliative care idea. Unless they can prove to me that she’s not going to get better, I want her in a rehab facility.”
“I agree.”
“Good. Sounds like you have things under control there. If you have issues between now and Thursday evening, give me a call. I may be able to change my flight arrangements and get there earlier. You shouldn’t have to deal with all this on your own.” From anyone else that might have sounded condescending, but Flynn didn’t have an arrogant bone in his body. He was tough as nails, hard as rock, and intimidating as hell. When he had to fight, he won. As far as Sullivan knew, he’d almost never had to.
“I’m about as close to having this under control as I am to solving the mysteries of the universe,” he admitted.
“You’re doing a better job than I would be. I can manage ten thousand acres and five thousand head of cattle, face down rattlesnakes and rustlers and not even blink an eye, but kids? They scare the hell out of me. I’ll see you Friday, okay?”
“See you then,” he responded, disconnecting the call and looking up at Moisey’s window again. Still dark. Still closed. Not even a hint that she was plotting something.
She was. He knew that.
Just like he knew that Heavenly was in her room with earbuds in and her music turned up, and that the twins had pushed their beds together so that they could whisper to each other when they were supposed to be asleep. He knew Twila had a book under her pillow and a little flashlight under her mattress and that Oya would wake up in the morning smiling. He hadn’t figured things out, but he at least knew that.
It wasn’t much.
It wasn’t everything.
But, it was a start. And that, he guessed as he walked back inside, would have to be enough.