Unexpected Family (5 page)

“About that,” she said. “What if he works off the repairs here?”

Ben looked up at that and his hope was palpable.

“Don’t get excited, buddy,” he muttered. “There’s no way you’re working here.”

“Wait, Jeremiah, hear me out.” She stepped toward him, the long dark locks of hair that had fallen from the messy knot on top of her head reaching out toward him on the breeze. The lines of weariness around her eyes didn’t make her any less pretty and he felt like a jackass even noticing that.

“Ben, go wait for me in the truck.” Like a criminal out on parole, the boy took off for the truck and Jeremiah watched him go, gathering up what was left of his composure. When he felt as if he could speak like an adult he turned back to Lucy and held up his hand. “The kid is in some kind of crisis,” he said. “And he doesn’t need to be coddled. He needs to understand he’s done something wrong—”

“I’m not arguing with you, Jeremiah,” she said. “But…look, something isn’t working between you and Ben. It’s obvious.”

Jeremiah felt his ears get hot. She was right. So painfully right.

“You’re not sticking around, why would you want to have Ben here?”

“Mom and I are staying at least three more weeks. And I’m just…I’m just offering you a chance to try something new with him. Something different. So, you know, you don’t have to always be the bad guy.”

“And you’re going to be the bad guy?”

Lucy bristled at his sarcasm and took a step back.

“I’m just trying to help.”

“Yeah, and I appreciate it, but this is family stuff. And we’ll handle it.”

Reese approached, looking like death warmed over in last night’s clothes. “I think I’m going to have to get the car fixed here. There’s no way I can drive it back to Fort Worth.”

Jeremiah swore and kept on swearing.

“Come on, man,” Reese said, his smile bright despite the black circles under his eyes. “It’s not that bad.”

“It is,” he said, honest because he couldn’t pretend anymore. “Because it takes time to fix this.” Just saying that made him feel better, made him feel like he was pulling this family away from rock bottom. First, he had to get Reese off his damn couch. Life would be easier without this living reminder of the old days drinking beer and snoring in his living room.

And then, maybe, it would be time to break the family code of silence. Get Ben some help.

* * *

W
ALTER
STARED
AT
the bright noon sky out the window of his bedroom and contemplated the long walk to the bathroom. Hard on a good day, impossible with the cast on his foot.

He rolled as best he could to the side of his bed looking for an empty bottle. Or a coffee cup. Anything. But Sandra’s presence in this house was all too obvious these days.

Clutter didn’t stand a chance against Sandra.

He pressed fists to his eyes.
And neither do I.

A month ago he’d been so excited to have Sandra back in his house. Like righting a terrible wrong in the world, bringing Sandra back to the Rocky M was his best effort at repairing the mess he’d made years ago when A.J. died, his best friend, foreman and Sandra’s husband.

All with the benefit of being able to see her every day. Being near her again—Sandra of the warm heart and the joyful laugh. Sandra, whom he’d always loved. Deeply. Secretly.

Yeah, and how did that work out for you?

“You are a sorry man, Walter. I thought I could come back here and feel nothing, but I have twenty-five years of living in these walls and if I’d had my way I would have died here and been buried right beside my husband, and you robbed me of that.”

That’s what she’d said two weeks ago, shattering all those delusions that he was doing Sandra a favor bringing her back here.

Her fury with him, rooted in disappointment, went deep. And he had no idea what it would take to change it. If he even could.

Damn, where was a bottle when he needed one? For being the room of a degenerate alcoholic, his room sure was devoid of the evidence.

No choice but to do this on his own.

Taking a deep breath, he swung his body up over the side of the bed and reached out to grab the crutch beside the bedside table. Carefully, holding his breath against the pain, he pushed himself up on his good leg and hopped slightly to get his balance.

Moving slowly, he made his way to the bathroom and—feeling pretty damn good—kicked the door shut behind him.

Once done, he washed his hands and hobbled back to the bedroom. Only to stumble at the sight of Sandra standing at the foot of his bed.

She wore black slacks and a bright red shirt, her long dark hair back in a ponytail that made her look like a girl. So bright, so lovely, he couldn’t look directly at her.

He fell against the doorjamb, banging his knee, and then winced when his hurt foot hit the door. Sandra started toward him as if to help, as if to touch him, and he waved her off. Breathing through the pain, he made his way past her to the chair in the small window alcove. A chair he’d never in his life sat in. Why in the world, he often wondered, did you need a chair in a bedroom? But now he was grateful for it.

Sitting on his bed—the bed he’d shared with his wife—seemed an utterly wrong thing to do in front of Sandra.

“You haven’t touched your eggs.” She pointed to the plate of eggs long gone cold, sitting on the bedside table.

“I’m not hungry,” he panted, rubbing his knee, wishing he could reach his ankle.

“You want some painkillers?”

He looked at her for a long time and realized he was at a crossroads of his own making. He’d been responsible for planting the idea in his son’s mind. But now it was time for her to leave. And Lucy had been right last night—Sandra wasn’t going to leave him when he was in need like this. Not unless he forced the issue.

“I want some whiskey.”

“It’s noon.”

“I’m an alcoholic, Sandra. It doesn’t much matter to me.”

“I won’t bring you booze.”

“Well, then stop bringing me eggs.”

She narrowed her eyes, an expression he’d seen on her stubborn, beautiful face more times than he could count.

“You should just leave, Sandra. There’s nothing here for you anymore. Your husband is dead. Your girls are grown—”

“I’m not leaving you when you need so much help.”

“I don’t want your help.”

“That doesn’t much matter to me.”

“A.J.—”

“Do not bring my husband into this,” she said, bristling.

“He wouldn’t like you being my nursemaid.”

“He was your best friend, Walter.” It was an accusation, a plea. The reason behind so much of their heartache. Walter had cared too much for his best friend’s wife and his own wife had seen his secret shame. His favorite torture these days was wondering if Sandra knew. He would—without a shred of exaggeration—rather die than have Sandra know how he felt about her.

“Please,” he whispered. “Just leave.”

“If you want me to go, then get better. Stop drinking.”

“Fine.” He laughed, shaky and sick because he hadn’t had a drink in fourteen hours. “I’ve stopped.”

“Until the cast comes off. You stop drinking that long, I’ll leave.”

He laughed before he thought better of it. “Three weeks without a drink?” There was no way. No point.

She lifted her chin, her eyes sparkling with a challenge. “There’s an AA meeting at the church on Sunday nights.” She slipped a piece of paper onto his dresser. “I’ve written down the information.”

“You’re wasting your time, Sandra.”

“If you love me like you think you do, stop drinking.”

His heart stopped, blood pooled in his brain.

She knew. Oh, God. She knew.

CHAPTER FIVE

I
F
THERE
WAS
ANY
EASE
in Jeremiah’s life, it arrived every Saturday afternoon with his dead brother-in-law’s parents. Cynthia and Larry Bilkhead were going to be seventy this year, too old to care for the boys full-time. They never contested Annie and Connor’s will, even when it was obvious that Jeremiah had no freaking clue what he was doing when it came to parenting.

But they came when he needed them as well as every Saturday afternoon, like clockwork. Like angels.

“Hi, Jeremiah, how are you doing?” Cynthia asked, stepping into the foyer to wrap him in her arms. She was small and round and smelled like cookies and pie. And there were times when he could have stood in her hug for a day.

“We’re good.” He lied, because really, what could they do with the truth? He kissed her papery, powdery cheek. “Some trouble with Ben—”

“What did that boy do now?” Larry Bilkhead stepped inside behind his wife. He was a six-foot-four-inch cowboy, who still carried himself like a man who’d won some rodeo in his day. His words might sound stern but Larry could not keep the love he had for his grandsons out of his eyes.

“I’ll let him tell you,” Jeremiah said, shaking Larry’s hand. Jeremiah had always liked the rawboned man, who wore his age and his time in a saddle with pride. Now, Jeremiah loved him like family.

“The cooler is in the van.” Cynthia put down her purse and kicked off her shoes to step into the family room. “Where are my boys?”

Upstairs there was a wild scream of “Grandma!” and the thundering of a herd of elephants running for the stairs. Casey was the first one down, followed by Aaron, who at eleven was too cool for a lot of things, but not too cool for Cynthia and Larry. Probably because Larry wasn’t like other grandpas. And Cynthia was exactly what a grandmother should be.

Jeremiah eased out the front door to grab the cooler from the back of their minivan. Every week she showed up with some casseroles for the freezer and enough cookies and cakes and brownies for a hockey team. And bags of fresh fruit and vegetables from their greenhouse.

“Ben,” he said, once he was back inside with the cooler. “You can unpack this.”

The nine-year-old had the good grace not to argue, and followed him into the kitchen meekly. Jeremiah cleaned off the kitchen table while the boy put things away and then Ben took the cooler back out to the minivan.

“He smashed up a car?” Larry asked, filling the door frame between the kitchen and the living room.

Jeremiah nodded, carefully stacking some clean glasses in the cupboard.

“What’s his punishment going to be?” Larry asked, and Jeremiah shook his head.

“I’m not sure.”

“In my day—”

“I’m not going to spank him.” Jeremiah turned to face the older man. “I know how you feel about this, but I can’t hurt that kid any more than he’s been hurt.”

Larry nodded, his cheeks red under the edge of his glasses. It was grief, not anger. Jeremiah knew Larry was just as at a loss for what to do when it came to Ben.

“I know,” he murmured. “But what are you going to do?”

“I can make him muck stalls until he’s eighty—but what good is that going to do? He’s already working hard around here. Hell, I have the five-year-old doing fence work.”

Larry just stared at him, his white hair lying smooth against his head. His blue eyes runny beneath his glasses. Larry was an old-world kind of guy. If Ben was his child, Jeremiah knew that Ben would have gotten the belt after this last stunt. Hell, maybe before then. But Jeremiah just couldn’t.

As it was, Jeremiah made Casey swear not to tell Grandpa Larry that he allowed Casey to spend half the night sleeping in his bed. The poor kid was plagued by nightmares. Jeremiah let Aaron sleep with his parents’ wedding picture under his pillow. Despite his tough words, Jeremiah was a total softy.

What these boys had been through couldn’t be fixed by work. Or more violence.

They needed help—they all needed help. He ran a thumb over the chip in the counter. He’d put that chip there himself, when as a kid he tried to get the Pop-Tarts from the top shelf.

This isn’t going to go well,
he thought.

“I think Ben needs someone to talk to,” Jeremiah said, anyway.

“What do you mean, ‘talk to’?” Larry pushed off the door frame, his shoulders already tense because he knew where Jeremiah was headed. They’d been down this road before, when Ben first started acting out.

“A counsellor.”

“He already has people to talk to. Us.”

Jeremiah’s laughter was bitter in the back of his throat. “He’s not talking to me, Larry. He’s never talked to me.”

“I know, son, but Connor and Annie, they wouldn’t like this going outside of the family. They were circle-the-wagons kind of people.”

“I know.”
But they’re not here, are they? It’s just me and I’m out of ideas!

He didn’t say it because it would only hurt Larry. It would only make them try harder to help and they were seventy years old. They did enough.

“Besides, he talks to Cynthia.”

Jeremiah knew Ben talked to his grandmother. After these Saturday visits Ben always seemed better. Like the kid he used to be.

“Well, try to get them to talk tonight, would you?”

“Sure thing, son. I’ll send them out for a yarrow walk.”

Jeremiah smiled. Months ago, Larry had realized that Ben and Cynthia had a special bond so he made up this sudden need for the yarrow that grew wild along the driveway. He frequently sent his wife and troubled grandson out to pick armfuls of the stuff even though he burned all of it once back at his place. But the walks did Ben some good.

“Now.” Larry’s hand landed on Jeremiah’s shoulder, heavy and warm. “You go have some fun. Don’t try to take everyone’s money.”

“Isn’t that the point of poker?”

“Well, no one likes a bad winner.”

“You forget, Larry,” he said with a smile, dropping out of reach only to pretend to land a punch to Larry’s midsection, “I’m a great winner.”

Larry laughed and put his arm over Jeremiah’s shoulders, walking him to the door, past Cynthia on the couch with all three boys piled up around her. Aaron was telling her about his goal in practice this morning. Cynthia winked as he walked by.

“We’ll be fine. Have fun,” Larry said, and then, with one last step, Jeremiah was out of the house, the door closed behind him.

On his own. For a wild second every possibility open to him flooded his brain. He could be in Las Vegas in seven hours. Fort Worth in ten. Mexico in twelve. Women and drinks and sleeping in and no kids to worry about. No ranch. No house. Just him, the truck, the road and no worries.

When the second was over, he folded up those thoughts and put them away before checking his watch. Crap. If he didn’t speed like crazy he was going to be late.

Speed like crazy, it was.

Forty minutes later he parked the truck in front of a small house in Redmen. To those who didn’t know, it just looked like every other house on the street. Pretty redbrick with flowers along the porch. There was no sign, no indication, that it was more than a house.

When he stepped inside a bell rang out over the door and Jennifer, the receptionist, looked up.

“She’s waiting for you,” Jennifer said.

“Sorry I’m late.” He took off his hat, patting down the more wild of his overlong curls. A haircut was one more thing to put on his list of things to do.

“We understand, Jeremiah.” Her pretty smile held no pity. Just the kind of firm understanding that he had come to expect from the women in this house.

He nodded in gratitude. Anxious because despite knowing how important these weekly meetings were, he still didn’t like needing them. He didn’t want to be here, but he was glad he was—a conflict that just didn’t sit well.

Jennifer led him down the hallway to the back room.

“Dr. Gilman?” she said at the closed door.

“Come in,” a voice answered, and Jennifer pushed open the door. The room was awash with end-of-day sunlight and Dr. Gilman, a sturdy woman in a denim skirt and long silver earrings, stepped out from behind a big oak desk to shake his hand.

Dr. Gilman had the firmest handshake of any woman he’d ever known. It was the handshake that convinced him to trust her six months ago when he came here desperate and worried for himself and the boys. Though at that point he would have trusted a paper bag if it promised to help him.

“Hi, Jeremiah,” she said, her smile all earth-motherly and welcoming. Honestly, he loved this woman.

“Sorry I’m late,” he said again, because he didn’t know what else to say. All his charm and small talk were left in the truck; they seemed silly here. He hung his hat up on the rack beside the door. Briefly he wondered how many cowboys Dr. Gilman saw, if any. Getting psychological help was sort of against the whole code. Just ask Larry.

“It’s all right.” She held her hand out to the deep leather chair in front of the windows and across from a smaller chair where she usually sat. “Why don’t you have a seat and tell me what’s happened since last week.”

Grateful, Jeremiah needed no urging. He sank into that chair and opened up like q box.

* * *

A
FTER
DINNER
ON
S
ATURDAY
night Lucy slipped out onto the back deck with her cell phone. She’d been dodging her accountant Meisha’s phone calls for two days—but it was time for her come-to-Jesus moment. She just hoped her come-to-Jesus moment wasn’t going to cost her everything.

Taking a big breath for courage she turned and looked out over the decimated gardens that were overgrowing the backyard. It was surprising Sandra hadn’t made her way out there yet to set things right. It was probably next on her list:

Save Walter

Do a little gardening

She was well aware her sarcasm was ugly. But at the moment it was all she had. A thin armor to keep out the cold.

Without allowing a chance to talk herself out of it, she hit Meisha’s number on her speed dial and prepared herself for the worst.

“This is Meisha, sorry I missed you, leave a message.”

“Oh, thank God,” she breathed, collapsing with relief against the porch railing.

“Hey, Meisha,” she said after the beep came and went. “I’m returning your calls. Sorry to be MIA, but I’m ready for the bad news. Call me when you get a chance.”

She closed her phone and watched a bird—maybe a hawk, she wasn’t sure—swoop along the ridgeline and ride the wind currents off the Sierras. Not a care in the world, that bird. Must be nice, she thought, totally aware that she was jealous of a creature with a pea-size brain.

Turning away, she walked down the rickety steps to the garden of ruin. Up close it wasn’t nearly as bad as it seemed. At least not to her nongardener eyes. The strawberries were a lost cause, but the tomatoes just needed to be staked. Same for the peas. The lettuces were coming in and the feathery carrot tops were pushing their way up out of the dark soil. She had no idea if the other plants were weeds or vegetables.

But there was possibility here. A shot at redemption. These vegetables could be returned to glory, they just needed someone to care.

I could do it,
she thought, though she had no idea how. No experience with…well, with anything but jewelry.
How sad is that?

Since nearly the moment she could hold a pencil Lucy had been drawing. It had been her only hobby, besides boys. But even boys couldn’t hold a candle to her love…her passion for art.

Her mother gave her a beading kit when she was eight and it was like the heavens opened. When she was thirteen she saved all her babysitting money for a soldering gun and some real turquoise stones. While other girls were trying out for sports and cheerleading she was buying silver wholesale and selling the cheerleaders her jewelry.

She took all her high school graduation money and went to South America to study tribal jewelry design and then to San Francisco to sell the pieces she made. From there it seemed like it was all meant to be. Every piece fell into place: the website, the orders from the boutiques in Los Angeles, finding the semiprecious stone importer. She earned enough money that she got comfortable.

Oh, come on,
she thought, laughing at herself.
Comfortable?
Hell, I got cocky.

It all just seemed…fated.

But never in that dreamy beginning did she take an accounting class. Or a business class. And in the end that was what ruined her. Ruined everything.

Well aware that she wasn’t the ideal candidate, but tired of feeling like a failure on all fronts, she looked at the garden of ruin and said, “It’s not like I have anything else to do.”

A hobby wasn’t a bad idea. Perhaps it was time to see if she could do anything in this life other than making jewelry. Gardening might not be her first choice but it was the best option present.

She crouched to pull a weed.

And then another, but it was a parsnip, thin and ghostly. Far from ready for the light of day.

“Whoops.” She tucked it back in its home and tried again until she got it right.

* * *

H
OURS
LATER
THE
RING
TONE
of her cell phone dragged Lucy out of a fitful sleep on the couch where she’d fallen asleep with a heating pad against her lower back.

Who knew gardening was so damn hard?

The living room was in shadows, and she reached for her cell phone where it rested on the end table by her head, but the cell phone’s face was dark.

Which meant it wasn’t Meisha.

The home phone rang again and she lurched off the couch, groaning when her back protested the sudden movement. Holding her back, she walked into the dining area and to the phone on the wall in the kitchen.

“Hello?”

The sound of a crowd and blaring music was the only answer. “Hello!” she cried.

“Hey, Lucy?”

“Yeah. Who is this?”