He walks past me toward the kitchen. “We don’t know she’s mine. This could all be—”
“Come on, man. That was your kid.”
He rests his palms on the counter. “I can’t do this. I can barely take care of myself.”
“Well, don’t look at me.” I stand across from him. “We have to call Dad. This is going to get out soon and I don’t want him hearing about it if it ain’t from us.”
“I can’t deal today.”
“Whencanyou deal? We need to make sure this couple doesn’t leave town withyourkid. Which after one look at you, I wouldn’t blame them if they did.”
“What if they turned up when Millie was here?”
“Dal, focus on the now.”
He shakes his head. “I need a shower. Then maybe I’ll go for a ride.” He turns back. “The Callahans are throwing their annual rodeo tomorrow.”
I nearly scoff like I’m not aware. “They can throw all the rodeos they want. If they got the money and stock to back it up.”
He hesitates. “It’s gonna be a bit of a hit.”
“Nothing we haven’t dealt with before. We still got the water, healthier stock. You never worried about it before.”
“And I’m not now.”
“If you don’t think I’ve got a handle on it, maybe you should come back to work.”
He exhales through his nose. “I agree with you and Dad. We don’t do rodeos.” He shakes his head, glancing out the window at our sprawling fields. “But we gotta do somethin’. Especially these next few weeks.”
It’s no wonder Silas stays in Denver. Even when hockey season is out.
This place is a shitshow.
Dad comes over and it’s hell at my house as he lays into his oldest son. Not for getting a girl pregnant. Not even for the extra seat at the table every other Sunday. But for being so careless to let six years go by without knowing.
I’m surprised the words “town” or “talk” don’t slip from his mouth. Then again, since losing mom, his focus has been on family and keeping our bond tight.
When his blame turns on me out of nowhere, I storm out of the house and head straight to Rose’s cottage.
If only just to see her light on. Maybe catch her moving inside. It’ll be enough for now. Something to keep me steady from the shitshow I just fled.
I hate the distance I forced between us.
Hell, I’m probably the only one suffering from it.
It’s stubborn. It’s unproductive and .?.?. I fucking miss her.
Doesn’t help that she’s been avoiding my eyes when we pass—and I don’t blame her for being mad.
The lights are on, but I don’t see her movement inside. I imagine her on the floor, painting. Or in the kitchen, cooking. Or hell, maybe wondering when I’m going to text again.
I’ve been texting nearly every night to check on her.
And I keep doing it until I don’t get a response. Or until her lights go out.
I pick up my phone and hesitate. Everything I type feels forced. Placating. Cowardly.
Wilder:Wouldn’t believe my night.
