“Promise?”
“Promise.”
Loud footsteps and the back door creaking open interrupted us. My stomach dropped. I turned to see the silhouette in the doorframe: broad-shouldered, big as a bear, and rolling in the cold with the force of someone who never learned to knock the mud off his boots—my father. He filled the space, his hair still mostly black but the silver running in thick at the templesnow, making him look like the kind of general who won wars by breaking things and never apologizing. His eyes landed on me and then immediately cut away, like even a glance might let me slip through a crack in his armor.
He stomped into the living room, peeled off his gloves, and dropped them on top of a pile of medical bills. Only then did he look me over, taking an inventory of everything from my face down to the boots I wore. His gaze didn’t linger, but it left a mark anyway.
“You’re back then,” he said, voice flat as a shovel scraping ice.
“Guess I am,” I said, forcing myself to stand my ground.
He didn’t come any closer, just stood there with his hand on his hip, a king surveying a failed kingdom. His other hand grasped a bottle of whisky.
The air thickened, heavy with the scent of livestock and sweat and something sour that might have just been resentment, left to ferment in the walls for years.
I stared at him, waiting for whatever judgment he was about to drop. He’d never been subtle about what he thought of me. But this was the first time I’d been a full-grown man in his presence, shoulders squared, heels dug in.
“You look like hell,” he finally said, eyes narrowed. “That’s what city living’ll do for you.”
I couldn’t hold back the tired laugh.
He grunted, unimpressed, then jerked his head toward my mother. “She eat yet?”
I shook my head. “I just got her some water, she wasn’t hungry.”
“Water’s not a meal,” he said, as if I’d failed a basic test.
I bit back the urge to remind him she’d just asked for the damn water and glanced at my mom. Her eyes were shut again, mouth drawn in a tight line, but I caught the faintest twitch inher brow. I wondered how many times she’d played this scene out, words and actions all scripted, nothing ever getting easier.
My father didn’t bother sitting down. He kept his boots planted on the worn patch of carpet and stared at the TV, though he couldn’t have cared less about the weather. He didn’t even take off his jacket. The old barn-smell of it competed with the bleach and sanitizer and made the whole place feel stale.
He finally looked at me, sizing me up again. All the years I’d been gone, and nothing had changed except the faces got older, the voices a little rougher. I acknowledged with a kind of sick humor that no matter what I did, I’d never be anything but a disappointment to him.
He made some gruff noise at the back of his throat and gripped the arms of the old recliner, testing the frame before he sank into it. It looked like an act of surrender, until he laced his fingers over his stomach and fixed me again with that cold, appraising look. “You settling your business in California or running from it?”
“I sold the company,” I said. “Nothing to run from.”
He grunted and his eyes turned dark. “There’s always something.”
I didn’t answer, just watched the rainy weather radar whorl around Montana on the TV. My mother’s mouth twitched—maybe she was dreaming, maybe she was just barely awake enough to know the old patterns were alive.
“You got this from here?” I asked, nodding toward my mom.
“Now that’s a question. I been the one here, boy.” His voice was gruff, his eyes wild with unchecked anger. I wasn’t about to lead him into a fight right here in front of her hospital bed.
I kissed her hand again and stood. “I’ll check in tomorrow.”
He laughed, without humor. “You do that.” He took a long swig of the bottle and I left the room, walking out of the house,down the porch steps, and to my truck before I took another breath.
Thirteen
Lily
Afew days later, Campfire Bakery was humming along in that jittery, caffeine-fueled rhythm only a small town could muster. Sutton had already been there two hours before opening, cranking out maple bacon bars and pumpkin cheesecake muffins, and by nine-thirty she’d lined the entire pastry case with a parade of perfect, golden-brown specimens.
I was manning the espresso machine, which hissed and gurgled like an angry pet every time I pulled a shot. My apron was already dusted with flour and a smear of blueberry jam. The regulars had claimed their tables before sunrise and were still going strong, nursing refills and eavesdropping with the open subtlety of professional busybodies.
But it wasn’t them I was watching. Every time the bell over the door jingled, my whole body did a weird, hummingbird stutter and my eyes snapped up, like I was expecting something or someone. Maybe I was.
