“I don’t want anyone fussing over me,” he says predictably.
“No fussing. I promise,” I say with a grin, and he laughs, but then he winces in extreme pain. I don’t waste any more time getting him into the house and to the couch to lie down for a while.
I cover him with a blanket but try not to fuss. My dad is a proud man, and I know being taken care of like this is killing him. I also notice his legs are shaking—which happens when you have surgery on your nerves that are already freaking out, I guess.
“He just needs rest,” my mom says, placing her hand on my shoulder. I force myself to look away from my dad’s trembling body and at her. “Where’s Logan?”
“Uh, Kelly will bring him by soon. Thought maybe Dad needed to settle in.”
“That’s nice of her.” She jerks her head toward the kitchen like she wants me to follow her. “Come on. I’m going to make breakfast.”
My mom looks exhausted beyond belief. I have no doubt she didn’t get any sleep last night, even after working a double shift, because she was worried about my dad coming home today.
Because now the therapy starts. And the pain. And the disappointment when his back doesn’t get any better and hecan’t go back to work. My dad is understandably depressed, and so is my mom.
But I don’t argue with her about not needing to make breakfast. Instead, I do what I can to help her make everything, then sit at the table while both of us pick nervously at the food until it’s time to clean up.
I help her get my father to the bathroom and then back to the couch just in time for Kelly to show up with Logan. My little brother clearly doesn’t understand what’s happening, but he knows our dad is in pain.
I’d do anything to prolong his reality of coming back here, but even though he loves the farm, I can’t keep watch over him well enough during my work hours, and I can’t ask Kelly to give up any more of her time—though she’d do it without hesitation.
She has bills to pay and lots of products to make for the farmers’ markets.
Kelly leaves, but I don’t stay for very long after that. I can’t seem to do it. Watching the strongest man I’ve ever known writhe in quiet agony is too much for me. So after telling my family goodbye, I head back out to the Wright farm, and I’m in a shitty mood.
So when I see Emerson standing by the fence all by himself, I’m ready for a fight. “What the hell are you doing?” I ask after I park my truck and start walking his way.
But when he turns, I realize he isn’t alone. No. His hands are on the horns of one of our grumpiest, oldest goats, Walter. And poor Walter has his horns stuck in the fence.
“Damn it. How did this happen?”
I know how it happened. He does this often, but I’m pissy, so there you go. Emerson doesn’t seem all that surprised by my mood, which pisses me off even more. I wonder if Millie, John, or Kelly told him about my family.
I’d like to think they didn’t, but I can’t be totally sure.
“Your guess is as good as mine. John had to run into town, and I was in the barn when I heard this guy screaming.”
I stroke my knuckles over the crown of his head, trying to soothe him. “Damn it, Walter. Got yourself in a predicament again, huh?”
“Again?” Emerson says with irritation. “This has happened before?”
I shrug. “Maybe.” He huffs but otherwise keeps his mouth shut, which is unusual for Emerson. “You pry the fence apart as best you can, and I’m going to do my best to push him through.”
Blessedly, he doesn’t argue. Just does what I said, and soon enough, we get the goat free. He doesn’t seem all that grateful either, just letting out a “bah” and then hops off happily.
“How’s your brother?”
“Don’t worry about my brother. Why the hell are you asking about him? Did Kelly tell you anything?” Okay, so I need to chill, but I’m a little sleep-deprived and more than a little stressed. The bills are adding up for my parents.
I know even if my mom won’t outright tell me how bad it is, it has to be bad. My dad hasn’t been able to work in years, and the meager payments from disability just don’t cut it.
My mom works as often as she can, but if I can’t watch Logan or if she’s too proud to ask Kelly for help, she has to pay for daycare. Not to mention my dad used to make a pretty decent living out on the rig, and they splurged a little on the house.
So the payments have to be more than they can afford.
Emerson watches me with annoyance, his expression a deep scowl. “Relax. I was just making conversation. I thought small-town people love small talk.”
“We do,” I say, walking away from him toward the barn. “Just not with city people.”
