Total pages in book: 83
Estimated words: 79185 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 396(@200wpm)___ 317(@250wpm)___ 264(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 79185 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 396(@200wpm)___ 317(@250wpm)___ 264(@300wpm)
“Still should count,” Otis says. “That’s how they did things back then.”
“I get it, and I don’t disagree,” I reply. “Just need some time to wrap my brain around it all.”
Porter shakes his head. “You know that’s not how life works, Otis. And I’m tired of being angry about every damned thing. I got everything I want right here.” He makes a point of kissing my cheek. “So I don’t blame nobody in the Sullivan family who’s alive today. And neither should you. They’re good people.”
“Amen,” Wade says, and the men nod.
I know Porter’s statement is not exactly true, but he’s trying, and God, I love him for that. But I also can’t help feeling that the gossip mill is going to be brutal, not only around here, but in town, and I don’t know how to bridge the gap and not make these men doubt me or my parents.
Suppose what Dad said earlier is true. They either know our character by now or they don’t.
“We plan on doing right by the Dixons,” Mom says, and I stiffen, not having realized she’d come over. “In the meantime, we’ve got a ranch to run.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Wade says with a tip of his hat.
We watch as the men wander off to their chores, and then we’re alone with Mom. She steps toward Porter, anguish in her eyes. “I wanted to tell you that day with the pie…but you were carrying so much anger and grief, and I didn’t know how. Plus, we needed to fill Bishop in first, but we never got the chance. That’s not on you, it’s on us.”
“Thanks for saying that, Martha,” Porter replies. “I won’t pretend this isn’t gonna be hard for me, but I’ll need to get past it—on my own time.”
“Of course.” Mom reaches out like she wants to touch him or pull him into an embrace but stops, likely knowing it won’t fly right then.
“But I do know that I love Sully, and I plan on showing him every day.”
“I have no doubt.” Mom’s smile is watery. “Sully, huh? That what you call him?”
“Yes, ma’am.” Porter bites his lip, and I swallow the bubble of laughter in my throat. “Sort of fits him, don’t you think? Sully…Sullivan Ranch?”
Mom grins and looks off in the distance, as if considering something.
The thought clears, and she pulls her sweater tighter across her shoulders. “I got Pixie off to school. She doesn’t know anything. Figured that would buy us some time to see what Randy’s gonna do.”
I picture that sweet girl’s face, her bright smile, and feel heartbroken all over again. “What do we do if Randy doesn’t—”
My thought is cut short by the sheriff’s car pulling up our driveway. My gut churns, a feeling washing over me that something’s very wrong.
We remain silent as the sheriff parks and exits his car, concern on both Porter’s and Mom’s faces. Dad pushes through the screen door and jogs down the steps to join us. “Sheriff? To what do we owe this visit?”
“Mornin’,” the sheriff greets us. “I hear Randy Wilks and his daughter, Patricia, been stayin’ out here with you all?”
“That’s right,” I reply. “Is there a problem?”
He removes his hat and scratches his head as if wanting to prolong the inevitable. “There’s been an accident.”
“Oh my God!” Mom’s hand covers her mouth.
“Randy was drunk as a skunk. Thankfully, nobody else was involved in the accident. He only drove down a ditch and straight into a tree.”
My heart clenches. It’s the very thing that haunted me about his drinking. “Is he…”
“The car flipped over, but somehow, he made it out with little more than a bump on his head. He’s at the hospital, probably got a concussion.”
“Thank God he’s all right,” Dad says.
The sheriff frowns. “It’s not his first offense, and there will be charges brought. He’s looking at jail time.”
“Suppose this is his rock bottom,” Dad murmurs. “We tried to talk him into treatment, but it didn’t go so well.”
“Usually doesn’t.” The sheriff puckers his brow. “He was blubbering something about not having a job and no place to live.”
“Christ, what a mess,” Porter mutters.
“Is it possible that a treatment program could be considered as well?” Mom asks. “Not sure jail time alone will cut it.”
“That’d be up to the county DA.” He twirls his hat. “I’ll be sure to pass on the message, so he might give you a call.”
“Appreciate that,” Dad says.
The sheriff looks over Dad’s shoulder to the house. “He did ask about his daughter, and normally in a case like this, social services would step in.”
A lump forms in my throat. “Pixie has been staying in a spare bedroom and helping with the horses, even made her a junior groom.”
“That right?” He considers it a moment. “Usually they search for family to place them with, but from what I heard, ain’t none to be found.”