Total pages in book: 88
Estimated words: 82341 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 412(@200wpm)___ 329(@250wpm)___ 274(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 82341 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 412(@200wpm)___ 329(@250wpm)___ 274(@300wpm)
His large, capable hand settled on mine and held tight.
“New year, new start,” he said in his calm but determined way.
“And you stay,” I said, trying like hell not to let it sound like a question.
His denim blues looked like spring rain to me then, the kind that washed away the harsh winter and forced open the flowers of spring.
“And I stay.”
Chapter 22
Weston “Major” Marian
After the New Year, we followed the plan. Lois and Stan were on board, and the four of us adults sat the kids down to explain that while Mommy was gone, we were going to treat her memory like one of her beloved rosebushes. We would tend it with care and watch it grow. We would only feed it good things, and when we started feeling low, we’d remember that her number one wish was for the people she loved to be happy.
It wasn’t easy, and there were crying jags the like of which I’d never seen before. My own sister had been emotional, but she’d never been much of a crier. But Brenda Wilde? Crier. She was stubborn as hell and a defiant wildcat when she didn’t get her way. She quickly discovered that she could play the motherless child card and get whatever she wanted. Doc was the worst. One chin quiver or dropped tear from Brenda would melt him like a chocolate Easter egg in the late-spring sun.
I finally had to sit him down one night and lay it out for him—explain why he wasn’t doing her any favors by letting her manipulate everyone that way. We sat at the farmhouse kitchen table while Lois put the kids to bed and Stan took the dogs out for a stroll. The evening meal had been a nightmare. The Brenda show was becoming a nightly rerun.
“She’s begging for boundaries, Doc,” I said.
He threw his arms up and admitted defeat. “Then you’re going to have to do it. From now on, can you just be the disciplinarian? I obviously can’t do it. She has my number. Besides, you’re a hard-ass anyway. Ask any of the hands.”
I stared him down.
“See?” Doc spluttered. “You’re just looking at me and I want to polish your damned boots. You’re scary as hell.”
“Well, from now on she’s giving me physical labor outside every time she pulls that crap.”
“Major, she’s only a little girl.”
I lifted a brow. “How old do the twins turn this year?”
He sighed. “You know how old they are, jackass. Ten.”
“When Billy was ten, he could herd cattle with me for five straight hours and come back to muck stalls afterward. You’ve seen Brenda on Starlight. You know that girl can hold her own. Besides, I’m going to start her in the rose garden pruning Betsy’s flowers first.”
Doc met my eye across the table. “I never thanked you for that.”
I blinked at him. “For what?”
“For planting those roses.” He swallowed. “For loving her.”
She’s not the only one I loved.
I grunted. “It’s my job.”
Doc’s face turned stony. “Like hell it was your job. You tore out those boxwoods and planted her flowers to give her something to enjoy while she was laid up. She died with a pitcher full of her favorite yellow roses on her bedside because you cared enough to bring her joy until the moment she died.” Doc’s voice was fierce and rough. “I will never forget that, Weston Marian. Never.”
I stood up, shoving my chair back and taking my coffee mug to the sink to rinse out. “Gotta go. Morning comes early during calving season. Send the girl to me when she smarts off tomorrow.” I cleared my throat and set the mug on the drainboard before heading to the front door.
The sound of Doc’s soft chuckle followed me out. Pretty sure he called me a stoic bastard under his breath.
Sure enough, the following day little Brenda Wilde turned up in the barn after school with her arms folded across her chest.
“Daddy said I had to come see you.”
“Why’s that?” I asked, hanging up an extension cord I’d been using.
“How’m I supposed to know?”
I squatted down in front of her, my suede work gloves resting on my knees and my hat tipped up so I could see her defiant glare. It didn’t take long for me to wait her out.
“I told him I was too sad to do my homework and that Mrs. Trayver doesn’t even care. He said I had to do it anyway.”
“Then what happened?”
Her chin wobbled. “I got sad again and told him he couldn’t make me do my homework when I was upset like that.”
I nodded. “Well, I’d be sad if I had to do homework too,” I allowed.
Her face was triumphant. “See? I told him so. It’s not fair. You need to tell Daddy that—”
I interrupted her with a raised finger. “Here’s the thing, Baby-Bee,” I said calmly but firmly, using the nickname we’d all called her since she realized she and her mom shared a first initial. “Sometimes life isn’t fair. And even when we’re sad as all heck, we have to do our work.”