“What do you mean, ‘talk to’?” Larry pushed off the doorframe, his shoulders already tense because he knew what Jeremiah was talking about. They’d been down this road before, when Ben first started acting out.
“A counsellor.”
“Yeah, he already has people to talk to. Us.”
Jeremiah’s laughter was bitter in the back of his throat. “He’s not talking to me, Larry. He’s never talked to me.”
“I know, son, but Connor and Annie, they wouldn’t like this going outside of the family. They were circle the wagons kind of people.”
“I know.” But they’re not here, are they? It’s just me and I’m out of ideas!
He didn’t say it because it would only hurt Larry. It would only make them try harder to help and they were seventy years old. They did enough.
“Besides, he talks to Cynthia.”
He knew Ben talked to his grandmother. After these Saturday visits Ben always seemed better. Like the kid he used to be.
“Well, try to get them to talk tonight, would you?”
“Sure thing, son. I’ll send them out for a yarrow walk.”
Jeremiah smiled. Larry, months ago, realized that Ben and Cynthia had formed a special bond after Annie’s death. He’d made up this sudden need for the yarrow that grew wild along the driveway and he sent his wife and troubled grandson out to pick armfuls of the stuff.
All of which he burned out at his place. But the walks did Ben some good.
“Now…” Larry’s hand, heavy and warm, landed on Jeremiah’s shoulder. “You go have some fun. Don’t try to take everyone’s money.”
“Isn’t that the point of poker?”
“Well, no one likes a bad winner.”
“You forget, Larry,” Jeremiah said with a smile, dropping out of reach only to pretend to land a punch to Larry’s midsection. “I’m a great winner.”
Larry laughed and put his arm over Jeremiah’s shoulder, walking him to the door, past Cynthia on the couch with all three boys piled up around her. Aaron was telling her about his goal in practice this morning. Cynthia winked as he walked by.
“We’ll be fine. Have fun,” Larry said, and then, with one last step, Jeremiah was out of the house, the door closed behind him.
On his own. For a wild second, every possibility open to him flooded his brain. He could be in Las Vegas in seven hours. Fort Worth in ten. Mexico in twelve.
Women and drinks and sleeping in and no kids to worry about. No ranch. No house. Just him, the truck, the road and no worries.
When the second was over he folded up those thoughts and put them away before checking his watch. Crap. If he didn’t speed like crazy he was going to be late.
Speed like crazy it was.
Forty minutes later he parked the truck in front of a small house in Redmen. To those who didn’t know, it looked like every other house on the street. Pretty red brick with flowers along the porch. There was no sign, no indication that it was more than a house.
When he stepped inside a bell rang out over the door and Jennifer, the receptionist, looked up.
“She’s waiting for you,” Jennifer said.
“Sorry I’m late.” He took off his hat, patting down the wildest of his overlong curls. A haircut—one more thing on his list of things to do.
“We understand, Jeremiah.” Her pretty smile held no pity. Just the kind of firm understanding that he had come to expect from the women in this house.
He nodded in gratitude. Anxious because, despite knowing how important these weekly meetings were, he still didn’t like needing them. He didn’t want to be here, but he was glad he was—a conflict that just didn’t sit well.
Jennifer led him down the hallway to the back room.
“Dr. Gilman?” she said at the closed door.
“Come in,” a voice answered, and Jennifer pushed open the door. The room was awash with end-of-the-day sunlight and Dr. Gilman, a sturdy woman in a denim skirt and long silver earrings, stepped out from behind a big oak desk to shake his hand.
Dr. Gilman had the firmest handshake of any woman he’d ever known. It was the handshake that had convinced him to trust her six months ago when he came here, desperate and worried for himself. The boys. Though at that point he would have trusted a paper bag if it promised to help him.
“Hi Jeremiah,” she said, her smile all earth-motherly and welcoming. Honestly, he loved this woman.
“Sorry I’m late,” he said again, because he didn’t know what else to say. All his charm and small talk got left in the truck; they seemed silly here. He hung his hat up on the rack beside the door. Briefly he wondered how many cowboys Dr. Gilman saw, if any. Psychiatry was sort of against the whole code. Just ask Larry.
“It’s all right.” She held her hand out to the deep leather chair in front of the windows and across from a smaller chair where she usually sat. “Why don’t you have a seat and tell me what’s happened since last week.”