The Cowboy's Unexpected Family

“Can’t see how I’m doing that. I barely even see her anymore.” Jack opened his mouth but Walter stopped him. His ankle hurt, his face hurt and he had something he needed to say.

“I don’t want a nurse.”

Jack sighed heavily. “I don’t think you get a choice on that anymore—”

“I’m sober.”

Jack blinked. Blinked again.

“A week now.”

“Wow...ah...wow.”

Walter couldn’t help but smile at his son’s astonishment, which had the strange effect of making Jack smile for a minute before he tucked it away, out of sight.

“How you feeling?” Jack asked.

“Like shit. But…better.”

“You ever done anything like this before?”

“A few days, here and there.” Walter shook his head. Embarrassed for all sorts of reasons that he couldn’t really put words to.

“I take my pills like I should,” he said. “I’ve stopped drinking. My ankle is healing. I don’t want a nurse.”

“Sandra—”

Sandra. The touch of her body, the smell of her skin, for a moment the thoughts were a terrible sweet torture, but then he shoved them away where they belonged.

“—is leaving.” Walter said it with as much authority as he could muster, as if just by saying so he had the ability to make it happen.

“Then we’re going to need someone around here, Dad. Even more. Someone to cook and—”

“Cook, fine. But I don’t want a nurse. A goddamned babysitter.” He was beginning to yell, frustration making the back of his throat burn for a drink. Christ, he thought, it was hard being sober when he was just falling asleep in the sun. Dealing with people was worse. Painfully worse.

“Dad, we’re hiring someone. It’s just the way it is.” Jack shrugged as if his hands were tied and Walter knew he’d done that. Tied his boy’s hands. Drinking had ruined so much. Resigned but bitter, he turned in his seat, careful of his ankle.

“Dad?”

Walter paused without looking up. Too much effort getting his broken body to fall in line.

“I’m proud of you. About the drinking.”

Well, thought Walter, that’s something, isn’t it? He listened to Jack’s footsteps and blinked back the burn behind his eyes.

The sun crawled across his feet, yellow and bright, until it filled his lap and Walter picked up his knife again.

“They’re trying to get you a babysitter?” a voice asked, and Walter turned, saw Ben standing in the shadows outside of the stall he’d been hiding in.

He’d forgotten about the kid.

“Seems like it.”

“You do something wrong?”

Walter laughed and pressed his thumb to the point of the wood. Sharp but it didn’t break the skin. “I don’t seem to do much right these days.”

“Me neither,” the kid said.

In a burst of angry and desperate animation, Walter stood. “I’m hungry. You want to get something to eat?”

The boy shook his head. “I’m gonna stay here.”

Walter was going to argue—it seemed maybe the kid spent too much time alone. But maybe he’d been told what to do a few too many times, too.

“Suit yourself,” he said and left the boy to his demons, taking his own with him.

10

“Is he responding to his time with Lucy?” Dr. Gilman asked at their Saturday appointment.

“Well, he hasn’t stolen a car this week,” Jeremiah joked.

“What’s he doing there with her?”

“Gardening. Which makes sense. He used to do that with his mom all the time. She always said he was more farmer than rancher.”

“And that connection to his mother seems to be working?”

“He’s more…I don’t know…quiet and intense at times, but it’s better than the constant fireworks. All in all, things are looking up.”

“And the only change in your life is Lucy?”

“Just Lucy.” He tried, honest to God, he tried to keep the smile out of his voice, off his face, but he couldn’t.

“You like her,” Dr. Gilman said. She had pink flowers in a little cup beside her chair. Her daughter had picked them for her, that’s what Dr. Gilman had said, and for some reason Jeremiah couldn’t stop staring at them. Almost all the petals were off one and the other one was bent.

“Sure.” He shrugged, trying to be nonchalant when he felt oddly like jumping on a couch like Tom Cruise.

Dr. Gilman smiled slightly and wrote something down in her notebook, her long feather earrings brushing her cheeks.

“Come on,” he groaned. “What are you writing?”

“Nothing.”

“You’re lying, I know you are you’re writing down the patient seems to be interested in the neighbor.”

“Would that be wrong?”

He stopped. No. No. It wouldn’t be wrong. Exactly.

“It wouldn’t be right, though, would it?”

Her brow furrowed and she crossed her legs, leaning over her knee like he was utterly fascinating. It used to put him off, the way she reacted to him, as if he were so important or so interesting. Now he liked it. Lord knew he was rarely interesting or important these days.

“Why?” she asked.

“Because of the boys.” He couldn’t quite believe she needed to ask that question. Wasn’t it obvious?