Читать книгу Home for Good - Jessica Keller - Страница 11

Chapter Three

Scientific research said mint-and-tan-painted walls were supposed to soothe her, but each step Ali took toward her mother’s room weighed her down like shuffling through deep mud. She nodded to other residents of the facility as they teetered down the hallway, gripping the railing that ran waist-level throughout the nursing home. She clutched her purse against her stomach. Mom didn’t belong here. People in their fifties shouldn’t be stuck like this.

Paces away from Mom’s door, Ali leaned against the wall and sucked in a fortifying breath. It stung her throat with the artificial smells of bleach and cafeteria food. She pulled the paper out of her purse and read it again.

I saw you together at the Independence Day picnic. If you value what’s important to you, you’ll stay away from him. You’ve been warned.

Ali didn’t know whether she should run to the police department or laugh. The glued-on magazine letters looked straight out of a cheesy television crime show. But was the threat serious? Who would leave such a thing tacked to her front door? Thankfully, her head ranch hand, Rider, found it before Chance woke up. Her son could pretend bravado, but with something like this, he would have dissolved into a puddle of tears.

She racked her mind, tallying a list of the people she remembered seeing at the picnic yesterday. Not one of them would have cared in the least if they saw her speaking with Jericho. Who wanted to keep them apart? Not that she minded. That’s what she wanted anyway, right? All the more reason to steer clear of the man, but it grated to be threatened.

Unless... No, it couldn’t be. Abram Freed had never been fond of his son’s attachment to her, but she’d made her peace with the cantankerous cowboy years after Jericho left. Besides, with the paralysis on the right side of his body, the man couldn’t move—he lay in a bed here in the same nursing home as her mother. He couldn’t harm her, and he’d keep her secret about Chance, too.

A nurse wearing a teal smock broke into her thoughts. “You gonna go in and say howdy to your ma?”

“Hi, Sue. How’s Mom doing today?”

The nurse’s blond eyebrow rose. “No disrespect, but your ma’s the most ornery patient we have. But we don’t mind none. She’s a fighter at that. I think most people would be gone already with what she’s got, but she just keeps hanging right on.”

Ali gave a tight-lipped smile. “She’s a handful.”

Jamming the menacing letter back into her purse, she smoothed down her shirt and ran a hand over her hair before entering her mother’s room. The sight of Marge Silver—weak with pale skin hanging in long droops off her arms and a map of premature wrinkles covering her face as she whistled air in and out through the oxygen nosepiece—always made Ali’s knees shake a little bit.

“How you feeling, Ma?” She came to the side of the bed. Ali felt a deep emptiness. Her mom’s eyes stared back, cold and hopeless. Shut off, like her spirit had already given up.

“Dying... Been better.” The words wheezed out, stilting every time the oxygen infused.

Ali crossed her arms and buried her balled-up fists deep in her armpits. She wanted to take her mother’s hand in both of hers, but she knew better. Never one to show affection, her mother wouldn’t have considered the touch comforting. “You aren’t dying.”

“Want to.... Nothing left...here.”

“You know that’s not true. There is Kate and me and Chance.”

“Not that any of...you...care.”

“I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t care, and I know Kate visited just the other day.”

“The ranch?”

Ali straightened a vase on the bedside table. “It’s fine.”

“The...lawsuit?”

Ali bit her lip. She should be used to this by now; her mom asked the same questions every time she visited. But somehow, the little girl in Ali who wanted to know her mom loved her came with expectations that left her drifting in an ocean of hurt every time. Besides, she didn’t want to think about the deaths of that poor couple. It was an accident.

“Don’t worry about that. Tripp’s taking care of it. He always does the best for us.”

“Has to.... None of the rest of you...have any thought...in your heads. Never...happen...if your father...still alive.”

Ali pulled her purse tighter up on her shoulder, then gripped the bed rails. “I miss Daddy too, Ma.”

“Your fault...he’s dead.”

“Don’t say that.”

“So...selfish, had...to ride. Had...to...rodeo.”

“It’s hardly my fault Dad got caught under that bull’s hooves.” Ali stared out the window, fanning her face with her hand to dry the tears clinging to her eyelids. She tried to block out the memory of her dad, the amateur rider Buck Silver, being crushed again and again by two thousand pounds of angry muscle and horns. She saw his body go limp, remembered trying to run into the arena but Jericho’s strong arms held her back.

“Your fault...men leave. Your dad...your husband.”

“You’re wrong. Jericho’s back,” Ali ground out.

“If he finds...out. He’ll...take your son. You’ll...be alone.”

“He doesn’t know about Chance, and he has no reason to ever know.”

“People...always leave.”

“That doesn’t have to be true. Chance will always be with me. And Kate’s back right now.”

“How long...before she goes...too?”

“I don’t know, Mom. Here, I brought you some stuff from the house.” Ali set a bunched paper bag on the nightstand. “I’ll see you next week.”

Ali barreled out of the doorway—and straight into Jericho Freed’s solid chest.

* * *

“Whoa, there.” Jericho grabbed Ali’s slender biceps to steady her.

“I’m not a horse.” She jerked away.

“Of course you’re not.” He tipped her chin with his finger, and her red-rimmed eyes, tears carving twin paths down either side of her face, made his stomach flip. “Why are you crying?”

She swiped her face with the back of her hand. “What are you doing here?”

“Pop.”

“Oh, I knew that. I’m sorry. It was so sad—he was all alone. They aren’t sure how long he lay there...”

“You’re avoiding my question.” He gave a smile he hoped exuded safety and reassurance. “Why the tears?”

She tossed her hands in the air. “Oh, just another invigorating talk with my mother.”

“She’s here, too?”

Ali shrugged and gave an unflattering grimace in what looked like an attempt to hold back emotion. “She has lung cancer. I mean, we should have expected it. She smoked three or four packs every day of my life, and only got worse after we lost Dad.”

“And let me take a guess—she’s still as bitter and mean as ever.”

Ali met his gaze, and the tears brought out the gold flecks in her eyes. For a moment he couldn’t breathe. “She’s had a hard life.”

“True, but she doesn’t have to take it out on you. Don’t blame her moods on yourself. It’s fully her choice how she treats people.”

“You’re one to talk,” she mumbled and he swallowed a growl.

Could she never forgive him?

He blocked her path when she moved to walk around him. “Are you going to be all right?”

She dug her toe into the floor, and in a small voice confessed, “She still blames me for killing Dad.”

He wanted to scoop her up in his arms and feel her head resting against his chest, trusting his strength as he carried her away from all the people who tried to tie millstones around her neck. Quashing that desire, he settled for cupping her elbow and leading her outside, away from the oppression and doom of the nursing home. Thankfully, she walked right along with him, even leaned into his touch a little bit.

When they got outside, he led her to her truck then turned her to face him. He rested his hands on her shoulders. His blues met her sparkling hazels as he said in a soft, low voice, “It wasn’t your fault. Your dad made a choice that day to get on that bull. He took a risk, and it turned out to be a disastrous one. But that’s all it was, an accident.”

She worked that bottom lip between her teeth. “But he would have been trucking. He wouldn’t have been at the rodeo if I hadn’t been so bent on barrel racing.”

“He loved the rodeo. I’m just sorry we were there to see it that day.”

Ali nodded in an absent way, then pushed up on his wrists. Jericho let go of her, but as he stepped back he noticed something curious. “Your tires are on their rims.”

“What? I just drove here. They were fine.” Ali turned around and then slapped her hand over her mouth.

Jericho bent down to examine the tires. Sure enough, each one bore a deep slash. Intentional. His stomach rolled. “Cut. Know why someone would want to make mincemeat of your tires?”

She dragged in a ragged breath and clutched her purse close to her chest. “Yes.”

“Well?”

Her eyes widened. “I can’t tell you.”

“What? That’s ridiculous. If you have a problem with someone, tell me and I’ll take care of it for you.”

Ali’s brows knit together. “Why would you do that?”

He stepped forward, propping a hand on the truck above her head. He leaned toward her. She was so close. If he dropped his head, he could kiss her. Taste the sweet lips he’d dreamt about for the eight years he’d been gone. He wanted to, badly. Would she meld against him like she used to, or would she slap him and run?

“Nine years ago, I made a promise to protect you. I went and made a real mess of that, but I’m back. You can call on that promise if you want to. I’ll be here for you. You hear me?”

“I’ll be fine. I just have to walk to Mahoney and Strong—Tripp’s an associate with the law firm. It’s not that far.” She looked around him toward downtown. Jealousy curled in his chest.

“I can drive you there.” He hated himself for being any part of bringing her near Tripp, but he’d just made a promise, and he’d stay true to it no matter the personal cost.

“I’ll walk.”

“It’s farther than you think, and it’s hot as blazes out here. Let me drive you.”

She shook her head.

“Can I pick you up from his office and drive you home?”

“I’m sure Tripp will drive me home. I’ll see you around.”

She brushed past him, but the sweet smell of her lingered—something flowery. Jericho walked back to his Jeep. His pop would have to wait another day or two for a reunion.

He needed to find four new tires and get them on that beastly truck before Tripp could swoop in with some kind of heroic act.