Читать книгу Home for Good - Jessica Keller - Страница 14

Chapter Six

Jericho stared at the clock on the dashboard.

Twenty minutes.

He ran a hand over his beard. He needed a shave. Maybe he should do that first. No. He refocused his eyes on the front doors of the nursing home. It was now or never.

Never sounds good. But he pushed open the Jeep’s door and climbed out onto the sun-warmed pavement.

The over-bleached smell of the nursing home assaulted his senses. The hollow clip of his boots on the laminate floor echoed along with the one word ramrodding itself into his head. Failure. Failure. Reaching the door bearing a nameplate reading Abram Freed, Jericho froze. He pulled off his battered Stetson and crunched it between his hands. Then he took a step over the threshold.

The sight of Pop tore the breath right out of Jericho’s lungs.

Once the poster of an intimidating, weathered cowboy, Abram now just looked...weak. His hair, brushed to the side in a way that Jericho had never seen, had aged to mountain-snowcap-white, but his bushy eyebrows were still charcoal. Like sun-baked, cracked mud, cavernous lines etched the man’s face. The once rippled muscles ebbed into sunken patches covered by slack skin.

Jericho waited for his dad to turn and acknowledge him. Or yell at him. Curse him. But he didn’t move. What had the doctor told him about Pop? The call came months ago. Stroke. He’d lost the use of his right side. None of it meant anything at the time. But now he saw the effects, and his heart ached with grief for the father he hardly loved. Abram Freed looked like a ship without mooring—lost.

“Hey there, Pops.” He hated the vulnerability his voice took on. Like he was ten again, chin to his chest, asking his dad’s permission to watch cartoons.

Pop’s body tensed, and his head trembled slightly. With a sigh, he raised his left hand off the white sheet by a couple inches. His dad couldn’t turn his head. A stabbing, gritty feeling filled Jericho’s eyes as he skirted the hospital bed and pulled out the plastic chair near his father’s good side. His dad’s eyes moved back and forth over Jericho’s frame, and the left side of his dad’s face pulled up a bit, while the right side remained down in a frown.

A nurse bustled into the room. “Well, now, look at this, Mr. Freed, how nice to have some company. Saw you had a visitor on the log—thought it was that pretty little lady always popping by.” She moved toward his father as she spoke.

Pretty little lady? Jericho scanned the room. A fresh vase bursting with purple gerbera daisies sat on the nightstand next to a framed picture of Chance. The photographer had captured the boy’s impish smile, crooked on one side and showing more gums than teeth as his blue eyes sparkled. He was holding up a horseshoe in a victorious manner.

Ali?

The nurse poured out a cup of water and set it on the bedside table. “And who are you?”

“I’m his son.”

“Mercy me.” The nurse leaned down near Pop, speaking loudly. “I bet you’re glad to see this young man, ain’t you?”

“Ith...Ith.”

Unwanted tears gathered at the edge of Jericho’s eyes as he watched his father struggling to speak.

Abram smacked his left hand on the bed and closed his eyes. “I dondt know. I dondt know.”

Jericho searched the nurse’s face. She offered him a sad smile. “That’s the only understandable phrase we get. It don’t mean anything. He says it no matter what’s being talked about. But he can hear just fine. He likes when people come and talk to him. Don’t you, Mr. Freed?”

Pop’s drooping eyes slid partially open, and his head nodded infinitesimally.

Everything inside Jericho seized up. He clenched his jaw, blinking his eyes a couple times. His last meeting with his father whirled in his head—him screaming at Pop, blaming his father for all that had gone wrong in his life.

Over the last eight years, Jericho had pieced back together his world. He’d returned to Bitterroot Valley for two reasons—to repair his devastated marriage, and to restore his relationship with his father. But how could he do that with a man who couldn’t speak? He wanted his father to tell him that he was sorry for the abuse and neglect after Mom died. But that apology would never come. And like it or not, he had to be okay with that.

“Since you’re here, will you help me move your pa?”

“What?” Jericho scratched the top of his head. “I guess whatever you want me to do, just say.”

“We try to move him every hour or so. Prevent sores. It helps to fight the chance of pneumonia, which is always a possibility.” She leaned back to Pop. “But we’d never let that happen, sweet man like you. We take good care of you.”

She motioned for Jericho to move his father, and after a moment of hesitation, he lifted Pop’s frail body in his arms. The old man fit against his chest. Tiny. Breakable. His father’s right side hung limp, whereas the muscles on the left side of his body pulled, straining for dignity. A flood of compassion barreled through Jericho’s heart, burying all the anger he’d felt for the man who’d caused him such suffering. Abram Freed could never hurt him again. His dad deserved to be treated with respect, no matter their past.

The nurse indicated a beige wingback chair. Jericho recognized it from his childhood home. With extra care, he set Pop down. As he began to move away, his father touched his hand. Jericho turned, and Abram pointed to a nearby chair.

He looked back toward the nurse as she inched toward the door and raised his eyebrows. She smiled. “It’s okay. Just go on and talk to him.”

Clearing his throat, Jericho rubbed his hands together, eyes on the floor. He looked back at his father, and the despair swimming in the old man’s eyes unglued Jericho’s tongue.

So he began to ramble. Told Pop about the past eight years, and went on about still loving Ali. Told stories about the war, and in the midst of it an emotion filtered across his father’s face that Jericho had never seen before. Pride.

Swallowing the giant lump in his throat, Jericho leaned forward, and in a voice barely above a whisper said words he hadn’t planned. “Pop. I’m sorry I left that night. I didn’t just walk out on my wife. I walked out on you, too. We had our bad times between us, but it was never like that when Mom was alive. I understand now why you drank. Losing the woman you love...I get it. I forgive you.”

Jericho waited, bracing himself for the backhand to his face or the kick to his side that didn’t come. Instead a soft, weathered hand covered his and squeezed. He looked up and his breath caught at the sight of tears slipping from his father’s eyes.

“Forgive me?” Jericho whispered.

With his good hand, Pop patted Jericho’s cheek, trailing fingers down his chin as if memorizing every inch of his face. His father sighed. He pointed, shaking his finger at the top drawer of the nightstand.

Jericho shifted his chair and set his hand over the handle of the drawer. “Want me to open this?”

“Yeth, yeth.” Pop nodded. He opened the drawer and found a single envelope with “Jericho” written on the inside. Could Pop still write? Or had this always been waiting for him?

“You want me to have this?”

His father waved his arm, motioning toward the framed picture of Chance. Jericho scooped the photo up and handed it to him. Pop stroked the picture, tapped the glass then pointed at the envelope bearing Jericho’s name.

Jericho gulped. “Should I open this now, or you want me to wait until later?”

Pop tapped his finger on the envelope and then pressed the packet into his son’s hands. Jericho nodded and slipped his finger under the lip. Into his hand tumbled a gold watch and a very thin copper-colored key. The tag on the key ring bore the number 139.

“This is Grandpa’s watch. You sure you want me to have it?”

“Yeth.”

Eyes burning, Jericho slipped the watch onto his wrist. His dad had worn it every day that Jericho could remember. “And what’s the story with this key?”

Pop jabbed his finger at the photo of Chance.

“It has to do with Chance?”

“Yeth. Itha. Tha. I dondt know.”

Jericho covered his dad’s hand and gave it a squeeze. “Don’t worry about it, Pop. I’ll figure it out.”

* * *

Denny’s rhythmic pounds worked the knots out of Ali’s muscles as he galloped across the wide field near the grove of cottonwoods. The trees stood like a gaggle of old women with their heads bent together sharing gossip. Hunching, she avoided the low-growing branches as her buckskin horse carried her.

She sighed. If Ali could have her way, she’d stay on Denny’s back and ride off into the horizon like the heroes did in those Old West movies. No stress. No responsibilities.

“You’re better than any therapist money can buy. Know that, Denny?” His giant fuzz-covered ears swiveled like a radar to hear her better.

“What are we going to do, huh, bud?” Swinging out of the saddle, she stood beside him, tracing her fingers against the yellow-gold hair covering his withers. He nudged his forehead into her shoulder, and she laughed. “You know I have a carrot in my pocket, don’t you?” She pulled out the offering, giggling as his big lips grabbed the food. The warmth of his breath on her fingertips was as comforting as a loving mother’s arms.

What would she do about Tripp Phillips’s attention toward her? Ali rubbed her temples. She didn’t want that. Not with Tripp. Not with any man. Marriage? No, thank you. But she didn’t want to lose his friendship, either.

She walked away a few paces, then leaned against the trunk of the largest cottonwood. She slowly let her body slump to the ground. Cocking her knees, she looped her arms on them and looked out across the river as it rippled past. The scene felt familiar, and she instinctively turned and glanced up at the initials Jericho had carved there so many years ago. Funny, the things that could fill her heart with peace. The crudely chipped JF loves AS shouldn’t cause anything to stir in her, but it did nonetheless.

What was she going to do about that man?

Denny nickered, as if reminding her of her real purpose. “Thanks, bud.” She pulled the now crumpled warning letter from her back pocket and smoothed it over her thighs.

If you value what’s important to you, you’ll stay away from him. You’ve been warned.

No more threats had arrived. But that morning, Rider had reported that their fence line bore malicious damage. This time it caused one of the heifers to tumble to her death in the gully. Ali couldn’t afford to lose any of the stock so carelessly.

It had been alarming enough to find all the horses in the front yard yesterday morning, and she’d wasted hours catching them. One stall left unhitched, she could believe. But ten stalls unlocked and the barn door left wide open? No coincidence, especially since Ali had been the one to lock the barn last night. And, although she wouldn’t give fear lease enough to voice it, she thought she’d heard something outside the house while she lay in bed.

Nine years ago, I made a promise to protect you.

Startled by Jericho’s voice in her mind, she pushed it away and tried to focus on a solution. One he was not a part of. Wasn’t his presence the cause of all the problems anyway? The answer was simple—get rid of Jericho. If he left her alone, this magazine-gluing maniac would stop pestering her.

What Jericho had to say didn’t matter. It also didn’t matter that he’d showed up this morning on the steps with a giant bouquet of her favorite flower—he’d remembered about the daisies. Nor did it matter that, even now, he buried his biceps in grease, putting her truck’s engine back together. Nor that Chance’s eyes lit up at the sight of the man.

Ali looked at the sky to keep the wetness from trickling out of her eyes.

She shoved the letter again into her pocket and clicked her tongue to call Denny back to her side. Running a hand down his glossy muzzle, she leaned her forehead against his face.

“And it doesn’t matter that it still feels like my heart’s a hummingbird stuck in my rib cage each time I see him. Or that he really does seem changed. The ranch. Chance and Kate. Protecting them. That’s what’s most important, right?” Holding his bridle, she stepped away. His gentle eyes, fringed with thick black lashes, surveyed her for one long moment before blinking.

Climbing back into a saddle that felt more like home than any other place on God’s green earth, Ali gave Denny his head. He cantered across the field as if he knew she needed the easy back-and-forth rocking motion to cradle her lost hope one last time.

Jericho Freed needed to leave. For good.

* * *

Denny plunged his lips into the trough. “Go easy, big guy. No colic for you.”

“Hey, Mom!” Chance showed up at her elbow. He gave Denny’s thigh three solid pats.

“Hey there, Chance-man.” She ran a hand over her son’s hair that stuck up at all angles. “Where’s your aunt?”

Chance rolled his eyes and grabbed the edge of the trough. He used it as leverage and swung side to side. “She’s making rhubarb jam. Bor-ing. And I told her that, so she banished me from the kitchen.”

“Banished you, huh?”

“Yeah, but Jericho said he could use my help, and he showed me how to fix your truck. Then we changed the oil. Good thing I was there to hand him all the tools. Did you know how dirty your engine was, Mom? Major gross-out. Jericho had to use lots of rags just to see stuff.” His earnest little expression made Ali bite the inside of her cheeks to keep from smiling at him.

She nodded solemnly. “That sounds serious.”

Handing him Denny’s lead, Chance fell into step beside her toward the corral. “And then he fixed a bunch of stuff on our truck.”

“A bunch?” Ali wrinkled her nose.

“Yes. You’re lucky he had so many tools in his car. He said—” Chance dropped his voice to imitate Jericho’s “—‘We’ve got to keep your mom safe. Got to fix all these things.’” Chance shrugged. “Then he did.”

Great. What was he trying to do, heap coals upon her head? He was supposed to leave, not make her truck purr.

“I know a secret, Mom. Jericho told me.”

Ali grabbed her son’s shoulder and clamped down. There was only one secret Jericho would have involving Chance. No. He wouldn’t—would he? “Secret?” she croaked.

“You have to promise you won’t tell him I told.”

“I promise. What is it?”

“I told Jericho that I like Samantha.”

Ali’s heart started beating again. “Oh, honey, you told me that months ago.”

“That’s not the secret.”

“What is, then?”

“Jericho said you were pretty.”

Ali rolled her eyes. “Secret’s out. He told me that, too.”

“But then I told him if he thinks that, he should marry you.”

“You didn’t!”

Chance gave two nods. “He said he liked that marrying part.”

She popped a hand on her hip. “And where is Mr. Jericho right now?”

“He had to clean up, so I told him to use the hose out back and not to go in the house because I knew you’d yell at him. Remember when Drover and I played in the puddle and then we went in the kitchen and you were so mad you turned red? I told Jericho about that, and he said he’d better take his chances with the cold hose.”

“He did, did he? Hey, can you do me a huge favor and find Rider for me? Let him know I need to talk to him about the fences.”

The ranch—and maybe Chance—were in danger. If Jericho wanted to keep them safe, he needed to leave them alone. That thought propelled her forward. Drover trotted beside her, banging into her leg as Ali rounded the back of the house.

* * *

Jericho crouched. With the hose pressed between his arm and side, water splashed out in front of him. He rubbed his grease-covered hands together under the stream.

The Silvers’ dog, Drover, pounced forward, snapping at the fountain. “Crazy dog. You’re going to get all wet.” Jericho laughed and backed up, right into someone. He peeked over his shoulder and spotted Ali, her eyes wide as the moon in surprise. Looking all cute and startled.

“Oh. Sorry.” He dropped the hose and it sprayed into the air like a geyser, soaking his jeans and shooting at Ali in the process.