Читать книгу Unexpected Family - Molly O'Keefe - Страница 13

CHAPTER FIVE

IF THERE WAS ANY EASE in Jeremiah’s life, it arrived every Saturday afternoon with his dead brother-in-law’s parents. Cynthia and Larry Bilkhead were going to be seventy this year, too old to care for the boys full-time. They never contested Annie and Connor’s will, even when it was obvious that Jeremiah had no freaking clue what he was doing when it came to parenting.

But they came when he needed them as well as every Saturday afternoon, like clockwork. Like angels.

“Hi, Jeremiah, how are you doing?” Cynthia asked, stepping into the foyer to wrap him in her arms. She was small and round and smelled like cookies and pie. And there were times when he could have stood in her hug for a day.

“We’re good.” He lied, because really, what could they do with the truth? He kissed her papery, powdery cheek. “Some trouble with Ben—”

“What did that boy do now?” Larry Bilkhead stepped inside behind his wife. He was a six-foot-four-inch cowboy, who still carried himself like a man who’d won some rodeo in his day. His words might sound stern but Larry could not keep the love he had for his grandsons out of his eyes.

“I’ll let him tell you,” Jeremiah said, shaking Larry’s hand. Jeremiah had always liked the rawboned man, who wore his age and his time in a saddle with pride. Now, Jeremiah loved him like family.

“The cooler is in the van.” Cynthia put down her purse and kicked off her shoes to step into the family room. “Where are my boys?”

Upstairs there was a wild scream of “Grandma!” and the thundering of a herd of elephants running for the stairs. Casey was the first one down, followed by Aaron, who at eleven was too cool for a lot of things, but not too cool for Cynthia and Larry. Probably because Larry wasn’t like other grandpas. And Cynthia was exactly what a grandmother should be.

Jeremiah eased out the front door to grab the cooler from the back of their minivan. Every week she showed up with some casseroles for the freezer and enough cookies and cakes and brownies for a hockey team. And bags of fresh fruit and vegetables from their greenhouse.

“Ben,” he said, once he was back inside with the cooler. “You can unpack this.”

The nine-year-old had the good grace not to argue, and followed him into the kitchen meekly. Jeremiah cleaned off the kitchen table while the boy put things away and then Ben took the cooler back out to the minivan.

“He smashed up a car?” Larry asked, filling the door frame between the kitchen and the living room.

Jeremiah nodded, carefully stacking some clean glasses in the cupboard.

“What’s his punishment going to be?” Larry asked, and Jeremiah shook his head.

“I’m not sure.”

“In my day—”

“I’m not going to spank him.” Jeremiah turned to face the older man. “I know how you feel about this, but I can’t hurt that kid any more than he’s been hurt.”

Larry nodded, his cheeks red under the edge of his glasses. It was grief, not anger. Jeremiah knew Larry was just as at a loss for what to do when it came to Ben.

“I know,” he murmured. “But what are you going to do?”

“I can make him muck stalls until he’s eighty—but what good is that going to do? He’s already working hard around here. Hell, I have the five-year-old doing fence work.”

Larry just stared at him, his white hair lying smooth against his head. His blue eyes runny beneath his glasses. Larry was an old-world kind of guy. If Ben was his child, Jeremiah knew that Ben would have gotten the belt after this last stunt. Hell, maybe before then. But Jeremiah just couldn’t.

As it was, Jeremiah made Casey swear not to tell Grandpa Larry that he allowed Casey to spend half the night sleeping in his bed. The poor kid was plagued by nightmares. Jeremiah let Aaron sleep with his parents’ wedding picture under his pillow. Despite his tough words, Jeremiah was a total softy.

What these boys had been through couldn’t be fixed by work. Or more violence.

They needed help—they all needed help. He ran a thumb over the chip in the counter. He’d put that chip there himself, when as a kid he tried to get the Pop-Tarts from the top shelf.

This isn’t going to go well, he thought.

“I think Ben needs someone to talk to,” Jeremiah said, anyway.

“What do you mean, ‘talk to’?” Larry pushed off the door frame, his shoulders already tense because he knew where Jeremiah was headed. They’d been down this road before, when Ben first started acting out.

“A counsellor.”

“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.”

Jeremiah 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. Months ago, Larry had realized that Ben and Cynthia had a special bond so he made up this sudden need for the yarrow that grew wild along the driveway. He frequently sent his wife and troubled grandson out to pick armfuls of the stuff even though he burned all of it once back at his place. But the walks did Ben some good.

“Now.” Larry’s hand landed on Jeremiah’s shoulder, heavy and warm. “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,” he 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 shoulders, 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 just looked like every other house on the street. Pretty redbrick 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 more wild of his overlong curls. A haircut was one more thing to put 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-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 convinced him to trust her six months ago when he came here desperate and worried for himself and 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 were 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. Getting psychological help 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.”