Total pages in book: 113
Estimated words: 110360 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 552(@200wpm)___ 441(@250wpm)___ 368(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 110360 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 552(@200wpm)___ 441(@250wpm)___ 368(@300wpm)
From a moral standpoint, there was a fine line between offering him honest dignity and treating him like a child, feeding him lies even if it was to protect him. I kept hoping somewhere in his dementia-riddled brain it would finally stick. That he’d store the information so we could selfishly have a reprieve from our positions as the messengers of doom. But maybe the absence of that particular memory, and thus the inevitable pain that followed, was the most humane thing I had to offer him.
When I didn’t immediately reply, Jenn stepped up beside me. Grinning, she walked across the small kitchen to the microwave above the stove. “She ran out to the store for a bit. Don’t worry. She made your Cream of Wheat and bacon before she left. Extra crispy, just the way you like it.”
Pure adoration blazed from his eyes as he rolled his shoulders back, standing taller. “She’s a damn good woman, that Clara of mine.”
“The best,” I whispered, and the hole in my chest expanded. “Orange juice or coffee this morning?”
He chuckled. “You don’t want to see me without my coffee.”
It had been several months since I’d been home, but his answer was always the same. Sometimes we’d humor him with options so he’d feel like he still had choices of his own. A strict schedule dictated the rest of his days to keep him from spiraling. Predictability and routine were the only things that kept a smile on his face.
As I prepared his coffee, he narrowed his eyes on the window and asked, “What is that?”
“Shit,” I breathed, peering around him hoping we weren’t gearing up for round two with the men of Guardian Protection.
Thankfully, it was just our old, rusty lawn mower in the field.
“That would be my broken-down chariot.” Jenn replied. “I was mowing the front paddock this morning before it got too hot. Unfortunately, that was as far as I made it. It kept cutting off, but I didn’t have time to push it back into the barn before—” She flicked her gaze back to me. “Her Majesty finally graced us with her presence.”
I rolled my eyes.
Daddy’s jaw hardened. “Well, you shouldn’t have let the field get that tall to begin with. Your Mama and I aren’t paying you an allowance for you to run around with Terry every damn weekend.”
Jenn glared at his back only to slap on a smile the minute he turned to look at her.
He continued his rant. “Call Chuck to haul the mower out of there before one of the horses gets hurt. And for Pete’s sake, check the ground after you move it. One rogue screw could be a death sentence for a horse if a hoof finds it.”
His former barn manager, Chuck, had retired to Ocala, Florida, at least a decade earlier, but there was no need to get into that.
Jenn and I exchanged a knowing glance before she replied. “I’ll take care of it. I swear.”
“Have Roger come look at it,” he ordered, planting his hands on his hips. “If he can’t fix it, buy a new one.”
Like that was going to happen. Roger was gone too, and if a new piece of equipment appeared anywhere on the property, he’d fly into a fit of rage about whether or not we could afford it. He’d insist on getting his bank records out, then get overwhelmed with the process of trying to go through them when nothing made sense.
The easiest things to do would be to wait until Daddy went to bed, call Roger’s son, Keith, to sneak over and perform a miracle with that busted up relic of a mower, and then have it back in business first thing in the morning.
“You got it, boss,” I replied.
He let out a harrumph and hitched up his jeans before following me to the dining room. Out of ingrained habit, he went straight to his chair at the head of the large oak table. He’d entertained half of Dollton at that table. Every member of the Beck team had been welcome in our house, morning, noon, or night. Which made it even more sad as he sat down alone.
I placed his coffee in front of him, and Jenn followed it with a steaming bowl of Cream of Wheat and three strips of bacon so crispy it was nearly burnt. She handed him the spoon directly. If she set it on the table, he’d never pick it up. The coffee he’d sworn he needed to function would more than likely go cold and untouched as well. Eating was a daily battle, and his frail body bore the scars.
The screen door creaked open just before I heard Terry’s voice. “Knock, knock.”
“In here,” Jenn replied.
He strutted around the corner, his thinning brown comb-over flopping against his forehead.
“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” my father grumbled. “Don’t you have a home, boy?”