by Nicole Snow
I stop mid-stride, my face heating.
“I know, I should’ve talked to you first, but...” Dad pauses. “He wouldn’t take ’em, anyway. Not permanently. So don’t worry about that. He did offer to keep them happy here until we’re in a position to pick them up again. I got to thinkin’, that’s not such a bad idea when we’re gonna be on the road for God knows how long. We’d all be better off with them settled, out of harm’s way, but it’s only right I get your blessing. They’re your horses, too.”
I have to bite my lip to keep from responding.
Yes, I’m miffed that he went behind my back, offering our freaking horses to a perfect stranger.
A stranger who could probably buy the finest steeds ever bred with a rounding error in his bank account.
Jesus. For a second, I wonder if whatever’s wrong with him is affecting his brain, too.
But it doesn’t take brain damage to explain Dad’s behavior. Fear and desperation are motivation enough.
Honestly, he isn’t wrong, letting them stay here temporarily.
And once again, it’s Ridge to the rescue with exactly what we need, offering to let Rosie and Stern crash in his empty stables.
It isn’t fair.
We’ve only been here a day, but Ridge has this freaky perception. He knows Dad is in no condition to hit the road.
Dad knows it, too, but he’s too pigheaded to admit it.
At least he realizes traveling without the horses will be easier. Faster. Safer.
It certainly would be, only...we still don’t have anywhere to go, with or without the horses.
“Gracie, did you hear me?” he asks, raspy as ever. “I...I said I’m sorry.”
“Loud and clear,” I answer, continuing to put the items I’d washed back into the boxes that I’d used to carry them to the house. Placating him is the best strategy for now, even if part of me is closer to spitting mad. “Ridge has a setup that’d make most farmers jealous. Rosie and Stern could be very comfortable in the barn. I guess they won’t mind staying for a bit.”
“That barn does look awfully nice,” Dad says, scratching his arm. My ears are so sensitive it’s almost like chalkboard. “Hell, I wish I felt good enough to walk out there and see it. Is it as state of the art as it looks?”
I let out the breath I’d been holding in, keeping my hands busy.
It’s impossible to stay mad at him for long.
Dad loves barns, classic cars, equipment of all sorts whether it’s sitting in a museum or rolling off a shiny new assembly line. For him to admit he doesn’t feel well enough to walk out there and see it...
That says a lot.
A whole lot of nothing good about his condition.
“It’s remarkable. You don’t see a place like that every day with brand new everything. You’ll check it out tomorrow, when you say goodbye to Rosie and Stern.” I say that only to give him something to think about.
He won’t leave those horses without saying goodbye.
Dad loves them just as much as I do.
“I’ll be ready. I think I’m gonna go lay down for a while,” he says, slowly standing up. “Glad we could see eye to eye, Gracie. We’ve got a long road ahead.”
I nod, hoping my eyes hide the mess of feels this conversation stirred up.
My heart does go out to him. I even want to help him into bed, but I know that’ll irritate him like nothing else.
Honestly, I think it’s wishing that keeps him going.
Wishing he felt good enough to keep running, as long as it takes.
Wishing we didn’t have to depend on anyone, whether it’s Ridge or Noelle or the next person who’s ludicrous enough to help us out.
Wishing he could take his hell to the grave, without sucking me in.
I wish he’d never gotten mixed up with any of the demons still haunting him. But I’ve also learned a lot about wishes since Mom died, when she took what little faith I ever had in fake optimism away.
Wishes suck at slaying demons.
They never make a dent in a bad situation.
Oh, and they’re too good at stirring up false hope instead of confronting cold, hard reality.
“Do you want me to turn on the TV in there for you?” I ask, watching as he shuffles toward the hall.
“No. I’m beat tonight and we’ve got an early morning.” Stooped over, he heads straight for the bedroom on the lower floor. “Good night, Gracie.”
“Night, Dad. Hope you feel better in the morning.” I mean it, but I’ll tell you what I won’t do—make more wishes.
The ER doctor hadn’t given us much to go on. A light prescription for a lung infection, a diuretic, and a few suggested dietary changes, but none of that’s helped his shortness of breath.
It feels so hopeless.
“I’m sure I will,” Dad throws back before entering the room and closing the door.
Frustration bears down on me like a boulder.
There’s so little I can do for him.
Not just making him feel better, but finding a way for us to get out of the mess we’re in.
It’s true that we have nowhere to go ever since the Miles City plan fell through, yet, like Dad, I know we can’t stay here. We can’t drag Ridge into a living nightmare.
I’m just grateful we’re here for now, a refuge where Dad can rest for a few days in relative safety and comfort while I search for our next hiding place.
I tuck the last of the antiques in the boxes, finishing with a shiny set of silver spoons that look just as good as new now that they’re polished up. I leave them on the counter and go back to the couch.
Picking up my phone, I scroll through my contacts one more time, hoping a new idea hits. Some place we can go or someone I can call.
But the list of names might as well be total strangers. They’re all friends and college roommates I haven’t spoken to in years.
My thumb idly brings up a tab I’d minimized.
I pause when the website I’d been reading earlier pops up.
It’s a link from a clickbait article about Ridge, one from last year. I curl into the corner of the sofa and start reading again, my brows knit together.
A little more snooping can’t hurt, just for a little while.
Then I’ll plot a course out of North Dakota. Maybe we can go farther than Miles City, wind up in Billings or Bozeman, bigger cities with real hotels. Or maybe we’ll get lucky and find somewhere off the beaten path, where Dad can rest for a few days.
For now, I turn back to my screen, and the deeper I get, the more my heart tries to stop mid-beat. The headline almost hurts to read.
Dane Barnet Ghosts Star-Struck Charity Bash! Tragedy Still Haunts America’s Favorite Boy Actor.
According to the article, Ridge’s disappearance from the Hollywood scene happened after his mom’s death several years ago.
Judy Barnet’s demise was labeled a ‘probable suicide’ by investigators. I vaguely remember hearing about it but forgot until now. She’d fallen off a balcony at this luxury ski resort.
The piece goes on to discuss an earlier disappearance from the industry, a time when he’d abruptly left his childhood acting career to join the Army.
That ‘disappearance,’ they attributed to a child actor meltdown.
Yeah. I think I’ve got a nose for crap, and the breakdown they’re implying doesn’t jibe at all with the man I know.
Well, sorta maybe know for all of one action-packed day.
Overall, the article is negative, which irritates me, but also fills me with more questions.
And not just about how little I can believe.
I wonder what really brought Ridge to the desolate hills of North Dakota.
He doesn’t seem like the kinda guy to go into hiding because his mom committed suicide—which is what the article seems to be pressing readers to believe.
Too intrigued to stop now, I continue searching, reading, scowering for everything I can find about Ridge Barnet since the day he was
born. I keep an open mind.
We won’t be staying here long, but however lengthy our stay, I’d love to find out more about our mysterious, generous host and what makes him tick.
Everything I’d read last night lingers in the back of my mind come morning.
It’s Dad in the front and center. Another rough night.
Even from my room, I’d heard him coughing so hard he was literally gasping sometimes.
He finally fell into an exhausted slumber after midnight. I pray he’ll stay asleep until I return.
There’s a drugstore in Dallas and that’s where I’m heading. Before I deal with anything else today, I have to throw something at that nasty cough.
I’ll see what the pharmacist suggests. Whatever it takes to make him feel better. It’s my only hope.
I already know I could talk until I’m blue in the face, but Dad won’t see another doctor while we’re stuck here.
“Back at it this soon or just an early riser?”
I’m almost to the truck when I hear a deep, booming voice.
I turn toward the house. Ridge shrugs on his coat as he walks down the front steps.
“No, not exactly,” I answer, knowing he’s referring to the crates in the shed where my old Ford is also parked. “I’m heading into town.”
“What for?” he asks, zipping his leather coat while catching up to me.
“I’m not sure yet.” I reach for the handle on the shed door. “Anything the pharmacist suggests.”
“Shit. Nelson’s doing that bad?”
A deflated sigh hisses out of me. There’s no use in sugarcoating the obvious.
“He had a really rough night. He’s sleeping now, so I need to hurry.”
“I’ll drive you. We’ll get there and back faster with my ride. I’ll go tell Tobin to keep an eye on Nelson until we get back.”
“No, that’s sweet, but not necessary,” I say. “But if you could check on Dad...that’d be good.”
He folds his arms and rakes a look up my body. All sinful, demanding blue-eyed beast-man today, apparently.
“Driving you is necessary,” he says, already turning back to the house. “The roads are less than pristine around here until they’ve had a few good passes. Yesterday was just the start of the cleanup. Last thing you want to do is risk getting stuck while you’re on a medicine run.”
I hate how he’s right.
The thought occurred to me, but now I don’t have a choice. Dad needs some relief and I have to find it.
Letting Ridge give me a lift would be the smartest choice. I just hate becoming even more indebted to this man, who’s wrestling with his own demons aplenty if anything in those articles is true.
A few seconds later, one of the four garage doors on the house opens, making the decision for me. I hear the familiar growl of his truck.
When life gives you lemons...sometimes you just drink that damn lemonade with the biggest forced smile.
Minutes later, we’re in the truck and heading into town.
Despite the plows out yesterday, more snow drifted over in places with the overnight winds, just like Ridge suggested.
Instead of pointing it out, he asks about Dad, how long he’s been sick, and assures me that Tobin will be with him the whole time we’re gone.
I explain that it came on suddenly around December. We both thought it was a cold at first, and it’d go away in a week or two, but it lingered several months until the cough became almost crippling.
I mention the recent ER trip where he was diagnosed with a viral infection they couldn’t give him much for, not without a follow-up, and the suspected congestive heart failure.
I tell him I want to talk to the pharmacist about what might really help Dad, the best over-the-counter medication money can buy.
“While you’re doing that, I’ll hit the grocery store,” Ridge says, his hands tightening on the wheel. “Tobin made some suggestions. He needs more stuff for another round of chicken soup. Everything we grabbed the other day wasn’t enough to keep it coming.”
My heart sinks.
Again, his kindness crushes my soul, but we really, really can’t be staying here much longer.
“Thank you,” I say, fully meaning it.
I sincerely appreciate what he’s doing for us. Even though Dad is first and foremost on my mind, I can’t help but think about all the things I’d read about Ridge last night.
Troubled child actor who’s had multiple meltdowns over the years seems so flipping hard to believe.
That’s not who’s in the driver’s seat right now, eyes fixed sternly on the road, treating this supply run like it’s some kind of life-or-death mission.
Really, the man driving me into town doesn’t seem like an award-winning actor at all—just a normal guy in his truck.
A nice guy with searing good looks and shredded abs that were definitely too nice on the scale of ohhh to ahhh when I saw him with his shirt off.
Okay, so I’m probably talking out of my butt.
I’ve never known any actors. I’ve never done interviews. I’ve never so much as performed in a high school musical.
But Ridge Barnet seems shockingly down-to-earth.
Too genuine to ever walk out on a huge charity event for no good reason like that last article suggested. Certainly not the kinda man who’d snap over his mom’s death—more crass speculation by whoever threw together that hack piece.
I also wonder...what actually happened to Judy Barnet?
There wasn’t a chance to dive deep into the suicide case.
I just know, more often than not, real investigative journalism is a dying art.
Now things get posted online more for eyes and ad revenue than truth.
“So this is Dallas?” I wonder out loud, scanning over the cute little rows of storefronts as the truck enters what looks like the main drag.
Everything looks Christmas card perfect out here when it’s dusted in snow.
It’s almost idyllic, small-town Americana stamped into everything from the candy-cane-striped sign at the barber’s shop, to the little wooden airplane cut outs attached to the streetlamps with the town’s name painted on every single one.
Wait, airplanes?
“What’s up with that?” I point out the windshield.
“Huh?” Ridge needs a second to get what I’m gesturing at. “Oh, those. Yeah, that’s part of the local lore. This town wouldn’t exist without North Earhart Oil employing half the folks here. There was some drama a couple years back when old man Reed died and turned the company over to his daughter—but they’ve been established here for years. Business took off during the boom about ten years ago.”
“Earhart, like Amelia Earhart?”
“So they say. The old man who started the company swore she was a distant relative, but you want to start a shouting match at the Bobcat, just walk in some night and ask.” He looks over, flashing me a grin that should come with a wildfire warning. “The townies love to fight over it all the time. Especially when there’s booze involved. Hell, if you’re here long enough—”
“Oh, um, thanks but...I doubt we’ll have the time.” My face heats.
Looks like Dad isn’t the only man I need to let down easy. Eventually, we’ll have to leave, the sooner the better. That doesn’t leave time for fumbling around town.
“We’ve arrived. The pharmacy’s here and Filmore’s grocery store is just around the corner. I’ll grab the goods and meet you back here shortly, you dig?” Ridge asks as he pulls up next to the curb near the drugstore.
“I...dig. Apparently.”
Confession: I don’t know the first thing about how to dig, much less get used to Ridge Barnet’s weird vernacular.
He lets out a friendly snort, shaking his head.
“What?” I whip my face toward him, trying not to let his smile infect me.
“You, darlin’. Lighten up. I know you’ve got a lot of shit on your plate, but now’s not the time to worry yourself sick. Long as
you’re under my roof—roof of this big fat truck included—you’re good.”
His eyes shift over. I can’t shake the sense that I’m very good.
“And I appreciate it, you just...you kinda have this eighties action hero thing going on.”
“Hey, I’m not that frigging ancient,” he growls, face going mock-stern and steely-eyed. “I’ll take it as a compliment. You ever see the ladies still pining away over gunslingers and ass-kickers in kilts from those days? I’ve heard about it from the actors. They keep sticks around to fight off the mobs. Fucking. Chick. Magnets.”
If he’s trying to make me laugh like an idiot...mission accomplished.
Whatever else happens, something tells me I’ll need a good long while to get over this man.
When my sides stop aching, I reach for the door.
“All right, Chick Magnet,” I say, unclasping my seat belt. “Thanks for the town history lesson and the laugh. And, um, for not having a mullet.”
I fly out onto the snowy pavement before he has a chance to give me a tongue-lashing.
The store isn’t far.
Pushing open the glass doors, I feel like bad eighties jokes aren’t the only reason I’ve stepped back in time. The drugstore could be right at home in a nostalgic magazine with its worn, hardwood floors and slowly rotating ceiling fans overhead.
I walk through aisles of greeting cards and cutesy souvenirs, trying to get my bearings.
Eventually, the shelves turn whiter and blander, filled up with Band-Aids, pain relievers, and various medical supplies that stretch to the back of the store.
The pharmacist is a young woman with short brown hair.
Dr. Milly is just as pleasant and attentive as her smile while I explain Dad’s history, symptoms, and that hideous rattling cough that follows him everywhere.
She goes over a few of their offerings, warning me the over-the-counter stuff will only go so far.
Big surprise.
With concern on her face, she says, “I highly recommend he sees a doctor ASAP. His infection could’ve been misdiagnosed, or you might be dealing with pneumonia now, considering the time that’s passed. That could be very serious.”