Long Road Home

by JoAnn Ross

  “If you move it to Tuesday or even Wednesday, Earl can send the obit to Dan Brewer at the Register. The church’s newsletter editor will also put a notice in the Sunday bulletin and post it to our Facebook page.”

  “The church has a Facebook page?” Sawyer asked.

  “Of course. It’s pretty much a requirement these days,” Donovan Cassidy, who’d married the couple on that lovely June day, said. “I always post my homily there on Sundays for those who, for various reasons, such as the opening day of fishing season, can’t make it to mass.”

  After a short discussion of where the caskets would be placed and how many flower arrangements might be expected, which reminded Austin that she needed to ask Earl to mention that, in lieu of flowers, people donate to the local food pantry, where Heather had volunteered two mornings a week, he led them into his office. Once again they refused the offer of coffee or tea, and after going through the basic procedure of the funeral mass, the priest asked if they had any special requests.

  “Although eulogies aren’t part of Catholic tradition,” he said, “more parishes and bishops are bending the rules if it helps a family through this difficult time.”

  “I’m fine with not having to speak,” Austin said. “Even if I could think of what to say, I’m not sure I could get through it without crying, which wouldn’t be any help to Jack and Sophie.”

  “I’m fine with that, too,” Sawyer agreed.

  “There is one thing that occurred to me this morning,” Austin said. Had that only been this morning? It seemed like a lifetime ago. Worried that the priest would think she was totally going outside the centuries-old traditional funeral box, she nevertheless shared a brief idea of a children’s funeral for Jack’s and Sophie’s friends before the actual service.

  “That’s a wonderful idea,” he surprised her by saying without a moment’s hesitation. “In fact, my sister Anne had a similar one for our grandmother, who passed last year. My nieces and nephews had been very close to her, and unlike Jack and Sophie, they’d taken part in the dying process by visiting her in the hospital and then the hospice.

  “Anne, her husband, Dave, and I could tell that the children received a lot of comfort from being able to have their friends with them in the same way the adults had their friends. And children love rituals. Both the planning and taking part in them help as a distraction from the sadness.”

  He turned in his swivel chair and reached to a bookcase behind his desk. “Here are a couple books on the topic to help you get ideas. One that was especially popular with my family was blowing bubbles into the air instead of the more harmful balloons. Also, the deep breathing and exhaling required of blowing bubbles serves as a stress reliever.”

  “That sounds wonderful,” Austin said.

  “I’m sure you’ll find many helpful ideas, but if you’d like, we’ve been planting trees in the garden park area behind the church in a living memory of those we’ve lost.”

  Austin exchanged a look with Sawyer and knew they were once again thinking the same thing. Of Jack climbing the tree at the barbecue welcome home party.

  “That’d be cool,” Sawyer said.

  “You could take them to The Plant Place to pick out the tree on Sunday or Monday. This being spring, the nursery will have a good selection.”

  Austin had been feeling horribly depressed and more than a little overwhelmed after the funeral home and legal meeting. While both Earl and Colton had been patient and helpful, they’d had her feeling a lot like Sisyphus faced with pushing that eternal rock up the mountain.

  For the first time, she was feeling optimistic. She couldn’t bring Jack and Sophie’s parents back. But together, she and Sawyer, Winema and her father, and the Murphys could all help make the funeral a more positive experience for the children to look back on.

  “I’m feeling better,” she said as they left the church after pausing on the way out to light a candle.

  “Yeah, me, too. This, I think we can do.”

  “You said ‘we.’”

  “I said I’d be here for you.”

  “I know. But you’re also dealing with your own situation, and—”

  “Which isn’t anywhere near as important as this,” he cut her off. “And I was talking about twenty years ago.”

  When he’d passed her that note written in his big, second-grade scrawling print. Dear Austin, I’m sorry your mom went away. But I’ll always be your friend.

  Whatever happened between them, Austin knew that Sawyer Murphy was a man of his word. He’d meant those words then. And he meant them now.

  “What would you say, while we’re on a roll, of taking care of the cemetery?”

  “We might as well,” Austin agreed, thinking that, despite what he’d said about the tree and the bench, it didn’t seem as if the location really mattered all that much. “That way we’ll be able to concentrate more attention on the kids.”

  “Great.” He turned a corner, taking them back to Front Street, where he stopped in front of Blossoms.

  “You’re getting your mom flowers,” she guessed.

  “Yeah. I haven’t been there since I got back. So, this seems sort of appropriate. Want to come in and help me choose?”

  “I’d love to.” Austin realized that, like the candle she’d lit for Tom and Heather, the flowers for his mother were an act of faith that somehow, somewhere, death was not the end but yet another stop on life’s eternal journey.

  20

  WHEN THEY GOT back to the ranch, they discovered that, rather than send over his foreman, Dan Murphy had come himself. He was in the corral with Jack as they drove up. Buck, leaning heavily on two hand-carved wooden canes, was standing by the fence. Seeing a man who’d once been as strong as one of his bulls being so weakened ripped a big piece off Sawyer’s heart.

  “Guess what I can do,” Jack said as he ran over to the fence.

  “What?” Sawyer asked.

  “I can rope a steer.”

  “Really?”

  “Yeah! Mr. Murphy said you made this dummy steer to practice when you were in high school.”

  “I did. It was my year-end project.”

  “I wish my school had cool stuff like that.” Jack’s mouth turned down and he scuffed a booted foot in the dirt. “We have to study boring stuff like spelling and arithmetic.”

  “Those are important,” Austin felt the need to point out.

  “I’m going to be a cowboy and rope and ride in the rodeo,” the seven-year-old argued. “I don’t need to know all that.”

  “Sure you do.” Sawyer climbed over the fence, took the branding rope from Jack’s hand, tossed it out, and progressively coiled it with the same muscle memory he’d learned to shoot a rifle with. “If you don’t know how to spell, you’re going to look like a blame fool when you’re filling out your entry forms. And if you think it’s humiliating to land on your butt two seconds into a ride, just think how you’d feel to have the announcer sharing some of your spelling screw-ups over the loudspeaker for everyone in the grandstands to laugh at.”

  Jack’s eyes widened. “They’d do that?”

  “You bet.” As he refined his loop, Sawyer remembered the pleasure he’d once received from roping. Maybe, he thought, he’d sign up for some July Fourth rodeo events. “Rodeos are partly for practicing necessary cowboying skills, but they’re entertainment, too. And people like to laugh. So it’s best that you don’t give them any more reason than necessary to laugh at you.”

  It had been years since he’d had any reason to rope a steer, but some things you never forgot. “And you’re going to really need arithmetic.”

  “Why? That’s the worst.”

  “In the first place, you’ve got to keep a running track of yours and your competition’s scores. Sure, you’re going out every time to win, but so does every other cowboy. So, you need to know what times and scores you’re shooting for.”

  “Don’t forget how entry fees cost money,” Buck—who as a stock contractor, had alw
ays preferred taking other cowboys’ money to paying it out—said.

  “There is that.” Sawyer flipped the rope loop over his body, two or three times, getting accustomed to the extra-soft beginner’s rope his father had apparently brought over for Jack. “So do gas, meals, motels, vet bills, and either horse feed or horse rentals, depending on whether you’re using your own horse or stock like Austin and Mr. Merrill bring to rodeos.”

  Swinging the rope, he walked up to the dummy, hooked it under the right horn, then brought it back up around the left. “And you can never count on payouts. Only the top finishers end up in the money, so since even the best horse and cowboy can have a bad day, a miles-long drive can result in nothing but racking up more experience and expense. If you can’t do math, you can get in the hole really fast. I’ve seen more than one guy’s career end because he’s racked up a bunch of debt.

  “Right, Dad?” He exchanged a look with his father, who’d given him much the same lecture when he’d been Jack’s age.

  “Right as rain,” the older man said.

  “Okay.” Jack blew out a resigned breath. “I’ll learn to like school, even though I’d sure rather be outside. Do you think I’ll ever be as good as you?”

  “Sure you can, if you put your mind to it.” Sawyer coiled the rope back up and handed it to his father. “It just takes a lot of practice. After you get your homework done,” he tacked on when he felt Austin’s sharp look.

  He remembered her not feeling a bit sorry for him when his own father had made him study when he would’ve preferred to be riding or out in the corral swinging rope all day. Being a superior form of being, Austin Merrill had somehow managed to get nearly straight A’s in school while still making time to become good enough at barrel racing and roping to have shelves filled with trophies and gold buckles.

  “I don’t have to do homework today,” Jack said. The reason for him being here at the ranch swept back to swamp the fun distraction Sawyer’s dad had created for him. “Because my mom and dad died.” His freckled face fell and his eyes shone.

  “I know.” Sawyer felt so at sea here. And damn if the others weren’t just standing there, putting it on him. “And that’s as bad as it gets. But Austin and I just came from the church, and Father Cassidy really likes the idea of a kid’s funeral. We’ll need your and your sister’s help to plan it.”

  “We can do that.” Jack ran the back of his hand below his nose, which had begun to run.

  Austin reached into her bag and pulled out a tissue. “Blow,” she said gently.

  He did, with a loud honking sound. “Sophie’s in with Mitzi and Winema.” He sniffed. “They planted some flowers. Now she’s making brownies for dessert tonight.”

  “Nothing better than brownies,” Sawyer said. “But I think they could use some ice cream. Want to help me make some?”

  “Okay.” He sniffed. “Mom’s favorite was vanilla bean. Can we make that?”

  “You betcha, pardner.” He took off his Stetson and plunked it down on Jack’s carrot-orange head, deciding that as soon as they got past this mess, the two of them were dropping in to the Stockman’s Shop and getting the kid a real hat of his own. Like Cooper had done for Rachel’s son. “Now, let’s put this rope back in the tack room, and we’ll go track down your sister.”

  *

  SOPHIE’S LONG HAIR had been done up in some sort of fancy braid thing Austin wouldn’t have been able to pull off in a million years, revealing that Mitzi Murphy was in the house. As drained as she was by the events of the day, Austin was even more grateful the citified real estate agent had fallen in love with Dan and moved to River’s Bend.

  She and Sawyer began by explaining about the caskets and showing them the brochures.

  “They’re just like the cabinets Mom picked out,” Sophie said.

  “That’s what we were thinking,” Austin said. “Sawyer was the one who spotted them.”

  “Thank you.” Sophie looked over at him, and for a split second, Austin thought she’d seen a flash of a beginning crush in the girl’s gaze.

  Which wouldn’t be surprising. Sawyer Murphy was a drop-dead-gorgeous man. Making him even more appealing was that either he didn’t realize how good looking he was or it didn’t matter to him. She’d always suspected it might be the latter.

  Whichever, Austin had enough trust in the man to know that if Sophie tumbled, he’d treat her gently so someday she’d look back on her crush with fondness rather than embarrassment. She was also pragmatic enough to think that a little bit of falling in love might help dull the inescapable pain these next days and weeks would entail.

  “I’m glad you approve,” he said easily.

  They moved on to the next item on Earl’s list. The clothing.

  “I think Mom should be buried in her wedding dress,” Sophie said. “Because she tried it on again for all of us and was really proud she could still wear it.”

  “She loved that dress,” Austin said, and although she knew the children had heard the story many times over the years, she shared the tale of the making of the dress and all that beading during finals week once again.

  “She wore it every year for before their anniversary.” Sophie’s bottom lip began to tremble. “She always looked so pretty I wanted to wear it for my wedding. She said it would be her happiest day.”

  “Perhaps we should keep it,” Mitzi suggested gently.

  “No.” Sophie swiped furiously at her glistening eyes. “I don’t want to anymore. Because Mom won’t be there to see me get married in it. So it wouldn’t be the same.”

  “Whatever you want, honey,” Austin said.

  She wrote down the dress on the list but decided to wait until the very last minute to take it to the funeral home, just in case Sophie changed her mind. Meanwhile, she was going to make sure to take lots of pictures. That way, at the very least, a clever seamstress could make a duplicate dress if Sophie wanted to recreate it.

  “And what about your dad?” she asked. There was so much to get through, she was hoping they wouldn’t get bogged down on each item because no way did she want the children as emotionally drained as she felt.

  “I think he should wear the zombie costume he wore last year when we went trick-or-treating downtown,” Jack said.

  “What?” Sophie turned on him, eyes now blazing. “Why would anyone, anywhere on this planet, want to be buried in a zombie costume?”

  “Austin said it was supposed to be about happy times. And we all laughed and laughed when he did his scary zombie walk.” He stuck his thin, freckled arms out and began lurching across the kitchen floor.

  “In case you’ve forgotten, idiot child,” his sister shot back, “zombies are the undead. Dad can’t be a zombie because he’s dead!” She stood up so fast she tipped the chair over and ran out of the room. A moment later the sound of the front door slamming reverberated throughout the house.

  “Well,” Mitzi said on a long sigh. “That went well.”

  21

  SOPHIE WAS HALFWAY down the driveway when Austin came out on the porch. The girl could definitely run. Austin thought about chasing her, then considered the truck instead. Maybe they could take a ride and talk things out. Of course if Sophie climbed the fence and cut across a pasture toward the river or mountain, she’d have to ditch the rig.

  Starting to appreciate what Heather had been talking about those times she’d insisted her life wasn’t as perfect as it might seem to outsiders, Austin opted for the truck.

  It took less than a minute to catch up with Sophie on the road. Austin rolled down the driver’s window. “Where are you going?”

  “Home.” Sophie didn’t look her way.

  “I don’t think your mom would want that.”

  “My mom isn’t around to want anything. Because she’s dead. And we don’t always get what we want. I didn’t want her to die, either. And now that we’re damn pitiful orphans, I’m stuck with being idiot Jack’s mother.”

  Austin decided to let her calling h
er brother an idiot pass and focus on the more important issue. She remembered what Rachel had said about Scott believing he’d have to be the man of the family after his father’s death. Sophie was going to have enough to deal with without having that burden put on such very slender shoulders.

  “No, your brother isn’t going to be your responsibility. At least not that way, though he will need your love and support.”

  “He doesn’t even care.”

  “He does. But at his age, I’m not sure he totally understands the permanency of the situation.”

  Sophie stopped marching down the gravel at the side of the road and spun toward the truck. “He’s having fun planning our parents’ funeral!”

  “Father Cassidy said young children get caught up in the detail of ritual. I suspect it’s a form of coping mechanism.”

  “Lucky him.” She kicked the ground, scattering gravel. “I hate this.”

  “I do, too. Your mother was my best friend for as long as I can remember. I have this big, huge, aching hole in my heart and am afraid if I let myself cry, I’ll never be able to stop.”

  “Really?” That got the girl’s attention. “I figured since you were a grown-up, you knew how to deal with stuff like this.”

  “I haven’t a clue,” Austin said. She might not have any idea how to handle this situation, but decided honesty couldn’t hurt. “Neither does Sawyer.”

  “He’s a Marine. He probably saw lots of people die in war.”

  “I suppose he did. But the Marines undoubtedly have a very organized and detailed system to deal with battlefield losses. In civilian life, we only have guidelines and have to learn how to get through the maze as we go along.”

  “Well, that’s fucking encouraging.”

  Austin wasn’t wild about the f-bomb, but she did welcome the snark. At least it was communication. “How about going for a ride?” she asked. “I always feel better down by the river.”

  “Do you really believe that’s going to make all this go away?”