Winter's End

by Ruth Logan Herne

  Better. Much better. She might just let Marc live after all.

  “Are you okay here while I go to the barn?”

  Kayla kept her attention on Pete. “Yup.”

  “If you need me, here’s my cell number.” Marc moved forward and slid a piece of paper across the bed. “I’ll come right in.”

  Kayla kept her gaze angled away. “We’ll be fine. Do what you gotta do.”

  His hand tensed. After long seconds, the fingers relaxed. He pushed away, then strode out the door, his footsteps determined.

  She needed a temper check. Couldn’t someone invent a device that interrupted her “zap ’em now” responses? Electric shock might work. She’d think a bad thought, then Wham! Zap! Zowie! Instant electric penance. Pavlovian-style reparation. Even she might learn to guard her temper if shocked a time or two. It worked on dogs, right? Invisible fencing, nursing-style.

  She smiled at the thought, then drew a breath. “Heal this infection, Father. Give Pete comfort and peace. Let these last days and weeks be filled with love, not pain. Guide his way, send him legions of angels to shelter and protect him.

  “And, while you’re at it? Soften my thoughts, Lord, guard my tongue where the son is concerned. I sense his worry and distrust, but instead of reacting with compassion, I want to smack him. Point out all he has and make him grateful for it.”

  She’d have given anything for a parent like Pete. Anything. Someone to love her, watch over her, praise her. She pressed Pete’s hand lightly. Marc DeHollander had no idea how blessed he was.

  He’d enjoyed thirty years of unconditional love. A lifetime. Kayla reapplied the cool rag Marc garnered. The faded gold cotton gave off a hint of October spice as she pressed out excess water. A nice smell. Homey and comforting. Her nose twitched in appreciation.

  If she ever had children, they’d know her love. She wouldn’t smother them with it. Oh, no. She was experienced enough to see that a houseful of bratty kids was no fun. But they’d know their mother’s love firsthand. The cookies, the stories, trips to the park. Sunday evening ice-cream cones and Saturday mornings at the zoo.

  She’d be a good mother someday. Strong and true.

  With a great shoe collection, of course.

  Chapter Seven

  He owed the nurse an apology.

  Marc mulled that with no small reluctance the next afternoon. He checked Grace, just weeks shy of her confinement. She looked fine. Cattle lowed beyond the propped barn door. A brutal west wind had the first-bred heifers huddling beneath the overhang, their combined breath a vaporous cloud.

  Dad seemed better today. The fever was down and his reactions were more cognizant. When he mentioned Kayla’s message the previous morning, Marc bit back words of self-reproach.

  He’d assumed she’d blown them off, coming late with no regard to their time frame. Realizing she’d changed her appointment because another patient needed her had him eating crow. Try as he might, he couldn’t find a way to make this her fault.

  Marc glanced at his watch. She’d promised to be here to show him bag care. He winced, then squared his shoulders, remembering that Pete had diapered him long years back. He owed him, period. He’d raised Marc on a working farm, showing the young boy the intricacies of coaxing a living from the rugged terrain. When Marc returned from college and started the beef herd, his father had staked him financially. He’d believed in the younger man’s foresight and work ethic. The least Marc could do was take good care of him now.

  But apologizing to the nurse? Marc remembered her expression when he’d agreed with Doc Pentrow. He winced once more. A diplomat he wasn’t, and he’d put his foot in it if her cool, clipped tones were any indication.

  The sound of her engine drew his attention. Heaving a sigh, Marc headed for the door. Might as well get it over with.

  As he exited the barn, she stood framed by the frozen pond beyond her, its surface dipping west from the road’s far shoulder. Come spring the melted pond would teem with life. Swans, geese, ducks. Pigeons that gathered atop the fowl house, scavenging dropped grain. Today the pond lay stark, a sheet of pale gray breaking the winter white while deepening its austerity.

  Seeing him, she waited. The wind buffeted her short coat. She snugged it closer and Marc motioned to the door. “Come inside. You’re cold.”

  Her expression unreadable, she moved to the porch ahead of him. Reaching beside her, Marc pushed the door open, then stepped in behind her.

  “I wanted to—”

  “I’d like to—”

  They paused simultaneously. Marc rubbed a hand across the nape of his neck while Kayla pursed her lips. She looked down while she toed off her boots. “You first.”

  “Ladies first.”

  She huffed and looked anything but happy. He moved a half step back, expecting a full frontal. She surprised him.

  “I wanted to apologize for being tough on you yesterday,” she began. Shaking her head, she pulled her gaze his way. “You’re new at this, your dad is gravely ill and I know you’re trying. It takes time to get used to nursing an ill person, and I should have cut you some slack.” She bit her lower lip, pensive, her eyes troubled.

  Something clicked in Marc, warm and flowing. He had the urge to reach out and smooth her furrowed brow. Tuck the longer strands of pixie hair back, behind her ears. Maybe let his hand linger, just a moment.

  Shoving his hands into his pockets, Marc acknowledged her words with a shrug. “I was a jerk.”

  She arched her left brow.

  He glanced away, then brought his eyes back to hers. “I thought you blew us off. Just didn’t bother showing up on time.”

  “But I called,” she began.

  Marc waved a hand. “I know that now. Dad remembered your call today, but he’d deleted the message. By mid-afternoon he was too sick to tell me and I—”

  “Blew a gasket? Went over the top? Flew out of control?”

  “What happened to playing nice?”

  She clamped her lips together, frowning. “If I could learn to close my mouth, I’d avoid a lot of trouble.”

  Watching the transformation from troubled to tart, Marc realized he liked the animated version better. Spry. Sprightly. A hint of her sparkle returned, but it was like replacing a hundred-watt bulb with a forty. Just didn’t cut it.

  Annoyed by his thoughts, he stepped back, then looked down. “You’re short today.”

  Her look was priceless as she tried to read him and failed. She didn’t try to hide her sigh of resignation. “You generally see me with shoes. I haven’t had a chance to pick them up yet, so I’m disadvantaged.”

  “One pair of shoes?” Why did that bother him? What did he care if she had no shoes at all?

  She shook her head as she tugged her coat from one shoulder. Easy, he reached out to help her, his hand brushing the curve of her neck.

  Kayla went deer-in-the-headlights still. For an instant Marc hovered there, feeling her warmth along the curve of his arm. Reaching farther, he hooked the coat label. She exhaled before following his motion with her scarf. Resolute, she turned to face him. “I have other shoes,” she admitted. Two spots of color brightened her ivory cheeks. “Too many, probably. But those are my nursing shoes.”

  “I’ve noticed.” He kept his voice dry as he appraised her feet. The socks looked thin. He remembered her inquiry about his wool pair from Ostrander’s. “A real fashion statement.”

  That put her back up. She faced him, head on, her eyes flashing. “Listen, Mr. Flannel-Goes-with-Everything, I’m here to do a job. My shoes aren’t your concern.”

  Her indignation almost made him laugh. He worked to control the twitch in his jaw and angled his head. “I’m not concerned about your shoes, but the welfare of your feet. If you get sick, my father has to deal with someone else and that wouldn’t be good. Like it or not, keeping you healthy has taken on measured importance.”

  She stared at him, uncertain. Huffing, she shrugged by him. “I’m fine. Hale and hearty. Let’s g
o see your dad.”

  “Right behind you.”

  He’d riled her on purpose. Why? Because he’d rather see her flash and sizzle than repentant? Because she was cute when agitated and her blue eyes sparked flash fires of heat?

  No. Not exactly. There was something else, something deeper that pulled at him when she looked penitent. A sense of old baggage, well-hidden.

  Well, who didn’t have a history? No one he knew. From the looks of Kayla Doherty, it couldn’t have been too bad. Maybe she got cut from the cheerleading squad, or was first runner-up instead of prom queen. Appearances said Kayla was a girl born to life’s successes. Having a mother of similar fate, Marc knew the shallowness of the facade and had no intention of letting the spunky nurse imbed herself. The three remaining DeHollanders had learned to circle the wagons to protect their family. They shared a Three Musketeers mentality: All for one, one for all.

  He watched as she greeted his father, her voice cheerful, her manner soothing. Something stirred in Marc again, a little stronger this time. Firm, he pushed it down. He was here to learn how to help his father for whatever time was left, and had to deal with the nurse to do it. So be it. Other than that, she was on her own. Totally.

  “Was Kayla at the house today?” Jess’s voice danced when Marc picked her up at Nan’s. Marc stifled a groan. Was he the only one who saw through the nurse’s veneer?

  “Yes. Why?”

  Jess settled her gear into the confines of the truck cab. “No reason. I just liked her. When is she coming again?”

  “Monday afternoon.” Marc hesitated, not wanting to offer, then waded in. “Did you want to see her?”

  “Sure. It’s nice to have a girl around.”

  “What about your friends?” Marc asked again, his curiosity deepening.

  Jess’s expression stayed carefully calm. “Kayla’s older. She doesn’t act stupid.”

  Marc thought hard. There was a message in those words, but he wasn’t sure how to sort it out. Was Jess looking for a mother figure or were the girls in school acting cliquish? He had no idea.

  “I can have her stay on Monday,” Marc conceded. “Would you like that?”

  “See if she’ll stay for supper again,” Jess implored. She turned his way. “It was fun having her there.”

  Like fingernails on slate. “She might not be able to, Jess. She needs time off, like everyone else.”

  “I think she will,” Jess decided. “She told me she’d make herself available if I had questions.”

  “Do you?” Marc glanced away from the road to eye his younger sister.

  Jess shrugged. “I just like to talk to her.”

  Great. Just what he needed, Jess bonding with the woman. She’d lose Dad and her nursing friend all at once and he’d be left to pick up the pieces. He decided a change of subject was in order. “How was Rooster?”

  “Better.” Her voice perked up. “Nan’s been riding him since we decided to keep him there. She saw he was getting anxious and wanted to get rid of some sass.”

  “Nan’s a good woman,” Marc declared. “Sensible. A woman who knows what kind of shoes to wear in winter.”

  Jess stared, confused. “Her shoes?”

  A flush invaded Marc’s neck. “Never mind.”

  “She had her Oak Trees on, anyway, the antique leather ones.”

  “Good for riding and working in the barn.” Marc tried his best not to look stupid. Well. More stupid.

  “Right.” Jess eyed him, perplexed. He gripped the wheel tighter.

  “Got homework?”

  She still looked puzzled, but relaxed her shoulders. “Yes. I might need some help researching sub-Saharan Africa.”

  The computer was a great invention when you lived in the boonies. Marc nodded. “That shouldn’t be too hard. Do you need a trip to the library?”

  “Not yet. I can do preliminary stuff on the Web, then read the recommended books.”

  She hadn’t discovered Cliffs Notes yet. Good. “If the local libraries don’t have what you need, we can order books online. What’s your time frame?”

  “Plenty,” she assured him. “This is our second-semester project, so it’s not due until May. First draft is due before Easter.”

  “Easter’s early this year,” Marc warned.

  “That’s so weird,” Jess mused. “Why don’t they just set a date? Would it really matter?”

  Marc turned onto Route 11. “They’ve talked about it.”

  “Really?”

  He nodded. “It comes up regularly. You’ve got the variances of ancient calendars at work, and there’s a respect issue involved.”

  “How so?” She eyed him, her brow furrowed. Religious topics weren’t usually on his priority list. Her look of surprise highlighted that.

  “Christ was crucified at Passover time.”

  “Yes.”

  “Because Passover changes with the first full moon of spring, Easter follows suit. Since the calendars don’t match, the dates for Easter don’t always match.”

  Her eyes narrowed. “How do you know all this? I know it’s not because you’re paying attention during services.”

  He bristled. “I’m there, aren’t I?”

  “You’re there because Dad asked you to take me,” she reminded him. “Not because you want to be. Give me a break. I’m not stupid.”

  “Jess, I…” What could he say? The idea that one unseen force held their destiny seemed quaint and misinformed.

  Sure, he’d bought the idea when he was a kid. Then reason invaded in the form of adult reality, and Marc understood that no one, no God, had the kind of power churches accredited him with. He faced Jess once the truck was parked. “I like going with you, Jess.”

  Jess met his gaze. “You like helping me. If that means going to church, you do it. But you don’t like it, Marc.”

  Coming around the front, Marc slid an arm around her. “Be patient, huh? I’m new at some of this.”

  Jess faced him. “Will we make it, Marc? You and me, once Dad’s gone?”

  Fear shadowed her eyes. Marc tugged her close, feeling as lost and alone as the fourteen-year-old he held. “Of course we will. We’ve got each other, Jess.” He pushed back and smiled down at her. “We’ll always have each other.”

  “Is it enough?”

  Sometimes he wished she weren’t so smart. He knew what she was asking, and had no answers. He hugged her again and planted a kiss on her hair. “We’ll make it enough. We’re tough, we’re tight. We’re DeHollanders, remember?”

  She forced a half smile.

  “You smell like a horse. Might want to shower before you bust in on Dad. His nose is sensitive.”

  “Okay.”

  Would they be all right? Marc pondered the question as Jess hurried upstairs.

  I’ve no idea, Jess, but I’ll do my best.

  They’d figure it out. The thought of coming into the house, day after day, without his father’s presence, chilled him. Not just the responsibility of Jess and the cattle. The feed store, quiet midwinter, but churning from March through Christmas.

  The loss of a man so dear and defining. Could they survive that and remain a unit? Jess was growing up, she’d be off to college, then what? Marriage? Career?

  I don’t know, Jess. I shouldn’t make promises I can’t keep, but I’ll try, little sister. I’ll try my best to do right by you, no matter what happens. We’re family, bound by blood. Nothing can break those ties.

  I love you, kid.

  Chapter Eight

  “I’ve got two words to say to you, Kayla.”

  Kayla looked up from the supply closet. “Yes?” J. T. Donnelson grinned. “Hubba hubba.”

  Kayla frowned. “That’s not a word, J.T., much less two.” She hoisted her tote. “And if it were, I’d still have no idea what you meant.”

  “Come on, girl,” J.T. implored. J.T. had taken up hospice care because she hated the confines of hospital hierarchy. Roaming the countryside worked well for her and she was gr
eat with patients. “You’re hip to hip with Marc DeHollander two days a week. The guy is significant eye candy.”

  A burr formed between Kayla’s shoulder blades. “That family’s hit a rough road, and Marc’s carrying the brunt. He’s got a lot on his plate.”

  She didn’t add that he thought her a witless blonde. Some things were best kept private.

  J.T. shook her head. “He’s had a full plate for a long time.” She raised her brows in sympathy. “He wasn’t like this when he was young.” Seeing Kayla’s look, she continued, “We had classes together in high school. Marc was cool. A real heartthrob. Once his mother took off, he got an attitude.”

  Curiosity got the best of Kayla. “Why’d she leave?”

  “Didn’t like the farm. My mother always said there was something different about her. That you never knew what to expect. She was beautiful. And had great clothes. Mom used to say she’d be happy with half the clothes Arianna DeHollander gave away each year.”

  “Really?” Kayla tried to imagine Pete with a woman like that. Picturing what life must have been like with an infant and an angry teen, her sympathy doubled. “It’s hard on kids when a parent leaves. Tough on the remaining parent, too.”

  “Oh, yeah.” J.T. eased away from the wall. “But Marc and Mr. D. have done a great job with Jess. She looks like her mom.”

  “I figured as much,” Kayla replied as they approached the exit. “She doesn’t resemble her brother and he’s the spitting image of Pete.”

  “And speaking of that brother,” J.T. intoned, “give him my regards, will you? Tell him I’m free Saturday night. And Sunday night. Friday, too, from the looks of things.”

  Kayla laughed. “I’ll tell him no such thing. I don’t think he knows if he’s coming or going half the time. I’m sure he’ll be spending Saturday night with his father.”

  Craig and Sarah Macklin’s doorbell chimed Saturday night precisely at six.

  “I’ll get it,” Kayla called up the stairs. Craig was offering veterinary advice online and Sarah was changing a shirt that had been burped on. Kayla scooped up McKenna and padded to the door in her socks.