Winter's End

by Ruth Logan Herne

  “That’s fine, but your living space should be warm. And safe.”

  “I can handle the cold.”

  She could. She knew that from experience. She hated the chill, the discomfort, but refused to let it win. No matter what, she would emerge triumphant, old fears vanquished. She slanted him a look. “Anyway, spring will be here soon.”

  Marc laughed, skeptical. “It’s February. Spring’s a long way off.”

  “Not so far.”

  Her optimism made him groan. He poured another cup of coffee and moved closer, his voice low. “Dad’s slipping.”

  No evading this. “Yes.”

  Marc swore under his breath. His face changed. Seeing his distress, she wanted to help him, but there was little she could do. Death loomed inevitable. If accepted, the passing from mortal life to immortality with God wasn’t such a hard road. Treated like an enemy, death proved a formidable foe, ever victorious. She didn’t want Marc to see it that way, but didn’t know how to ease his frustration.

  She’d seen the gentle side of him, how careful he was to brace his father in strong hands when helping the older man out of bed. The hours he spent reading to Pete, talking with him, arguing hockey stats and football greats when he should have been tending cattle. There wouldn’t be much more male back-and-forth. Kayla knew that would be a bitter pill for Marc. It would be him and Jess against the world, orphaned together. But they had each other, and a father who’d loved them since birth. They were way ahead of her on that score.

  Marc eyed the plates. “You’re not staying?”

  She shook her head. “I left some at home. You guys need time together, without outsiders. As things progress, you’ll have people in and out.” She didn’t get more specific than that. She knew he understood. “It’s good to have family time now.”

  He stepped forward and reached into the cupboard, withdrawing a fourth plate. “Please stay.”

  Kayla stared, then blinked. “I—”

  He moved close. So close. She could count the tiny flecks of gold in his gray-green eyes, their muted tones the color of thin, wisped clouds in a summer sunset. “For Jess.”

  Of course. How foolish she was. For just a moment she thought…Crazy, girl, just plain crazy.

  His hand brushed hers as she accepted the plate. Just a brush of the knuckles, but enough to send her heart racing, wishing he’d clasp her fingers. Smile down at her. Touch her cheek with his work-worn hands.

  She was crazy. Crazy as a loon. She’d be leaving the North Country soon, her loans paid, her commitment fulfilled. She wanted sunshine and light, flora and fauna. A Kinkade bungalow, minus the thatched roof.

  Something Anna said came back to her. “I always wanted what I couldn’t have and never realized I had everything I wanted until I threw it all away.”

  Anna. Her initial hospice patient taught Kayla about life and loss, love and fear. When she lost her long battle with HIV-related ailments, Kayla stood by the unmarked grave and cried. She cried for the mother she’d lost and the children Anna abandoned. She cried for all young souls bereft of mothers.

  Her freshman year professor had rambled about it in Psych 101, making the link between abandonment and lack of conscience formation. The emptiness brought by parental desertion. Holes that could never be filled.

  But the professor forgot about God. The strength that came with belief in a higher power.

  Maybe Kayla should advise him to restructure his lesson plan. There was a hole-filling substance, a transcending grace. She’d found it as she tended an indigent woman, seeking peace at death’s door.

  So why did she continue punishing herself? Living cold in an attic apartment. What was she trying to prove?

  She knew the answer. It was a no-brainer. She made her choices to prove that she was in charge. She had control.

  Nodding Marc’s way, she set out four plates and arranged the silverware in case Pete wanted to make it to the table. “I’ll stay,” she told Marc, without looking up. “For Jess.”

  Chapter Ten

  “Mr. D.?” Kayla popped her head through the bedroom door Thursday afternoon.

  “I’m awake.”

  “Good.” She smiled as she crossed the room. “How are you doing?”

  His face looked tired, but his eyes held sparkle. “All right. How about you?”

  “Hmm.” She mock-scowled. “You really want to know?”

  “I asked, didn’t I?”

  “Oh. Well. You’re feisty.” She made a face as she dropped into the chair, ticking off her fingers. “I slipped down the bottom three stairs of my outdoor stairway and landed on my butt, so maybe that will teach me to shovel and salt more often like your son advised. I got a parking ticket in Canton because people are coming into town for the big game and I had to squeeze close to someone’s driveway. They called the sheriff, so that little fine is gonna chip away at the old checking account. I was going to stop and grab you a few treats from Main Street Bakery, but I got caught at Miss Mary’s and Miss Martha’s, and there’s no way you can get away from them without a good, long chat.” Kayla paused, then held out her hands. “And I broke a nail.”

  Pete hooted. “Poor thing.”

  She grinned, then smoothed a hand across his forehead. “How are you really feeling?”

  His expression sobered. “I’ve been better.”

  “I thought as much. Your respiration’s up and your eyes aren’t as relaxed. Same meds as Monday? No changes?”

  “Everything’s the same. Except me.”

  “You’re not in pain?”

  He shook his head. “Not really. Not much, anyway. I get tired of being in this bed, but I’m too winded to get out much. Marc takes good care of me,” he added, as if defending him.

  She made a sympathetic noise. “I know that. They both love you, Mr. D.”

  His hand worried the blanket’s edge. “I don’t know how to say goodbye.” After long seconds of staring, he blinked. “No mother, no father. What have Ari and I done to these kids?”

  Kayla posed her next question carefully. “Would she come, if asked?”

  Pete shook his head. “No. Her coming would only confuse matters.” He heaved a sigh. His left hand moved, restless. “Marc is so angry with her that he still can’t see straight, and Jess never knew her. They’d be complete strangers. No,” he frowned before meeting her gaze, “it wouldn’t be in anyone’s best interest now.”

  “Have you forgiven her?” Kayla clasped his hand. Skin that had once been vigorous felt waxen beneath her fingers.

  Pete nodded. “A long time ago. Ari wasn’t like the rest of us. I saw it,” he confessed, his eyes dark. “I saw the difference and married her anyway. Thought that since she loved me, it would be all right. That I could make things better.”

  “You couldn’t.”

  “She had pills that helped.” His gaze moved to something unseen. His lips thinned. “They kept her focused. But they made her feel caged. She felt trapped in her own skin. She’d stop taking them and fly off on a tangent. She was exciting without them, but…”

  “Unpredictable?”

  “You can say that again. When she was off ’em, I never knew what to expect. Then she found out she was pregnant with Jess and nearly came undone. It was all I could do to keep her under control until Jess was born.” Pain shadowed the older man’s eyes. “One time I found her in the hay loft. She wanted to fly away, she said, and she perched in the bale loading door with her hands up high. I didn’t know what to do,” Pete confessed. His fingers picked at the satin binding. “If I climbed up, she might jump. If I stood outside, I had no chance of getting to her.”

  “Where was Marc?”

  “Sleeping, thank God. Her rough times were hard on him. He never knew what to expect. Don’t get me wrong,” Pete added, his voice thinning. “She wasn’t a bad mother in the beginning. She just couldn’t stand to take those pills month after month. Year after year.”

  “She didn’t jump.”

  “N
o.” Pete narrowed his gaze. “She stood there awhile, shrieking and singing, all wild and crazed. Then she stopped, smiled down at me and held out a hand. ‘Come get me, Pete.’”

  “Really?”

  He nodded. “I said, ‘Are you okay if I come up the ladder?’ and she answered, ‘I’m right here waiting for you, Pete. I’m not going anywhere without you.’”

  “But she did, once Jess was born.”

  Pete’s face clouded. “If only she realized I didn’t care like she did. I understood her like no one else could. I loved her.”

  Kayla gave him a blank look. “You lost me.”

  Her words straightened his shoulders. “Just an old man’s ramblings.” His appearance said it was time to change the subject. Squeezing his hand, Kayla stood to check his vitals. She jerked her head toward the kitchen. “We have a birthday to celebrate.”

  Pete nodded, mute, while she checked his temperature. Once she’d removed the probe, he smiled. “We sure do.”

  “I didn’t realize,” she explained. “Or I’d have grabbed something for Jess. The box on the table with the big, pink bow was a giveaway,” she continued.

  Pete grinned. “Jess was born in June.”

  “Then…” A commotion drew Kayla’s attention.

  Jess walked in balancing a chocolate cake, the top lit with way too many candles for her. Marc followed. Singing “Happy Birthday” in really bad harmony, they said her name instead of Jess’s.

  “How did you know?” She put a hand to her throat, fighting emotion, her voice a whisper.

  “Talk later. Blow out the candles before we explode.” Marc’s look encompassed his father’s oxygen.

  Kayla smiled at his typical candor, drew a huge breath, then blew.

  “You got them!” Jess beamed, her dark eyes bright.

  Kayla feigned shortness of breath. “How many of those babies did you put on?” she demanded. “I’m not that old, am I?”

  “Twenty-nine,” retorted Marc. “One more year and you join the statistical nightmare of looking for a mate past the age of—”

  “I get it, thanks.” Kayla noted the amusement in his eyes. “Luckily I’ve never been a big fan of statistics. When God’s ready for me to find the right man, he’ll just plunk him down in front of me and say, ‘Here he is, Kayla, all yours. Do what you can with him.’”

  “That easy, huh?” Marc rolled his eyes as he helped Jess remove candles. “Simplistic.”

  “I’m a simple girl, Farmer Boy.”

  He swept her designer cowl-neck sweater and lined trousers a look of doubt. “Right.”

  “You like chocolate, don’t you, Kayla?” Jess asked.

  “Can’t imagine life without it.” Kayla ruffled the teen’s hair. “But you still didn’t tell me how you knew my birthday was this weekend.”

  “Sarah and Craig mentioned it on Sunday,” Marc replied.

  “They did, huh? Since I’m watching the baby tonight, I’ll be sure to thank them. Or throttle them.”

  Jess grabbed her around the waist. “We have two kinds of ice cream. Sit and let us wait on you.”

  “But—”

  “No buts,” Jess commanded. “This is our gig. You finish up with Dad while we get things ready. Chocolate caramel crunch or fudge swirl?”

  “The first one,” declared Kayla. She turned to Pete. “How about you, Mr. D.? Which kind would you like?”

  “I’m a fudge swirl guy,” he admitted.

  Jess planted a gentle kiss to his cheek. “Exactly why we got it. Back in a minute.”

  When Marc and Jess had taken the cake into the kitchen, Pete turned to Kayla. “What I was saying before? About Ari? It’s not common knowledge.”

  “You mean—”

  “All of it.” Pete’s face showed the strain of trying too hard.

  Kayla eased her palm across his forehead. “Consider it confidential.”

  “Thank you.”

  Marc and Jess helped take things to the car nearly an hour later. Marc glanced at his watch. “You’ve got plenty of time to get to Craig and Sarah’s if you don’t go home first.”

  Kayla agreed. “You’re right. Listen, guys, I want to thank you again for these presents. You didn’t have to do this.”

  Marc hoisted the box that contained a safety-conscious space heater and tucked it into the backseat of her car. “I think we did. I’ve been in your apartment, remember? If it makes you nervous, don’t leave it on overnight. Just use it in the evening so you can relax in your living room.”

  Heat suffused her cheeks. He sounded almost concerned, but she knew better. “I love the socks.”

  The heater had been a combined gift from the family. Marc had made a trip to Ostrander’s and bought her four pairs of thick wool socks like his, but smaller.

  He shrugged. “I was tired of seeing your toes through your old ones.”

  “They were wearing thin,” she acknowledged.

  “Thin?” Marc stared. “I can read the sports section through them. Chuck ’em.”

  “I will.” On impulse she reached a hand to his beard-roughened jaw. “Thank you.”

  He blinked long and slow, his gaze tracing her face, her eyes. Resting there. Then he backed up and nodded to his watch. “Better go.”

  “Right.” She slid into the car, set a plate of extra cake on the seat to her right and smiled up at both of them. “Call me if you have any problems,” she told them through her open window. “Otherwise, I’ll see you Monday.”

  “All right.”

  “Bye, Kayla! Happy birthday!”

  She waved, then hit the button to close the window before she headed out of the graveled drive.

  Monday. Too long.

  Marc pushed thoughts of Kayla aside while he trucked water to the cows. Calving would commence soon and he needed to concentrate his efforts. Lessen the distractions. He didn’t care to have a repeat performance of January’s bad birthing.

  He threw another sack of cracked corn onto the growing pile in the feed store and tried to bury himself in manual labor. When the steady process left too much thinking time, he cranked a country station. Maybe music would push thoughts of Kayla out of his mind. Give him some peace.

  That’s not the peace you’re looking for, son.

  Marc buried that thought. He knew what he was looking for, had known it all along. He wanted the family dynamics that eluded his dad. Not a wife who couldn’t handle the rigors of the North Country, who put fashion before common sense. When Marc got serious, he wanted someone at peace with the land, at home in his house.

  A vision of Kayla’s coat hooked next to his zipped flannel had him squaring his shoulders.

  He couldn’t deny the attraction. She invaded his thoughts despite his best efforts. With his father’s impending death, Kayla Doherty, R.N., was a wonderful asset. But that was it, he told himself firmly as the radio station slid into Brad Paisley’s “I Thought I Loved You Then.”

  Thoughts of Kayla’s face came to mind. She was spunk and spice, nipped and tucked into one great package.

  Marc sat on the feed stack, his head in his hands. It was no good thinking along these lines. They had nothing in common. She was free flight. He was tied to the land. She looked at the bright side of things, while he took careful measure. She had an innocent faith in God that showed in everything except her temper.

  He grinned. Obviously, her flash and sizzle were works in progress.

  He liked that about her. She was willing to work to better herself. That made the cold attic apartment out of sync with the rest of the girl. Why would she punish herself for seven months of the year when she had the option to move or insist on a better heating system?

  He had no idea. What he did know was that the curvy nurse had every intention of leaving once her commitment was fulfilled.

  He reattached a pallet of pig feed. There wasn’t much to keep a pretty thing like Kayla happy in the North Country. No cool designer shops, no trendy malls.

  His heart hitched. Woul
d she need all that if she had the right man? A husband to love and cherish her all the rest of her days?

  Thoughts of his mother crashed in. The love of clothes, for looking just so, being the envy of all. If it was out there and fashionable, Arianna DeHollander had bought it. Spark and sizzle, smoke and mirrors.

  Then she was gone.

  Try as he might, Marc couldn’t separate the two. He didn’t want a trophy wife. He wanted warmth and substance, worth and longevity.

  Marc eyed the day, cold and clear, the sun sharp. Reflected rays bounced from fresh snow cover, blinding and bright. He glared at the sky, unsmogged, unhazed, the air crisp and clean. “Don’t think You can con me with wayward thoughts. I’ve got a plan and intend to stick to it. I don’t need a hook to heaven, a flighty girl or the host of problems that come with either. Leave me alone.”

  He heard no answering rumble of thunder. Saw no burning bush. Marc glanced around, glad no one bore witness to his obvious mental breakdown. Shouting at the heavens for God to stop sending him covert messages? What next?

  The song ended and the DJ came on, effusive. “That went out by request to Laura in Canton from her husband Gary. He says, ‘Happy anniversary, honey.’”

  Marc smacked a hand to the back of his neck. Some nice guy dedicates a love song to his wife, and he construes it as a message from God. Right. Good going, DeHollander. Find me an omniscient being who ignores the pleas of children. Who allows the evils surrounding us. War. Anger. Dissent. It doesn’t jive. No loving God would sit back and watch it unfold. Would he?

  He turned off the radio with more vigor than necessary and headed to the barn. Grace’s confinement was days away. He didn’t want to face Jess if anything happened to the mare or her foal, but he’d been breeding animals long enough to understand the inherent dangers. Life didn’t always turn out as you planned, but he’d spare Jess what he could.

  Marc tugged off his left glove and grabbed up the ringing cell phone later that day. “DeHollander.”