He tested the handle. Sure enough, it swung inward. He wrestled the giant, soft-sided suitcase across the threshold then dashed past her for its mate.
She’d barely stepped inside when her phone rang. Mom.
“Hi. We just got here.”
“Wonderful. I have more good news. Oscar’s doctor is letting him go home today. The discharge papers will probably take an hour or two, we’ll be there in time to have dinner together.”
Today?
“Great.”
“You should invite Paul to join us. To thank him for picking you up.”
“Really, Mom? Do you think that’s a good idea? Dad’s first night out of the hospital? He and I haven’t seen each other in a couple of years. Maybe we should keep it family for awhile.”
“Oh, of course. You’re right. What was I thinking? We’ll do something nice for Paul later on. I have to go. The nurse wants Oscar to shower before he leaves since we don’t have that kind of equipment at home yet. See you soon, honey. I’m so glad you’re here.”
A few seconds later, Paul lugged her other ridiculously over-weight bag across the threshold.
“We have rocks in Montana, Bailey. You didn’t have to bring your own from California.”
She tried to smile, but the erratic thudding of her heart interfered with normal reactions.
Paul cocked his head. “What’s up?”
She shoved her phone in her bag. “OC is being released today. They’ll be here soon.”
She took a step, planning to make some effort to appear the gracious hostess. Unfortunately, her ankle locked and she lunged off balance, grazing her hip on the side of her father’s worn leather recliner.
Paul pivoted as precisely as Daz “heeling” in the arena. He caught her elbow and stepped in to help her regain her balance.
Close enough to smell his cologne and see the tiny strips of facial hair his razor missed. Close enough to kiss the lips that looked more familiar than they should have.
What the hell was wrong with her? This man hated her, cursed her, and she dropped into his arms like some stupid damsel in distress?
No. Good grief, no.
She jerked free and grabbed the back of the chair like a lifeline. “I’m fine. Thanks. Still finding my footing.”
He started to say something then shrugged and tipped his hat. “Okay. I have to get back to the store, but I’ll see you soon. Welcome home.”
What surprised Bailey most is he seemed to mean it.
Chapter 3
“It’s so good to have you home, sweetheart.”
Bailey closed her eyes and returned her mother’s hug. Funny how they never showed overt displays of emotion when her father was present. For the millionth time, Bailey wondered how someone as kind, sweet, gentle and loving as Mom could have wound up with a six-foot cactus for a mate.
Dad was passed out on painkillers in his bedroom.
Mom had assigned Bailey to the front guest bedroom. The small but charming three-bedroom bungalow was new to Bailey. Her parents sold the ranch and moved into town shortly after she left home.
“I’m sorry I couldn’t come before, Mom. My doctor wanted me to finish my physical therapy.”
Mom shrugged. “You’re here now, and that’s going to make such a difference.”
Bailey picked up the pretty lilac print pillow sham and sat, her back against the cherry wood headboard. She put the pillow in line with her left leg then leaned forward to use her hands to lift her bad ankle to the elevated position. “Do you really think so? He barely said ten words to me since he got here. How is my presence going to do anything but give him another target?”
An image of OC target shooting from the back porch of the ranch popped into mind. Her job had been to re-set the empty beer cans on the fence after OC knocked them over. Talk about trust. “I’m not as speedy as I used to be. Can’t dodge bullets worth shit.”
Mom’s left eyebrow cocked upward. Her stern librarian look. But she didn’t say anything.
“Have you been working?” Bailey asked. Her mother loved the library almost as much as she loved her family.
“Between budget cuts and Oscar’s problems, I haven’t been there as much as I’d like.” She filled in Bailey about all the changes at the Marietta Public Library, including a shift in leadership. “I can’t wait to introduce you to Paige, my new boss. She’s been very understanding about my situation.”
She frowned and plucked some imaginary piece of lint from her neat gray slacks. “But I think the County is giving her a hard time about our budget. My job could be on the line.”
“This thing with Dad has been going on a long time, hasn’t it?”
Mom nodded. “The first toe was beyond salvation by the time I saw it, but you know how doctors are. They tried a bunch of different treatments. Oscar couldn’t see any immediate results, and, of course, he didn’t help matters by staying off the foot the way they wanted. The infection spread.”
Bailey had discussed the challenge of caring for an uncooperative patient with Maureen. Frustration took a toll on the health care professional and the family.
“Even though your dad knew he had to keep his foot elevated and dry and not put any weight on it,” Mom said, “if I was at work and he got antsy, he’d call Jack and order him to come get him. Put Jack between a rock and hard place.”
Bailey had given the family business a lot of thought and she wasn’t convinced her father’s partner’s motives were completely altruistic. “If OC can’t go back to work, it sounds to me like Jack winds up with a pretty sweet deal.”
Mom fussed with the curtain and straightened a few old copies of Montana Living magazines on the antique table beside the blue chair that used to sit in the living room at the ranch. “I don’t believe for a minute Jack Sawyer wants Oscar out of the picture. Jack’s no spring chicken, either. He’s stepped up to keep the company going while your dad’s been sick, but he’s not Oscar Jenkins,” she stressed. “Our regulars—the people who have been coming back year after year to fish with your dad—have cancelled and gone somewhere else because they couldn’t hire the Fish Whisperer.’” Her air quotes demonstrated her true feelings for the phrase.
Bailey made a face. “That must have hurt. Or did Dad see it as confirmation that he really was the Fish Whisperer?”
Louise pinched the bridge of her nose. She wanted to scream. Not at her daughter, who despite Bailey’s best efforts to pretend otherwise was her father’s daughter. Not even at Oscar, who let his silly male ego turn him into a cripple. She wanted to scream at the unfairness of life in general.
She’d done her best to love her husband and raise a smart, beautiful, successful child. She’d worked hard at her job, basically babysitting two generations of children while trying to teach them to love books.
She’d lived up to what was expected of a woman her age, and what had it gotten her? A staggering mountain of doctor and hospital bills, a cut in hours at work and the suggestion she might be ready to retire so they could hire someone younger, with less experience, seniority and wages.
And one other complication she wasn’t ready to think about. A person could only take so much bad news.
Besides, it might be nothing, she told herself. For the millionth time.
She took a deep breath and walked to her daughter’s side. She planted her hand firmly on Bailey’s healthy tanned arm.
“Whatever old grievance you still nurse where your father is concerned, one thing is indisputable. Oscar Jenkins is the Fish Whisperer. And there will never be another like him.”
“Mom, I’m here to help, but you know Dad and I have never been able to talk. Maybe things will be different since he’s had to stop drinking and smoking. I’ll try. That’s all I can promise.”
Louise took a deep breath—not too deep, she didn’t want to wince—and let it out. “That’s all anyone can ask, dear. I’m just glad you’re here. And I know Oscar is, too.”
*
The next mo
rning, Bailey stood in the doorway of her parents’ room.
Their king-size bed had been stored in the garage to make room for a fancy hospital bed. Mom had moved to the pullout couch in her “office” to avoid accidentally kicking OC’s stump during the night. At the moment, she was preparing breakfast in the kitchen, blissfully unaware her husband was on the phone ordering contraband.
“Bring me a fifth of scotch and a carton of smokes. Any kind. I’m not particular.”
Bailey’s grip tightened on the mug in her hand. Two teaspoons of sugar and real cream. Just the way he liked it.
“Really, Dad?” she said, stepping into the room.
Even with the windows on either side of the bed open, the air smelled stale. Apparently, the nurses’ effort to bathe their patient before he left the hospital had been unsuccessful.
She made a point of sniffing the air, her nose crinkling. “You stink, Dad. And now you think you’re going to smoke in here? Not happening. Trust me.”
OC tried to sit up but the effort seemed beyond him. Watching her once all-powerful father struggle, his skinny arms barely supporting what little weight still hung on his bony frame, made her throat close and tears rush to her eyes. But she forced herself to channel those emotions to anger.
Rule number one: never show fear. OC taught her that at a very young age.
She slammed the mug on the bedside table, not caring that mocha-colored drops cascaded like rain.
“Hey,” he barked, falling sideways against his pillow. His thin hair, oily and messy from sleep stuck up like an aged punk rocker, dull gray the predominant color. His hair had been as thick as hers and nearly onyx the last time she saw him. This ordeal had aged him more than she’d realized. Still…
“No. You do not get to set the rules around here. I came to help my mother, not you. I know what a waste of time that would be. The great OC Jenkins doesn’t need anybody’s help. You’ll either get well or you won’t. I can’t make that happen, but I can make sure—damn sure—you don’t take my mother down with you.”
“I’ll smoke if I want.”
“Not in this room. Not in this house. If you want to smoke, which every doctor you’ve ever seen has probably advised against as long as your body is healing from surgery, you’re going to have get yourself into that wheelchair and go outside.
“Mom had a nice ramp built for you. It’ll get you far enough away to avoid polluting my lungs with secondhand smoke.”
“This is still my house.”
“Not for long.”
Bailey and OC both looked toward the doorway at the sound of Louise’s voice. She held a tray that wobbled unsteadily. Bailey hurried as quickly as her ankle allowed to take it from her mother’s hands.
Emotion? Fear? Something else? Bad feelings made the cup of green tea she’d had with her toast roil. “Mom? Are you okay?”
Mom blinked, as if coming out of a trance. She pulled a handful of tissues from the pocket of her apron and walked to the bed. After cleaning up Bailey’s spill, she raised the head of the bed and helped OC sit, plumping the spare pillow for added back support. “You need to eat while it’s hot. Chorizo and eggs. Your favorite.”
She motioned for Bailey to bring the tray, which Bailey realized had legs that converted it to a mini-table. She lowered it to frame her father’s skinny hips.
How could a man his size drop so much weight so fast, she wondered?
“I’m not hungry.”
Her mother leaned in close and said in a fierce tone Bailey didn’t recognize, “You’ll eat every bite or I call the ambulance to come back for you. Your doctors were talking about feeding tubes. You promised you’d eat once you had better food.”
He muttered under his breath but picked up his fork and shoveled a large bite of scrambled eggs into his mouth. Mom watched him chew, nodding encouragingly.
Bailey remembered watching her handle young readers at the library the same way. As long as they were quiet and polite they could stay. Acting up or messing around earned them one warning: “Read or go outside.” Mom never backed down from a threat. Her father probably knew that.
He washed down his food with a gulp from his mug, tossing Bailey a sour look.
Succumbing to the ache in her ankle, Bailey sat on the bed as far as possible from the bump indicating her father’s good foot. “What did you mean when you said, ‘Not for long’?”
Mom sat in the upholstered armchair positioned beside the giant fichus. Her mother’s skill with houseplants was one of the genes Bailey failed to inherit.
“Financially speaking, your father and I are in pretty rough shape, Bailey.”
OC started to contradict her, but Mom shushed him. “It’s bad, Oscar. There’s no use pretending otherwise. You haven’t worked in five months.”
Bailey tried not to show her alarm. “Are you making anything from the Fish and Game?”
“A little. Jack gets paid by the hour and Marla earns a salary for bookkeeping, but we don’t charge as much for Jack’s tours so we don’t show as much profit.”
OC glared at her but kept eating.
“And all the extra hours have taken a toll. Jack’s about done. He’s going to finish up the bookings they have, and then he’s retiring.”
“Goddamn traitor. I taught him everything he knows about fly-fishing. He owes me more than a couple of months of picking up the slack.”
OC shoved his tray, spilling what was left of his coffee. “I need a pain pill…and a cigarette, goddamn it.”
Bailey took the tray away while her mother cleaned up the mess. She walked straight to the kitchen, ignoring the throbbing in her ankle. She needed a pain pill, too, but she’d be damned if she’d take one.
“He called somebody and told them to bring him booze and cigarettes,” she said when Louise walked into the room.
“I know. Jack called me after he hung up with Oscar. That’s when he told me he was quitting. Apparently, Marla is determined to buy a place in Arizona for the winter. She’s been talking about it for years, and now that Jack’s been working so much, they finally have the money.”
How convenient. Bailey had never cared for Marla Sawyer. The woman always struck her as self-serving and narcissistic. Bailey wouldn’t have put it past her to skim a little off the top of the books, either. But, she didn’t say anything to her mother. If Jack was quitting, then her parents needed a new plan.
“You always said your salary filled the gap in winter when Dad wasn’t leading as many trips. Has that changed?” she asked, adding OC’s plate to the dishwasher.
“It helps, but even with good insurance, we’ve had a lot of out-of-pocket expenses.” Mom touched her side, as if she had a spot of indigestion. “Our savings are just about depleted.”
Bailey filled the kettle and turned on the stove. She motioned for her mother to sit at the table then joined her. “I know all about the cost of hospital bills. My surgery alone used up my entire deductible. Rehab was another eight grand. Luckily, I was able to sell the house and my truck to cover most of it.”
Mom reached out and touched her hand. “How’s your jewelry business?”
“Okay. The only way to make real money is to have inventory. That would mean hiring some crafters.”
“I thought you made everything yourself.”
The kettle started to whistle. Louise jumped to her feet with a grace Bailey envied. She filled the mug Bailey had used earlier and added a fresh tea bag. “Honey, honey?”
“Sure. Thank you.” Stress, pain and grief had robbed her of an appetite. As Paul noted when he picked her up at the airport, she could stand to put on a few pounds.
“I love designing, but sitting still for long periods of time has always been my idea of torture.”
Her mother chuckled. “When you were a little girl, you spent hours playing dress-up with your grandmother’s old costume jewelry. I thought that was something all little girls did. Then your dad brought home a pony, and everything else fell by the wayside.”<
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A hazy memory came to her. “I remember those. Do you still have them?”
“Of course. They’re in my jewelry box. I had them professionally cleaned and appraised a couple of years ago. They’re not valuable, but the jeweler told me vintage jewelry sells really well.” She paused. “Do you think you could use them in your designs?”
“Maybe. Can’t hurt to look? Are you sure you want to give them up?”
“I don’t think Oscar and I will go out dancing any time soon.”
The sadness in her mother’s voice drove home the point that Bailey was going to be here longer than she thought. This was no fly-by layover. And the money issues were looking more and more complex. Bailey might need to step up her game.
“I don’t suppose you know any crafty ladies looking for part-time piece work, do you?”
Mom’s smile brightened for the first time. “No, but I’ll post a flier at the library. I bet you’ll have a dozen applicants inside a day.”
Bailey blew on her tea then took a sip. “Great, but before I can train someone, I’m gonna need a place to spread out all my beads on a table sturdy enough to handle my magnifier lights.”
“What about the garage? We have a card table and some folding chairs.”
Bailey shook her head. “That might work temporarily, but it’ll be too hot in summer and too cold in winter.”
“Downstairs, then. Your dad’s Man Cave.”
“I heard that and the answer is no,” a voice bellowed from the bedroom.
Bailey hadn’t realized OC could hear them. “Why not? You’re not using it. You can’t go down stairs in a wheelchair.”
“I’m gonna walk again. The therapist said he’d fit me with a prosthetic once my stump is healed. Leave my basement alone.”
Bailey felt encouraged by the little bit of the old OC fire in his tone.
“He’s going to come back from this,” Mom said, lowering her voice to a whisper. “But in the meantime, we have to find a way to keep our noses above water.”
“Then, tell me where to set up shop.”
Mom grabbed her phone, found a number already programed in and a moment later said, “Hi. Is Paul around? This is Louise Jenkins.” She listened a moment then said, “Okay, please. He has my number. Thank you.”
Cowgirl Come Home Page 4