“I had to.” She turned away from him. “I’m not strong like you, Hank. I’m not a saint. I can’t do this.”
“Amy—” His voice broke, and she knew she was hurting him but couldn’t stop. She didn’t give him a chance to finish, just turned and ran away from him and the bad news and the love that always turned to pain. Always.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
“YOU NEED TO GO BACK, you know.”
Rain beat against the windows as Amy studied the view of Billings from her condo’s living room and ignored Leila’s comment. It used to stir her pride—that she’d scraped herself up from poverty and had earned the best for herself—but now she wished for more trees, a great large veranda she could step out onto, brown fields baking in the sun and fewer buildings hemming her in. A huge weeping willow nearby with a cozy wicker chair tucked under its shade would be nice, too.
Sighing, she turned from the wall of windows to stare down Leila, who sat on the edge of the white sofa, her brow furrowed, her face a mobile mixture of exasperation and concern.
“No,” Amy said. “I do not have to go back. You needed someone to look at the ranch’s books. I did.”
When Leila opened her mouth to interrupt, Amy raised her hand. “You wanted me to advise you regarding the sale of the property. My expert opinion is this—don’t sell. The finances have been salvaged.”
“But—”
“I’m still working on the rodeo. I can organize it all from here.”
The traitorous voice of her conscience whispered, But you never taught him to read. She couldn’t do that long distance. She never used to break promises.
“I’m not talking about the finances and you know it.” Leila raised her voice so Amy wouldn’t cut her off again. “I’m talking about Hank.”
Amy marched to the kitchen.
“I don’t want to talk about Hank.”
Acid churned in her belly. She’d never known desolation like this existed. Losing Hank was worse than losing a couple of pounds of flesh had been. She clamped her jaw on the grief that dogged her every waking hour. And her nights.
To add insult to injury, she’d not only lost Cheryl and Hank, but also Mother.
When Amy had left the ranch two weeks ago—okay, when she’d run from the ranch—Mother had decided to stay with Hank to deepen their friendship. It felt like a defection.
With a hard clink, Amy set a glass on the counter that separated the kitchen and living room. Grabbing a bottle of club soda, she filled the glass and added a slice of lime and two ice cubes.
She gestured with the glass toward Leila, who shook her head impatiently.
“I know you don’t want to talk about Hank,” Leila said. “But I want to know what happened between the two of you that has left him so miserable.”
“Nothing happened.”
“So the whole problem was Cheryl’s death?”
“Cheryl’s death was awful.” Amy leaned her elbows on the counter and rubbed the cold glass across her aching forehead.
“Yes, I’m sure it was,” Leila said with compassion. Her shoes whispered on the plush carpet as she approached the counter.
“But you can’t stop living because someone close to you dies,” Leila continued. “Hank didn’t.”
How on earth had Hank survived the loss of his son, his precious flesh and blood, to a death that didn’t make sense?
Club soda bubbled up into her throat and she swallowed quickly. “But—but—how can he keep bringing those children to the ranch?” She pressed her hands against her pounding chest.
“At first, I thought he was nuts to start the Sheltering Arms. In the years since, though, I’ve seen the good that he’s done, and how good it’s been for him.”
“But how can he keep going when someone like Cheryl dies?”
Leila shrugged. “He’s a glass half-full kind of guy. He figures his brief time with her is better than not having known her at all. And—” she grabbed Amy’s hand and squeezed “—they give so much back to him.”
“I know,” Amy whispered, her senses numb. “I’ve seen it.”
She sipped her cold drink. The acerbic soda and lime soaked her dry mouth. “He has more courage than I have, Leila. I can’t go back there and face those children again.”
“You have more courage than you give yourself credit for. You survived two years of pure hell with breast cancer and an almost immediate divorce.” Leila picked up her purse from a table by the door. “You’re lucky to be rid of the rat, by the way.”
Leila belied the harshness of that remark with a grin.
“Your father died and you didn’t give up on life, did you?” she continued.
“I had no choice.”
“True, and now you do. And that is the problem. The choice you make these days is to avoid intimacy so you can never feel that much pain and loss again.”
Amy stared at Leila. Was it that obvious to everyone?
“I sound like a shrink, don’t I?” Opening her purse, Leila pulled out an index card on which were neatly printed a name and address. She handed it to Amy.
Amy took it from her, but the second she recognized Cheryl’s last name, she cried, “What is this?” and dropped the card.
“Hank asked if you could go talk to Cheryl’s mother, tell her how much fun Cheryl had at the ranch, and how her last few weeks were very special for her.”
Amy’s vision blurred. “I can’t. Please don’t ask me.”
“I’m not asking you. Hank is.” Leila paused in letting herself out of the condo. “It’s time to screw up your courage and really live.”
“Wait!” Amy cried.
Leila turned back with her hand on the doorknob.
“When are you going to screw up your courage?” Amy asked.
Leila stilled. “To do what?”
“To finally deal head-on with the big issue on the ranch.” Amy tilted her head. “For a take-charge kind of woman, you’ve been appallingly lax.”
“About what?”
“About Hank.”
The color bleached out of Leila’s cheeks. “What about him?”
“When are you going to tell him you aren’t his sister?”
Leila’s purse thudded on the floor. “What are you talking about?”
“Your father left everything to you instead of splitting it with Hank because it will all eventually go to Hank anyway when you die, won’t it? He’s your son, isn’t he?”
Leila fell into a chair. Heavily. “How did you know?”
“I just put a few things together. Why didn’t you raise him as your own?”
She took so long to respond, Amy began to doubt Leila would. “I had a brief affair when I was a teenager. I was young and foolish, experimenting, and got caught. Thought I loved the guy.” Leila retrieved her purse from the carpet and fished around inside it, coming up with a tissue. “When Dad found out I was pregnant, he hit the roof.”
She stood and paced to the window. “You have to understand what my father was like. He ruled that house with an iron fist. He hated for anyone to know his business. I could either pretend that Hank was my stepmother’s child, or I could live on the streets without a penny to my name and raise a newborn infant on my own.”
She exhaled a bitter laugh. “Dad would have followed through on it. He was a stubborn bastard. I was young and terrified. I went along with him.”
“He’s been dead long enough,” Amy said. “Hank deserves to know the truth.”
Leila let out a ragged sigh as she crossed the room. “Maybe. I don’t know. I’ve loved Hank more than any other human being from the second he was born. He’s my pride and joy. I’ve held on to this secret for so long, I’m not sure I can let it go. What if he hates me for never telling him?”
“Do you honestly think that Hank could ever hate you?”
“It worries me, but I’ll honestly consider telling him one day.”
Amy smiled. “That’s enough for now, Leila.”
“Okay. And y
ou think hard about going back to that man.”
Amy barely heard Leila go. The card with Cheryl’s mother’s address on it lay on top of the counter, staring Amy down. How could Hank ask her to do this? Her conscience whispered what Amy already knew herself to be: coward, coward, coward.
Visiting Cheryl’s mother would be the kind thing to do. But Amy wasn’t feeling particularly kind. She didn’t want to think about Cheryl let alone talk about her. Amy had been doing her best to avoid thinking about Cheryl and Hank. Damn Leila for coming here today and stirring it all up.
Amy glanced around her condo and felt her control crack. She knew now there were men in the world who could love her despite a missing breast. Hank had given her such a gift by loving all of her including her scars—both internal and external. She couldn’t go on living like this, alone for the rest of her life because she was too frightened to behave like a whole human being.
Smacking her hand on the counter, she decided the least she could do for Cheryl—out of respect for a perfect young child’s memory—was to ease her mother’s sorrow. Amy Graves was about to suck it up and do the right thing.
STANDING IN FRONT of the cracked, peeling door of an apartment in a building that smelled of urine and mold, Amy pressed a hand against her stomach to still the churning, then knocked.
The door opened, answered by a young woman dressed in a skimpy white tank top, black jeans and socks with holes in the toes. Amy had lost count of the piercings by the time the girl asked, “Yes? What do you want?”
Amy double-checked the number on the apartment door. She had the right place, but this girl was too young to be Cheryl’s mother. She must be her older sister.
“Is your mother home?” Amy asked.
“My mother?” The girl frowned and touched one of the rings protruding from her left eyebrow. “She doesn’t live here.”
“Oh! I must have the wrong address. I’m looking for Cheryl’s mother.”
“That’s me.” The girl’s lips thinned until her skin turned white around her mouth. “I mean, I was Cheryl’s mama.”
Amy stared at the girl and blurted, “You can’t be serious.” Then she clamped her mouth shut and noticed what she should have seen right away. In the girl’s enormous, mascara-rimmed eyes was the premature wisdom Cheryl had possessed, forged by too much hardship too early in life.
“I’m so sorry,” Amy said. “That was rude. It’s just that you look so young.”
“Yeah, everybody says that. Why did you want to see me?”
“I knew Cheryl when she stayed at the Sheltering Arms.”
“You knew Cheryl?” The girl’s beautiful dark eyes widened in her pale face. “Are you Amy?”
Amy couldn’t hide her start of shock. “How do you know my name?”
“Cheryl talked about you all the time. I’m Janey. C’mon in.”
Amy stepped into an apartment as neat as an officer’s cot, stretched taut and spit-shined to threadbare perfection. The poor young woman owned so little. A small TV buzzed in the background across from a sofa shiny in spots and pilled in others. Secondhand, no doubt.
Janey walked to the TV and turned it off, all her actions slow and deliberate. “I keep it on for company.” Standing in the middle of her stark living room, she looked like a lost sprite trying so hard to be grown-up. “Would you like a glass of water?”
She probably had nothing else to offer. Amy nodded. Janey stepped into the minuscule kitchen and took a plastic tumbler out of a cupboard. She ran the water in the faucet to get it cold. Amy couldn’t remember the last time she’d had water from the tap.
She looked around her, at the base poverty of the place, and her heart sank. Cheryl had grown up in this, with no belongings, with none of the stimulation a young child would need to thrive and grow.
“Do you want to see Cheryl’s pictures?” Janey asked when she handed Amy the tumbler.
“Yes.”
“C’mon.”
Amy sipped the water, then set the glass on a small table.
Janey led her to the only bedroom, a cramped, airless room, one small window looking onto the brick wall of another old apartment building six feet away. Two narrow beds lined the walls. Childish colorful drawings covered one wall, some of them little more than red and blue scribbles or bright yellow circles with big green circles for eyes and long, thin strips for bodies.
“Cheryl’s?” she asked.
Janey nodded, obviously no less proud of Cheryl’s work than she would be if she’d given birth to Picasso. She sat on one bed, so Amy took the other. On the wall at the head of Janey’s bed hung a sheet of yellow construction paper with a big, red smiley face on it.
Amy remembered that Cheryl had drawn that one day on the ranch.
She sucked in her breath, trying hard not to dissolve into a puddle of grief on Janey’s floor. She rubbed the ache in her chest. How often could a heart break with sorrow before it finally gave up and stopped working altogether?
The cheap night table between the two beds held a box of tissues and a picture of Cheryl. Amy picked it up with a trembling hand. Feeling her chin shake, she bit her bottom lip hard.
Looking at Janey through swimming eyes, she said, “She was so beautiful.”
“Yeah. I thought so, too.” Opening the drawer of the table, Janey withdrew a small, well-used cardboard box, with tape covering every seam. “Wanna see some photos of my girl?”
Amy took back every mean thing she’d ever said about the woman, every poor judgment she’d ever made about her competence as a mother. Cheryl had been loved without boundaries here in this modest apartment.
Janey opened the box with fingers whose nails she’d bitten to the quick. Neatly arranged inside was a stack of photos. She handed the first one to Amy, a tiny shot of a newborn infant in a hospital cot. Not much bigger than a Savoy cabbage leaf, she lay swaddled in a pink blanket with eyes wide-open but unfocused, as if someone had startled her awake.
“She was small ’cause she was a little bit early, but all the nurses said she was real strong.”
“Yes.” Amy nodded. “I believe it.”
The next shot showed an extremely young Janey lying in a hospital bed holding a slightly more alert Cheryl. Janey’s eyes were rimmed with black pencil and her lashes coated with mascara, a young girl trying to look worldly and older than her too few years. By contrast, Cheryl looked pink and fresh, a tiny creature who hadn’t existed a day or two before the photograph was taken. The awe in Amy filled her throat.
“Did you ever have a moment,” she asked, “when you couldn’t believe she was real?”
“Yeah.” Janey took the photograph back from Amy and stared at it, smoothing her thumb across Cheryl’s face. “Like I couldn’t believe this little girl came out of my stomach the day before. It was weird, y’know? But really cool.”
Amy looked around the room. There was no sense here of a man’s presence. “Janey, do you see Cheryl’s father very often?”
“I don’t know who her father was.”
“Oh,” Amy said awkwardly. Anything else would sound judgmental or accusatory and she didn’t want to do that to Janey. The circumstances of Cheryl’s conception were none of Amy’s business.
Janey stared out the window, the fingers clutching the photo on her lap turning white at the knuckles. “I was raped on my way home from school one night. I stayed late to watch a basketball game. It was dark out.”
“Did they ever catch the guy who did it?”
Janey shook her head. “I never saw his face. He jumped me from behind.”
Bastard.
Amy’s hands clenched into fists. “How old—” She cleared her throat. “How old were you?”
“Fourteen.”
Still a child. No wonder she looked so young in the picture. “Did you consider abortion?”
“My dad wouldn’t let me. He said a baby shouldn’t pay the price for someone else’s sin.”
“But he wasn’t the one having the baby.” Amy
couldn’t keep the sarcasm out of her voice.
“He was right.” Janey’s answering smile was calm and sweet. “I’m glad I had Cheryl. I’m glad I knew her. She was my precious baby.”
She pulled a tissue from the box, blew her nose, then grabbed a fresh tissue to wipe the running mascara from under her eyes.
Amy leaned forward to take one of her hands in her own. “Why didn’t you live with your father, if he wanted you to keep the baby?”
“There was no room for us with my sisters and dad, so I got on welfare and got this place. It was all ours,” Janey said with a hint of pride. “My dad helped us out sometimes, but he just got laid off in the spring.”
Amy stared at the back of Janey’s hand, the skin stretched across her thin knuckles pale and blue-veined.
Picking up the photograph of Cheryl as a baby, Janey said, “I miss her all the time.” Setting it back into the box and closing the lid with a snap, she said, “I want you to tell that man something for me.”
“Which man?”
“The one who owns that ranch. Hank. You tell him from me that he is a good man. What he does with those kids is real great. The best thing ever.” She shredded one of the tissues in her hand. “Is he your husband?”
“No. Why do you ask?”
“’Cause when she came back, everything Cheryl said started with Amy ’n’ Hank. Amy ’n’ Hank said this. Hank ’n’ Amy did that.” She sniffed. “Cheryl loved you both a lot.”
Amy picked up a tissue and wiped her own face.
“Does that bother you?” Amy blew her nose. At Janey’s puzzled frown, she added, “That Cheryl cared for us at the end of her life when she could have been spending more time with you?”
Janey’s eyes widened. “Why would it bother me? It made Cheryl happy.”
The quiet, unshakable absoluteness of Janey’s statement knocked Amy for a loop. Of course. Those three weeks hadn’t been about Janey, or Amy, or Hank. They were all about Cheryl, exactly as they should have been.
Amy stared at Cheryl’s painted happy face, cheerful against the peeling bedroom wall. Yes, the little girl had known moments of happiness at the Sheltering Arms. Miracle worker that he was, Hank had coaxed smiles out of Cheryl by the time she’d left the ranch.
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