The Christmas You Found Me, page 11
“Mr. Naples? Will your wife mind too much if I hold your hand?”
When he doesn’t answer, I take his fingers in mine. The age spots have been there for a long time, but the weakness of his grip is new enough I’m still not used to it. I want to hold his hand harder, just so he can’t let go, but I keep my fingers loose. This version of Jeff Naples doesn’t know me.
“Sienna.”
My head snaps up, but he’s not looking at me.
“My girl’s name is Sienna. You look a lot like her.”
“I’ve been told she looked a lot like her mother.”
“That’s better than looking like me,” he says, and when he moves his arm away, I fold my hands in my lap. He angles his body from me, a sign he’s done talking to me or simply done with the stranger in the room. It’s time for me to leave, or he’ll start to grow agitated. Alzheimer’s is a cruel disease, and it’s stripped him of everything that made him my father. But he’s still a man who deserves peace before he goes.
If it means leaving him alone on a bad day, then that’s what I need to do.
I will not cry in front of him. I will not cry in this room or in this building. It’s a promise I made to myself years ago. He’d be so angry if he knew I was still visiting him, but it’s almost Christmas. I just can’t. I have to see him, even if it breaks my heart.
“I know I promised, Daddy, but I love you,” I whisper. Then I tell the same lie I’ve been telling him for a long time now. “Don’t worry, okay? I’m really happy.”
I press a kiss to his age-spotted forehead, then leave, keeping my head down as I hurry to my truck. Don’t cry until you get to the truck, Sienna. The lump in your throat? Hold it in.
I’m almost there when I notice something different about the Chevy’s windshield. A copy of Jess’s husband-for-hire ad is tucked under my windshield wiper, rolled around a very cold red rose. I unfold the paper and see the ad has been crossed out with a purple Sharpie, the same one Emma and I were drawing with last night.
“Job vacancy filled,” I read aloud. There’s also a doodle of a sandwich with a smiley face and a Santa hat. I can’t help but laugh, breathing in the scent of the rose as I get in my truck. The lump in my throat is still there, but it’s softened to manageable levels.
Maybe I’m happier than I realize.
***
Hammond’s Feed and Supply sits on the corner a block down from my father’s long-term care facility. As I drive past, I glance at the side lot where the employees park. A certain truck I no longer co-own isn’t there, so I make a U-turn and head back.
We opened the store a couple of years ago due to convenience more than anything else. Micah and I were both tired of having to drive an hour to the nearest big-box tractor supply store, and we were a lot closer to town than some of the people in the Frank Church Wilderness. The need was there in the community, and we already had the cattle business set up. Expanding to include the store wasn’t terribly difficult, although it never turned much of a profit.
I don’t miss the extra hours we spent keeping up with the bookkeeping and employee shortages, but I do miss being able to buy my horse and cattle feed at wholesale prices. Now I only come in here when it’s absolutely necessary, but this place has everything a rancher needs when they come to town, which was the point.
My new family has a lot of cow crap in their lives. They need some muck boots.
As I walk toward the store, I see a familiar figure in a cowboy hat coming out, a heavy bag of horse grain balanced on one shoulder and a second arm full of salt blocks. It’s strange sometimes, remembering what someone looked like as a child and then knowing them as an adult too. I can’t remember a time in my or Jess’s life when Charley, a pleasantly handsome man with a constant five-o’clock shadow of scruff, wasn’t there in the background. Steadfast, reliable, and too shy to do much more than touch his cowboy hat and murmur “Ma’am.”
Charley is like these mountains. Quiet. Steady. There.
“Is all that for Boop?” I ask him in lieu of greeting.
Our local cowboy pilot and locator of lost bulls gives me a shy smile. “They’ve got a sale on the apple salt blocks he likes,” Charley says.
And in Charley’s world, whatever Boop wants, Boop gets.
Boop is Charley’s miniature horse. A two-year-old, dapple-gray stud colt with a black mark on the end of his nose, Boop barely comes to Charley’s hip. He’s also convinced that Charley is his mom. Charley rescued the mini as a foal during last summer’s wildfires, when a lot of stock were lost, injured, or abandoned. Picked him up and stuffed the burned, scared animal in the back of his airplane, flying Boop to safety and pretty much breaking every FAA rule in the process.
“Haven’t seen you in a while, Sen,” Charley says, and I can hear it in what the cowboy pilot doesn’t say. Where did you go? Why don’t we talk anymore?
Charley might have traded in his rodeo belt buckles for airplane wings, but he’s who he has always been. Someone very important to me. He’s had dinner at our table more times than I can count, but I’ve been ducking him more and more the last year. I didn’t want him to know how much I was hurting.
He’s a shoulder I could have cried on. I just…didn’t.
“I guess I just didn’t want to make you have to choose,” I say softly.
I know Charley doesn’t have a lot of friends, and I don’t want to be the one that costs him any. Charley interceded enough while I was still married, getting Micah sobered up before he came back home or giving him someone to curse at when things weren’t going Micah’s way.
We never talked about it, but Charley’s always been protective of me. Even now, Charley regards me with intelligent eyes, taking in the items in my arms as if silently checking if I’m okay.
“I suppose if a guy had to choose, he’d be hard pressed not to choose the one in the right of things.”
The softly drawled words are the Christmas gift I didn’t know I needed. I almost hug him, but instead I stand there, grateful for the people who care. I don’t have to say how much it means to me. Charley knows.
“You okay, Sen?”
My life has been a whirlwind this last week, but I start to smile as I think about the little girl back at home. “Yeah. I’m okay.”
He clears his throat, then adds, “Jess said you met someone?”
I’m so not ready to answer this question, but Charley’s looking at me curiously. “I’ll get back to you on that one,” I say with a bemused laugh as his radio buzzes at his side. “Tell Jake to hold his horses.”
“Such a grump,” we say in tandem, a running joke since we were all kids, then share a quick grin.
“Take care, Sen.” Charley juggles his salt blocks so he can touch his hat brim, then the cowboy pilot heads toward his truck, grain bag resting easy over his shoulder and picking up his radio, buzzing again with Jake’s annoyed voice.
For the life of me, I can’t figure out how he’s still single. That sweet drawl charms me every single time.
I go inside the store I used to own, heading for the clothing section. Emma’s easy, because I’ve helped her put her shoes on and know what size she is. I even find a pair of sparkly purple muck boots she’ll hopefully love. As for Guy, I have no clue. I really need to look at his shoulders less and his shoes a little more.
Sighing, I break down and send Guy a text. Shoe size? I ask.
I’m guessing you’re a six? pops up on my phone immediately, followed by a smiley face.
I laugh out loud, then text back, No, you. Since the man emoji’d me again, I send him back a tongue sticking out. There’s no way to be super subtle, but maybe Guy will be too busy to notice I’m asking specific questions right before Christmas.
Emma’s a 10C and I’m an 11.5. What’s up?
Yep. The hope was short-lived.
I send a “none of your business” GIF in reply, followed by a Christmas GIF. After a few moments, I get a sexy Santa winking at me. Oh dear. Things must be getting serious.
My face feels funny as I grab a pair of sturdy rubber muck boots from the rack in Guy’s size, and as I pass by a mirror near a rack of work shirts, I realize I’m smiling wide enough to make my cheeks hurt. Since I’m there, I grab him a shirt in the same style he’s been wearing to work.
Nothing says Merry Christmas to an overworked man like getting him more things to work in.
I grab a water from the soda case, then take my items up to the counter.
“Hey, Sienna,” the checkout clerk says cheerfully, a nice kid named Dominic who’s worked here since his sophomore year of high school. He’s one of the best hires we…well, Micah…has, and I give him a friendly wave.
“Hey, Dom. How are your folks doing? Are they ready for the holidays?”
“Mom says it comes faster every year,” Dominic says as he takes the security tags off the boots.
“Don’t I know it.”
He gives me a curious look. “Hey, is it true you’re looking to hire a husband? Jess came by with an ad a couple days ago. It didn’t last long on the board. The manager took it down because they thought the boss man might be ticked.”
I just barely manage to smother my laugh. Of course Jess had the moxie to put an ad up in Micah’s business.
“It was just a joke,” I tell him. Then, because a secret never lasts long in this town, I add, “But actually, I did get remarried.”
“You’ve got to be kidding me.”
I go still at the voice behind me, closing my eyes briefly because his truck wasn’t outside when I pulled up. Which means he came in because he saw my vehicle. There’s no way Micah would have missed it.
I don’t even have to see his face to know he’s furious. Once, the man behind me used to take my breath away. Now I have to take a deep breath to steady myself before I turn around.
“Hello, Micah.”
Sometimes, when I look at him, I still see the rowdy, fun-loving high school boy I fell in love with as a teenager. Micah was handsome then, and he’s even more handsome now. The Hammonds have good genes, and I used to think we’d have beautiful babies. The problem with knowing someone too well is once the shiny exterior has been worn off by familiarity, you know too well the reality of what’s underneath.
Maybe, if we were different people, we’d look at each other and not see so much ugliness. But a year’s worth of arguing tooth and nail with lawyers in the room can take the polish off the best of them.
“I’ll be out of here in a minute,” I say in my best friendly but un-engaging voice.
He looks at the items in Dominic’s hands, and Micah’s face flushes red with anger. I don’t blame the kid for going still, but I’m used to Micah being mad at me.
I turn back to the clerk and nod at him to continue. “I’m paying with a card,” I tell Dominic to redirect his attention.
“Sienna, we need to talk,” Micah says from behind my shoulder, even closer now.
“Micah, not today, okay?” I tell my ex in a brusque I’m-too-busy-to-have-a-conversation tone. He should know it well; he used it on me all the time. “I just saw my dad, and I need to get back home and ride fences before it gets too late. We’ll talk soon.”
I swipe my card and type in my code as quickly as possible, then grab my stuff to go before Dominic has even bagged it.
“Damn it, Sienna, I’m not playing games here.”
Micah’s always been a big guy, and his naturally thick muscles have only increased through an adulthood of hard labor. When he steps into my way, I’m very aware of how large he is.
“Fine, we’ll talk outside,” I say, narrowing my eyes at him. “Dom’s got a line, and we’re holding it up.”
At least this way the poor kid won’t be stuck in the middle of us if this goes the way I have a feeling it will go.
Micah’s truck is parked right next to mine, which ticks me off because it means he’s looking for a fight. After seeing Dad, he might just be unlucky enough for me to give him one. I don’t have a single reason besides my own peace of mind to play nice anymore. I’m trying so hard to embrace the Christmas spirit, but I’m about out of patience right now. Frankly, I have enough on my mind without having to deal with this.
“You actually got remarried.”
The way he says it, you’d think I committed murder.
“You aren’t messing with me with the insurance changes,” Micah adds, sounding as if he can’t believe his own words.
“Yes, I got remarried. And please don’t cause problems with the health insurance. They need it.”
The man looks poleaxed. I mean, I get why he’s ticked. If he’d remarried the day after our divorce, I’d have been devastated.
I dig deep and try to find some compassion for him. “It’s complicated, Micah, and it’s not personal. It was just something that happened.”
“Not personal?” He sounds even angrier. “How long were you seeing him?”
“I’m sorry?”
“This whole time we were separated, I didn’t see anyone, Sienna. Not once. I thought it was cruel to you, but now I realize you were making a fool out of me.”
I don’t understand what he means at first, then it clicks. He thinks I was with Guy before the divorce.
“If I was seeing someone after we separated, I would’ve had the right,” I tell Micah. “The day you moved out, you lost the ability to judge what I do or don’t do. We were separated, and now we’re divorced. My life is none of your concern.”
“If you were sleeping with him when we were still married, I have a right to know,” Micah snarls. I don’t know if I’ve ever seen him this angry.
“I met Guy the day before he and I got married,” I tell him through gritted teeth. “So no, I didn’t date anyone before the divorce finalized. Even if I had, it’s none of your business, Micah.”
“It’s my business when a stranger is sleeping in my bed, in my house—”
“My house,” I snap. “My house, my bed, my dog, my animals. You wanted everything else, and you got everything else. What happens at the ranch is my concern.”
I don’t even realize I’m brandishing Guy’s new muck boot until Micah shifts back so it doesn’t bonk him on the chest. We’re two seconds from screaming at each other in the parking lot, and I won’t do this anymore. I got divorced so I didn’t have to do this anymore. I hate how this feels, how my blood boils in my veins, but everything else feels cold, numb, and awful. Fighting with Micah makes me physically ill, and I don’t want to do it anymore.
“We can talk when you’ve cooled down,” I say, forcing myself into a state of calmness that has everything to do with emotional survival and nothing to do with how I actually feel. I turn and start to open my door.
His hand over my head pops it back shut.
Sometimes a moment feels like a lifetime. Especially ones like this, when we’re a single word from everything flying apart. Then Micah grunts and backs off. “Sorry, Sen.”
He’s always sorry. He always does this shit anyway. Wordlessly, I get inside the truck, and I don’t look in the rearview mirror as I drive away. I crank up the holiday music channel loud enough it hurts my ears, and I forget to turn the heater on until I reach the bridge. Just in case Guy and Emma are already home, I let the truck idle at the entrance of the ranch, watching the cedar sign swinging above me in the winter breeze.
“I will not cry,” I tell myself as Bing Crosby croons all around me. “Just focus on what’s in front of you.”
I’m my father’s daughter. I will not cry.
Chapter 11
It’s a relief when I reach the cabin and no one but Barley is there, the old retriever curled up on his cushion in the living room. He opens one eye and then closes it again, turning his back to me just in case I’m tempted to disturb his sleep.
“Point made,” I tell him, bending over and patting his head just to annoy him. “You’re taking a personal day.”
Since Barley’s not interested in coming along, I spend the afternoon alone, riding the electric horse fence and checking for loose, droopy wires or broken plastic insulators. It’s slow, hard work, and drifting snow likes to push my metal fence posts out of alignment. Legs’s breath condenses in the cold, and every hour or so, I pause to wipe the ice crystals from his nostrils with my gloved hand. The distance I have to cover isn’t far, but the deep snow on an increasingly steeper mountainside drops our pace to a crawl.
After the last couple of days, the silence feels deafening, but eventually it starts to become normal again. My brain rotates through a to-do list, unwilling to shut down and be peaceful, so I take comfort in mentally organizing my own chaos. It’s better than focusing on angry exes or fathers who forget.
For a moment, I think about the rose Guy left me. It’s in the center console of my truck, pressed between the pages of this year’s Old Farmer’s Almanac. Maybe I’m being silly and romantic, but on a bad day, it’s my something nice. In a year or so, when Emma has her kidney and these two have moved on with their lives, I want to remember them.
An image of Guy doing push-ups in my kitchen slips unbidden into my mind, and I have to smile at myself. He’s not going to be an easy one to forget.
When we reach the high side of the horse pasture, where a tributary to the Salmon River below us creates a natural obstacle, I make sure to keep Legs away from the edge. What looks solid actually has rushing, ice-cold water beneath. An unexpected swim in here followed by a two-hour ride back down the mountain would be dangerous for both of us.
My small herd notices Legs and I as we head down the mountainside. Lulu whinnies at him, and Legs flicks his ears. She trots over, the copper-colored coat pretty as a picture against the snowy backdrop.
“If I had a camera, that picture would sell all your babies, Lulu girl,” I tell her as she drops in behind us.
With nothing better to do, Dunkin and Paddlewhack follow suit. Herd animals are interesting. Once they start in one direction, usually they’ll keep going if you seem like you have a good reason to. It’s not dinnertime but close enough for them to follow us single file down the mountainside.
