“Not so much a day off, but your dad decided today would be a fun day to have all the guys make breakfast for us girls.” Just then, a crashing sound came from the kitchen. “They’re working a bit slower than we do. Breakfast might be ready by dinnertime.” Another crash, that one even louder. Mom grimaced. “Or maybe in time for tomorrow’s breakfast.”
“Sounds like I’d better get in there and throw my pathetic cooking skills into the mix. I’m pretty sure I can manage to not ruin toast.”
“No. Stay.” Mom shoved off the railing like she was going to physically stop me if I tried moving. “It’s nice to see you like this. When she’s with you.”
It was kind of nice to feel like this when Rowen was around. “What? Am I hopeless or something the rest of the time?”
She laughed a few notes, her smile shifting from me to Rowen. “Not hopeless. Just kind of . . . lost.”
“I feel a bit lost when she’s not around.” My arms tightened around her instinctually. I couldn’t decide if that was the possessiveness from my past or of today.
“I know you do, Jess.” The corners of Mom’s eyes creased, like she was concentrating on what to say, but after a moment, they ironed out.
When she didn’t speak, I said, “Well, it will be summer break soon, and she’ll be back for a long time. You won’t have to put up with me wandering around like a lost puppy dog.”
“And after summer break? What then?”
“Then she’ll go back to school. We’ll see each other as often as we can, and the rest of the time, I’ll be a lost puppy.”
Mom took a long drink of her coffee. She didn’t normally down it in one long sip like the guys, which meant she was stalling. She was looking for just the right way to word what she wanted to say. “And when Rowen finishes up school in a few years . . . then what?”
I had a reply on the tip of my tongue for most any question—I’d been given the gift of gab after all—but that one stumped me. I had given it plenty of thought, but I didn’t have an answer to that question. I knew what I wanted. I also knew what Rowen wanted. Pretty much most of her wants and my wants aligned, but our commitments columns had a tough time aligning.
I worked at Willow Springs. Ranching was what I knew. It was in my blood, and I knew it always would be. Rowen lived, breathed, and dreamed art. That’s what she knew, and that’s what was in her blood. If five hundred miles of land separating us decided to up and relocate one day, that would make Rowen’s and my future a lot easier to piece together. If Seattle and its vibrant art scene was an easy drive from Willow Springs, our problems would be solved. Maybe not all of them, but at least some of them.
“I guess we haven’t really worked out the details yet,” I answered Mom. I would have scratched my head if it hadn’t been such a terrible cliché.
“It’s time you start thinking about what you think you can’t live without and what you actually can’t live without.” When Mom’s face got all serious like that, I’d learned to sit up and listen.
“I knew I must have inherited my genius from you.”
Her face softened when she smiled. “And your dashing good looks.”
I motioned between Mom and me who were, as two people could go, about as opposite as opposite could get. I doubted we had a single strand of DNA that was even close to matching. “Obviously.”
She patted my cheek as she headed for the door. “I’ll let you get back to your bug bites and frost bite, sweetie.”
“Mom?” I glanced down at Rowen and swallowed.
She paused with her hand on the door and smiled, waiting. I wanted to tell her about the dreams . . . the nightmares. I wanted to admit my fears about why they’d come back. I wanted her to comfort me the way she had that first year I’d come to Willow Springs and woken up every night screaming. I wanted someone to know . . .
But admitting them out loud to another person seemed like I was giving power to my fears. If I kept them to myself, would they eventually die off? Or would keeping them to myself make them that much worse? I didn’t know, and I hated that feeling. So instead of bringing Mom into the dark world I’d resurrected, I forced a smile. “Never mind.”
She was observant, though. Always had been, and my weak attempt to reassure her had done nothing but put her on alert. Just then, another loud sound came from the kitchen: shattering. Mom and I winced.
“I’d better get in there.” I shifted nice and slow so I didn’t disturb Rowen, who hadn’t even stirred from the noise. “If everything turns into a burnt, inedible mess, I’ll at least make sure there’s toast and coffee.”
Mom wiped her brow. “You’re a good son.”
Before heading through the door, I glanced back at Rowen, peaceful, resting, not a worry in the world. And there I was—anxious, troubled, unsure.
Not wanting to give it any more thought, I headed for the kitchen. None of the smells I associated with breakfast were present when I stepped into the kitchen-slash-chaos room. The air was permeated with the scent of burnt, and the smoke curling from the fry pan and toaster oven told the rest of the story. That wasn’t breakfast; it was a massacre.
We hadn’t hired on all of our hands for the summer yet, so about ten guys, plus Dad and Garth, were fumbling around like domestic was a foreign concept.
“It’s breakfast, guys. Not open heart surgery.” I went to the sink to wash my hands, dodging piles of batter and raw egg on the floor. By the time all was said and done, Mom and the girls had about ten times as much work whenever us guys made them breakfast. Mom had complained about finding dried pancake batter weeks after the last breakfast we’d “made.”
“Says the guy standing there doing nothing.” Garth didn’t take his eyes off of the pan on the stove. I think he was attempting to scramble eggs. The only thing that looked scrambled, though, was his expression.
“Nice to see you preparing for your future. Behind an oven, spatula in hand.” I clapped my hands over Garth’s shoulders and gave them a hard squeeze.
He shrugged me off. “Go blank off, Walker.”
“Touchy. Even you must recognize there’s a kernel of truth in what I just said.” I poured a glass of orange juice, downed it in one long gulp, then poured another. I needed my Vitamin C and energy to survive one of the all-time worst breakfasts in history.
“At least I’m living it up now and saving my pussy-whipped period for when I’m old and ugly. Unlike someone else I know.”
“Are you calling me old and ugly?” I asked with a straight face.
“Yes. And pussy-whipped.” Garth poked at the eggs with the spatula like he was afraid they were about to come to life.
“I love you too, Black.” Finishing my second glass of orange juice, I dropped the glass in the sink.
Garth mumbled his response while I shouldered up beside Dad. He had a grave expression as he manned the griddle.
“Where do you need me, Captain? I’m suited up and ready to go.” I had to nudge him before he acknowledged me.
“Oh. Hey, Jess.” Dad’s gaze didn’t shift from the handful of runny pancakes on the griddle. “Sleep good?”
I grinned, remembering who I’d gotten to sleep with. “Slept great.” Then I remembered the nightmare that had jolted me awake. My smile fell, but I didn’t let it disappear completely.
“Pussy-whipped,” Garth said with a loud cough.
“Good, good. Glad to hear it.” Dad stepped aside and handed me the spatula. “Why don’t you take over? See if you can get those devil pancakes to behave.”
“How long have you been cooking them?” I tried to keep my amusement contained. Watching a man like my dad, who I’d watched leap in front of a charging horse, back away from an electric kitchen device like it was the most frightening thing he’d ever seen was all kinds of funny.
“Twenty minutes. Maybe thirty.”
I didn’t know jack about cooking, but I knew enough to realize something was way wrong if pancakes were taking a half hour to cook. Studying the griddle, I saw the problem. “It helps if you turn it on, Dad.”