Authors: Ruth Logan Herne
“Farming’s like life,” Pete spouted, drawing himself up so she could examine him. “Full circle. Birth, death and everything in between.”
“I guess.” Kayla thought of the choices available in this day and age. Why would anyone farm?
She had no idea. Extremes of weather, fluctuations of market, never-ending days of slogging through muck and mud, snow and slush. What normal person chose that over climate-controlled nine-to-five, paid vacations, full benefits and a 401(k)?
Huh. She’d just answered her own question.
In her brief interlude with Marc DeHollander, she recognized normalcy as a relative feature. The father had it in abundance. Warm. Kind. Sociable, despite his illness.
The son was fresh out.
M
arc finished loading the carcasses as his cell phone rang. He tugged off his gloves and fumbled the narrow instrument, his broad fingers awkward in the cold. “DeHollander.”
“It’s Stu,” the truck driver reported. “I’ve finished at Brall’s. I’m heading your way.”
Marc worked his jaw, regretful. Last night’s time glitch had cost him the life of a young cow and her calf, no small thing in the beef business. Even one as strong as his. “They’re loaded. I’ll wait for you at the end of the drive.”
“I’ll pull alongside,” Stu replied. “Sorry you lost ’em.”
“Me, too.”
They both understood how disease could spread from one farm to another via contaminated wheels and equipment. Even soiled boots could track pathogens into a barn. Marc took no chances. He’d worked too long, too hard to get his beef operation up and running. As a result, his business had grown strong, a credit to his time and patience.
Marc kicked himself for not calling his veterinary friend out sooner. He hadn’t notified Craig until it was too late, the calf trapped too long in the birth canal. A stupid mistake. Slipshod. And he was never careless with his business. That was why he turned a profit on both the feed store and his cattle production.
But Jess had mustered a bee in her bonnet over something
crucial to a fourteen-year-old girl, Dad was disoriented after his new medicine and Marc hadn’t made it back to the barn in time to see something was dreadfully wrong.
He revved the engine and edged the tractor bucket off the ground. The animals jerked as the shovel lurched. The cow’s hock shifted and hung, midair. Marc frowned but relaxed as the bulk of the body settled into the crook of the shovel. Sighing in resignation, he shoved the tractor into gear and headed up the drive.
Looking way too stylish for a harsh North Country winter, the slim, blonde nurse approached her car as the tractor rumbled toward her. She watched him navigate the big John Deere, her blue-eyed gaze sweeping the sad load, the hock protruding from the bucket’s edge.
Her eyes narrowed. She stood still, despite the cold, the trendy pea coat no match for the frigid temperatures. The spunky jacket looked good on her, reminding Marc that appearances outweighed everything for girls like Kayla Doherty. Her face tightened at the sight of his loaded bucket. Disgust? Dismay? From his vantage point atop the enclosed tractor, Marc couldn’t be sure.
He winced. Was this what he wanted for his father’s care? His buddy’s old girlfriend, with her insensible shoes, expensive clothes and saucy attitude? Oh, yeah, he remembered Craig dating her, bemoaning her panache and love of style. Definitely not North Country material. No way. No how. But here she was, pert and pretty in his driveway, cringing at the thought of death.
Why did they need a nurse, anyway? Why was his father so anxious to throw in the towel? Was he that tired of the fight, that worn?
Where there’s life, there’s hope.
The adage came straight from Pete’s mouth, and Marc put stock in the saying. He’d brought some pretty sick animals back from near-death experiences. Maybe that’s why it hurt so much to wrestle the reaper and lose as he had last night.
The idea of waging a similar battle for his father had been wrested from his hands, and Marc didn’t like that. Dr. Pentrow
tossed around terms like visiting nurses. End stage. Translation: Give it up. Party’s over. Call the undertakers, have ’em ready a spot.
Shoulders tight, Marc continued along the drive, not pausing until he braked at the road’s edge. As the nurse pulled next to him in her sporty red car, he averted his face. He didn’t need her disapproval at the nature of his work. In a way, it wasn’t much different than hers. You battled, you toiled and in the end, death came regardless.
But at least he had sense enough to wear proper footwear.
“Horses all set?”
Jess nodded as she shrugged out of her coat. She kicked off her boots, pegged the khaki-green jacket and headed for the kitchen.
“Jess.” Marc angled a look to the entry floor.
Jess groaned, turned and righted the boots, exasperated. “Better?”
Marc hid a smile as he stirred a pot of simmering soup. “Much. How old do you have to be before you just do it?”
She laughed. “An indeterminate factor.” Grinning at the shake of his head, she hugged him around the waist and slid a look to the foyer. “You’d probably have to care, first.”
No joke there. Marc mock-scowled. “That much I understand. I’ve seen your room.”
“I know where everything is,” she claimed, grabbing a cookie from the counter. After the first bite, she snatched another. “Usually.”
“Mmm-hmm,” Marc rejoined, skeptical. Hadn’t they been late for church because she couldn’t locate her favorite pants?
It seemed peculiar to walk into the white clapboard building after so much time, then late, besides. They’d drawn looks as they proceeded to the front instead of sliding into the empty last pew. His fault for letting Jess pick the seat.
Dad had gone with Jess these last years while Marc busied himself with farmwork. Always something to do on a cattle holding, regardless of weather, and Sunday mornings were no
exception. Neither were Wednesday evenings. Or Saturday potlucks. Busy times, all.
But their current situation altered things. Pete’s weakness minimized his options, so Marc was pressed into a new fraternal duty. He’d accompanied Jess at Christmas and this past week, feeling hypocritical. Attendance at church wasn’t high on his priority list.
But there was nothing he’d deny his father, even taking his adolescent sister to a service that meant little.
“Grace looks huge,” Jess commented around bites. More through them, actually. “I can’t wait to see the foal.”
“Next month. Valentine’s Day, I figure. Thereabouts.”
“If it’s a girl, we’ll name her Sweetheart,” Jess declared.
“Boys can’t be sweethearts?”
“Please.”
“Well, not at your age,” he added, firming his voice.
That brought a glare. “I’m nearly fifteen.”
“Six months,” he corrected.
“Five-and-a-half,” Jess shot back. “In a little over a year, I’ll get my driver’s permit. Then I can work toward my license.”
Marc sent her a teasing look. “If your room’s clean.”
“Grr.”
A third voice interrupted them. “Have you gotten so old you don’t kiss your dad anymore?”
Jess crossed the room in a flash. “I didn’t want to wake you.” She grabbed her father into a gentle hug. “You were sound asleep when I got home.”
“Pills.” Pete’s voice sharpened. He sounded disgusted.
“But you’re up,” she continued, “and dinner’s almost ready.”
Marc gave Jess extra points for her positive outlook. She always saw the bright side where their father’s care was concerned. “I’ll set another place at the table.”
Marc gave his father a once-over. “You don’t seem as foggy. Not like last night.” He didn’t add how scared he’d been, to see his father dazed and confused. Pete DeHollander had been a caricature of his true self. Not pretty.
Pete shook his head. “That part’s better.”
“Good.”
The phone rang. Marc grabbed the receiver, one eye on the stove, the other on the sports section. The Division One hockey team of St. Lawrence University was pouring on the steam as their season progressed. Sweet. Hockey and North Country were synonymous. If you lived in a climate rife with snow and ice, you better find something to make winter palatable.
“Mr. DeHollander?”
“Yes?” Marc pulled his attention from the scores with effort.
“Kayla Doherty,” the voice continued.
Marc bit back a groan. She still sounded perky, even this late. Was it a blonde thing? At the moment he wasn’t sure. And really didn’t care. As he turned to his father, she continued, “I wanted to follow up on the meds situation from this morning. Are the side effects still as strong or are you feeling more in control?”
“Wrong man.” Offering no explanation, Marc handed the phone to his father, fighting the rise of disapproval. “Your nurse.”
Pete’s eyes narrowed. “Miss Doherty?” His features relaxed as he listened. No way could Marc miss the ease in tension that had been prevalent the past few days, as if the nurse held all the answers.
Yeah. Right.
“No, that’s fine,” Pete told her, a brow shifting up. “We do sound alike. Everyone says so.” He glanced Marc’s way, paused, then bobbed his head again, eyes crinkling. “Yes, much better, thank you. Tired, but not confused.”
Marc listened, unabashed, as his father continued.
“I’d like that, too, Miss Doherty.” A brief silence followed, then Pete shrugged assent, his look intent. “Kayla, then.” His face relaxed, his eyes taking on a youthful gleam at whatever she was spewing, then he chuckled out loud. “I expect that
would
work with man or beast.” He nodded once more before he firmed his voice. “That would be nice. Thursday’s good.” Pete said his goodbye and disconnected.
Marc’s inner turmoil shifted upward. “What would work?”
“Hmm?” Pete turned Marc’s way while Jess hung up the phone.
The younger man pushed down impatience. “You told her something would work with man or beast. An odd thing to say to a nurse, Dad.”
Pete laughed again, a good sound, no matter what inspired the reaction. Or who. “She’s feeding cookies to a neighbor’s dog who offered to take a chunk out of her as she approached her apartment. Seems the owner’s away and the gate latch is broken.”
“Cookies?” Why did he
not
have a hard time picturing that? Marc humphed. “Who gives cookies to a dog?”
“It would work on me,” Jess proclaimed. “I could live on cookies.”
“Empty calories,” stated Marc, his voice gruff. Somehow the picture of the leggy, blonde nurse thwarting a dog attack with cookies increased his ire. Too late he realized his tone and words might be misconstrued.
Jess’s look confirmed his fear. Weight was an issue since puberty set in, and he’d just put his size twelve shoe in his big, stupid mouth. “I just meant—”
“I know what you meant.” Her eyes clouded. She looked away. “I’ll pass on supper, thanks.”
“Jess, I—”
“I’ll be upstairs. See you later, Daddy.” She swiped a kiss to her father’s cheek before charging from the room, her lower lip thrust out. Marc was pretty sure it trembled, too.
“Oh, man—”
“Marc, you’ve got to use a little sensitivity around her,” Pete protested.
Marc shot him an incredulous look. “I didn’t mean to hurt her feelings. My mind was on cows, how we strive to balance energy food versus nutritional needs to achieve a proper ratio of fat to lean. Good marbling.”
His father eyed him, his features a blend of amazement and disbelief. “I don’t think that explanation’s going to do it for her,” Pete chided. “Comparing her to a cow might make matters worse. If that’s possible.” He rubbed a hand across his jaw. “I’m still trying to figure it out myself.”
“She’s too sensitive,” Marc returned.
“She’s fourteen.” Pete’s tone stayed matter-of-fact. “That’s how they are.”
“And how am I supposed to know that?” Marc asked. He slid into the chair opposite his father. “My experience with adolescent girls is limited to what I gleaned seventeen years ago in eighth grade, and let me assure you, I was more caught up with the physiological than the psychological.” He hoped his arched eyebrow clarified his declaration.
Oh, yeah. A grin tugged his father’s mouth.
“So my training is zip,” Marc went on. “Zilch. Nada.” He raised his hands up, palms flat, displaying their emptiness. “Knowing that, you might want to discard any notion you have of dying, dial up Kaylie or Kylie or whatever her name is, and tell her you’ve decided to outlive us all because I can’t raise Jess on my own and not make a complete mess of things.”
His father met his gaze. His voice stayed level. “I can’t change the inevitable, Marc. I would if I could, at least ’til my work’s done. You know that.”
That was part of the trouble. Marc
didn’t
know that. He heard his father’s words but couldn’t believe them.
Pete’s body was wearing out from choices the older DeHollander made long ago. A steady smoker, Pete’s actions probably brought this cancer on, and Marc had no clue how to rationalize that. In Marc’s mind, sucking poisons into your system was asking for trouble. Marc didn’t understand the choice and he sure didn’t like it.
Everyone else seemed okay with the eventuality of the prognosis. They used terms like natural. Understandable.
Their acceptance exacerbated Marc’s anger. His father’s cancer wasn’t inevitable, but avoidable. Watching the fabric of his family torn by years of bad choices, Marc tried to deal with both sides of the issue and came up short.
Jess had come to terms with Pete’s illness, on the surface at least. She seemed determined to make her father’s last months stress-free. Quite a commitment for a hormone-stricken teen. A teen who shouldn’t be left with no one but Marc to steady her path to adulthood. At fourteen, Jess needed an understanding
mother and a thriving father. Through no fault of her own she had neither.
Resentment choked him. He knew his feelings were counterproductive, but had no clue how to change them. Mounting thoughts swelled, emotions he didn’t dare show. Suppressing the urge to throw something, he stood to finish supper, his fingers tight, his shoulders tense, a rod of anger anchoring his steps.
In one day he’d managed to lose a pair of livestock, insult his father’s nurse, ruin his sister’s wobbly self-esteem and add weight to a dying man’s pressures.
And it was only the dinner hour. If his streak continued, he might be able to instigate World War III by bedtime. Nuclear holocaust. Plagues of locusts.
As long as his luck held steady.