just…I’m just offering you a chance to try something new with him. Something different. So, you know, you don’t have to always be the bad guy.”
“And you’re going to be the bad guy?”
Lucy bristled at his sarcasm and took a step back.
“I’m just trying to help.”
“Yeah, and I appreciate it, but this is family stuff. And we’ll handle it.”
Reese approached, looking like death warmed over in last night’s clothes. “I think I’m going to have to get the car fixed here. There’s no way I can drive it back to Fort Worth.”
Jeremiah swore and kept on swearing.
“Come on, man,” Reese said, his smile bright despite the black circles under his eyes. “It’s not that bad.”
“It is,” he said, honest because he couldn’t pretend anymore. “Because it takes time to fix this.” Just saying that made him feel better, made him feel like he was pulling this family away from rock bottom. First, he had to get Reese off his damn couch. Life would be easier without this living reminder of the old days drinking beer and snoring in his living room.
And then, maybe, it would be time to break the family code of silence. Get Ben some help.
* * *
WALTER STARED AT the bright noon sky out the window of his bedroom and contemplated the long walk to the bathroom. Hard on a good day, impossible with the cast on his foot.
He rolled as best he could to the side of his bed looking for an empty bottle. Or a coffee cup. Anything. But Sandra’s presence in this house was all too obvious these days.
Clutter didn’t stand a chance against Sandra.
He pressed fists to his eyes. And neither do I.
A month ago he’d been so excited to have Sandra back in his house. Like righting a terrible wrong in the world, bringing Sandra back to the Rocky M was his best effort at repairing the mess he’d made years ago when A.J. died, his best friend, foreman and Sandra’s husband.
All with the benefit of being able to see her every day. Being near her again—Sandra of the warm heart and the joyful laugh. Sandra, whom he’d always loved. Deeply. Secretly.
Yeah, and how did that work out for you?
“You are a sorry man, Walter. I thought I could come back here and feel nothing, but I have twenty-five years of living in these walls and if I’d had my way I would have died here and been buried right beside my husband, and you robbed me of that.”
That’s what she’d said two weeks ago, shattering all those delusions that he was doing Sandra a favor bringing her back here.
Her fury with him, rooted in disappointment, went deep. And he had no idea what it would take to change it. If he even could.
Damn, where was a bottle when he needed one? For being the room of a degenerate alcoholic, his room sure was devoid of the evidence.
No choice but to do this on his own.
Taking a deep breath, he swung his body up over the side of the bed and reached out to grab the crutch beside the bedside table. Carefully, holding his breath against the pain, he pushed himself up on his good leg and hopped slightly to get his balance.
Moving slowly, he made his way to the bathroom and—feeling pretty damn good—kicked the door shut behind him.
Once done, he washed his hands and hobbled back to the bedroom. Only to stumble at the sight of Sandra standing at the foot of his bed.
She wore black slacks and a bright red shirt, her long dark hair back in a ponytail that made her look like a girl. So bright, so lovely, he couldn’t look directly at her.
He fell against the doorjamb, banging his knee, and then winced when his hurt foot hit the door. Sandra started toward him as if to help, as if to touch him, and he waved her off. Breathing through the pain, he made his way past her to the chair in the small window alcove. A chair he’d never in his life sat in. Why in the world, he often wondered, did you need a chair in a bedroom? But now he was grateful for it.
Sitting on his bed—the bed he’d shared with his wife—seemed an utterly wrong thing to do in front of Sandra.
“You haven’t touched your eggs.” She pointed to the plate of eggs long gone cold, sitting on the bedside table.
“I’m not hungry,” he panted, rubbing his knee, wishing he could reach his ankle.
“You want some painkillers?”
He looked at her for a long time and realized he was at a crossroads of his own making. He’d been responsible for planting the idea in his son’s mind. But now it was time for her to leave. And Lucy had been right last night—Sandra wasn’t going to leave him when he was in need like this. Not unless he forced the issue.
“I want some whiskey.”
“It’s noon.”
“I’m an alcoholic, Sandra. It doesn’t much matter to me.”
“I won’t bring you booze.”
“Well, then stop bringing me eggs.”
She narrowed her eyes, an expression he’d seen on her stubborn, beautiful face more times than he could count.
“You should just leave, Sandra. There’s nothing here for you anymore. Your husband is dead. Your girls are grown—”
“I’m not leaving you when you need so much help.”
“I don’t want your help.”
“That doesn’t much matter to me.”
“A.J.—”
“Do not bring my husband into this,” she said, bristling.
“He wouldn’t like you being my nursemaid.”
“He was your best friend, Walter.” It was an accusation, a plea. The reason behind so much of their heartache. Walter had cared too much for his best friend’s wife and his own wife had seen his secret shame. His favorite torture these days was wondering if Sandra knew. He would—without a shred of exaggeration—rather die than have Sandra know how he felt about her.
“Please,” he whispered. “Just leave.”
“If you want me to go, then get better. Stop drinking.”
“Fine.” He laughed, shaky and sick because he hadn’t had a drink in fourteen hours. “I’ve stopped.”
“Until the cast comes off. You stop drinking that long, I’ll leave.”
He laughed before he thought better of it. “Three weeks without a drink?” There was no way. No point.
She lifted her chin, her eyes
