so rough and calloused from working with the horses. She rubbed her fingertips over those hard-earned scars. “I care about them. I care about all of you.” She waved at the table full of the Hawkins clan.
“You’re done, sis,” he said softly. “It’s time you looked after you. You helped raise everyone. Lord knows you were the main caregiver for Mom up until the end. And I know you’d take on Elizabeth Ferguson out of some weird sense of obligation to Cal.” He shook his head. “But I’m telling you not to. Let Dutch handle it. You need to have your own life.” He leaned back, with the look of decision on his face that told her he considered the situation settled.
“Really?” She frowned and looked at Emily. “Did my brother actually say all that?” He wasn’t known for being a big talker.
“Yes. And he’s right,” Emily said.
“Now you’re ganging up on me?”
“No, we’re not.” Emily squeezed Addie’s hand. “Everyone’s grown now. You’ve earned the chance to build your own life.”
Addie stared at them. They didn’t understand, and she didn’t have a clue how to explain it. She’d never focused on herself, not since—not since Dad died. She’d grown up on that day, and she’d gladly taken on the role of nurturer.
The idea of giving that up made her panic as she looked at the faces around her. She’d helped them get here. She was proud of that, proud of all of them.
Her eyes stung. Everything was slipping away. What was she supposed to do now? She needed to be needed, needed someone to care for—to watch over, to want her attentions.
But her family didn’t need that from her anymore. And yes, Dutch could handle Elizabeth.
She’d had a chance at her own life, had dreamed of her own family, once upon a time. But fate hadn’t been on her side, and she’d lost that chance forever.
* * *
MARCUS SKYLAR RUSHED across the street, knowing full well that he was jaywalking and only slightly caring. He was late for class, and considering he’d given his students a lecture on timeliness last class, he didn’t dare show up late. They’d never let him off the hook for that one.
Campus was still alive with activity even this late in the day. He was running down the stairs in Richardson Hall, his wingtips slapping against the steps, when his phone rang. He tried to ignore the incessant noise, but he recognized that ringtone. It was Ryan. His thirteen-year-old son wasn’t someone he could afford to ignore. Not without Carolyn’s help to intervene.
He let the memory of her waft through only briefly. “Hello, kiddo. What’s up?” He shouldered the phone as he shoved open the hall door.
“We’re out of jelly.”
“Uh, okay. I’m in class for the next hour. We’ll discuss it later.”
“Peanut better tastes like crap without jelly.”
“Watch the language.” He tried to keep his surprise out of his voice. The boy was definitely changing lately. He’d have to deal with that at some point. “I’ll be home in a couple hours. I gotta go.” He hung up and stepped into the classroom.
Most of the seats were full, which gave him a sense of gratification. Many of his colleagues complained about the number of empty seats in their classes.
Marcus wasn’t sure if his class in military history was full because of the political climate and social awareness, or for some other reason. It didn’t matter. He’d take it. “All right, everyone.” He set his briefcase on the desk. “Let’s get started.”
“That was a close call, Prof,” Mitch, one of his most challenging students, said from the third row.
“Yeah, but it’s not because of my procrastination,” he pointed out to the young man who usually fell into that camp. “Teach my thirteen-year-old how to go grocery shopping, and maybe we’ll discuss your grade.”
The class laughed, and Marcus launched into today’s lecture. It was on one of his favorite subjects, and he had to be careful not to get lost in his rambling. Vietnam was a black mark on this country’s history, and still a tough topic to sell in some circles. He’d been hired specifically to share his knowledge on the collision of the government’s promises and society’s demands.
A collision intimately familiar to Marcus, as his father had been caught up in it. A nightmare Colonel Skylar still wore on his highly decorated chest.
Finally, the hands on the utilitarian clock hit the end of the hour, and Marcus wrapped up the lecture. He was putting his notes in the briefcase when a young woman came up to the desk. “Professor Skylar?”
“Yes, uh, Natalie, right?”
“Yeah.” She grinned. “I have a question about our paper.”
“The final project?” He emphasized the difference. There were many things besides papers that they could choose to do. Papers were the easiest for most students. They were used to doing them. He let his hopes rise that she was asking for permission to do something else.
“Yeah. I was wondering.” She looked down at the desktop. “Uh, I don’t think I’m very good at this history stuff.”
“Why not?” He didn’t want to come off sounding condescending, but he didn’t see why she couldn’t do it.
“It’s hard.” She finally looked up. “I was thinking about my topic last night. I was, um, hoping I could do something on fashion.”
He stared at her. “Fashion?” He slowly closed his briefcase. “Fashion of what? The era or of—” he tried to choose his words carefully “—Vietnam during the war?” Was there such a thing? “The 1960s themselves?” There were a lot of options.
She didn’t look at him. Her topic intrigued him, mainly because he hadn’t heard this one before. “Okay, explain what you’re thinking.” He leaned back, crossing his arms over his chest.
“Both.” She finally looked up, excitement sparking in her eyes.
What the heck? Wasn’t that his goal—to inspire these kids to at least pay attention?
“Fashion is a social statement. In the 1960s, it was a huge statement. And Vietnam had its own society. I want to compare that with what we had.”
Marcus looked at her, attempting to ascertain if she was trying to pull something over on him. He wasn’t new to this teaching gig, just new to this college. “I’ll give you some leeway. Since the topic’s a bit different, I want to meet with you halfway through to make sure you’re on track.”
“Oh, thank you, Professor.” She rushed forward and tried to give him a hug. Marcus knew better and hastily put up his hand.
“Whoa! Just do a good job. That’s thanks enough.”
“Okay. You won’t regret this, I promise,” she repeated, then hurried out of the classroom. Marcus paused, taking a deep breath before slowly walking toward the door himself.
Everything
