Page 8 of Love Wells Kept

My eyes shutter, blinking back tears, and I nod slowly. It’s so fucking forced. “Yeah, baby. He hurt himself, but the doctors are gonna fix him up.”

“At the hostable? Is he really super hurt?”

Denny strides across the floor, crouching down next to his nephew. “Your dad is tough, right?” He waits for Rhett to give him an eager nod. “This is nothing he can’t handle—tough guy like him. Those hospital doctors will have him fixed up and heading home super fast.”

“I want to show him my farm.” Rhett points to a dozen green blocks scattered underneath one of the dining chairs.

Giving him an impressed look, Denny says, “That’s a badass farm. Why don’t you show me?”

I turn my attention back to Cecily. “Did Odessa come back here?”

She nods. “Beryl’s up in her room with her.”

“I need to talk to her,” I announce. “Make sure she’s okay before we head to the hospital.”

In the midday sun, the short hallway between the front entry and kitchen are cheerful and bright. Sharp lines of golden light cut diagonally across the worn wooden floorboards, and I grip the smooth banister to pull myself upstairs.

When my hand leaves a small streak of muddy-red on the handrail, it dawns on me that I still have Jackson’s blood on me, so at the top of the stairs I veer into the bathroom. The faucet squeaks a little when I turn it on. It has since the first time I used it sixteen years ago, the first night I spent in Jackson’s childhood bedroom.

Through a thick film of tears, I stare at the crimson blood dried on my hands, wedged under my nails. I swallow down a sob and clutch the edges of the sink to keep myself upright even as the entire world sways and my knees threaten to buckle.

This blood might be the last trace of my husband I ever have on my skin.

All I can think about is how washing this away might mean washing away the last moments of his life. Washing away the last time I get to feel his warm skin on mine.

A droplet falls from my eye, big enough to drown in, and it blurs the red on my palm like watercolor. Shutting my eyes tight, I shove both hands under the streaming faucet.

Lukewarm water rushes over my skin, turning pink and flowing freely down the drain, and I lose myself in remembering that first night together in the room across the hall.

That same room is about to be a nursery.

A nursery for a baby who might never get to meet their dad.

The realization bowls me over, and I grip the curved edges of the pedestal sink to support myself. A choked gasp flees my lungs, and I stumble toward the toilet to unload breakfast in one fell swoop that buckles my knees and forces tears from my eyes. I kneel there for a moment, unsure whether I’m sobbing because I’m not a good puker or because I don’t even know if my husband made it to the hospital alive.

I clutch my throat, massaging as if it’ll somehow quell the burning and sink to the floor.

Surely I’d feel if he was gone, right?

I know the sound of his heartbeat and the way it thrums against my palm better than my own. Sixteen years of intertwining our souls, sharing our DNA. Of promises kept.

He wouldn’t leave without saying goodbye.

Even if he couldn’t speak—couldn’t communicate in whispers or eye movements or the squeeze of a hand—he’d make sure I felt it. I’d feel the loss down to the marrow of my bones and know it was him. I’m more sure of that than anything.

And it’s that confidence in my soul that forces me off the floor. I need to get myself together and go to him. After I’ve splashed cold water across my face, swished children’s mouthwash, and scrubbed the last traces of blood from under my nails, I head to Odessa’s room.

My knuckles rap on the door once before I push it open to find Odessa half-buried in a pile of stuffed animals on top of her bed, and Beryl sitting cross-legged on the floor. Quiet conversation stops in my presence, and they both look at me.

“Hey, sweetie.” I muster up a feeble smile.

Beryl stands and rubs my upper arm before slipping out with the soft close of the bedroom door.

Odessa clutches a small stuffed horse that’s wet with her tears. Her eyes are bloodshot, cheeks rouged, and when she opens her mouth, her voice is thick with emotion. “Is Daddy gonna be okay?”

I cross her bedroom, settling onto the small toyless section of her bed, and I grip a small, socked foot sticking out from under a huge pink unicorn Denny won for her at the fair a few years ago. I want to tell her I have no doubt he’s going to be okay and, more than anything, I want it to be the truth.

She’s so damn smart for a seven-year-old. Intuitive and observant, maybe as a result of spending so much time with adults on the ranch. And though she’s never experienced serious pain when it comes to humans, she has a better understanding of animal suffering than non-farm kids do.