Page 4 of All At Once

Her gaze gentled, and she touched his jaw before she prodded him toward the shower again. “Go.”

He went, battling a familiar, sickening sensation that life had tilted irretrievably sideways.

He was all right until Gene broke down and sobbed, sitting on the edge of the bed, a tear dripping off his nose.

“Grandaddy.” The gruff whisper hurt his throat, and Tick took a knee in front of him, grasping long-fingered hands, the knuckles a little gnarled with age. He rubbed his thumb over those knuckles, Gene’s scarred wedding band a dull glint under the bedroom lamp.

He couldn’t say it would be all right, because this would never be right again. All he could do was kneel, hold on to Grandaddy, be there while grief wracked those strong shoulders that suddenly seemed older, thinner.

They weren’t alone — his younger brothers weren’t long gone, but his uncles D and Charles were here, in the kitchen with Colt, who was a grieving mess. Tick got it. They were the oldest grandchildren, born barely a week apart. Colt had been Grandma’s boy, the way he was Grandaddy’s.

He tightened his hold on Gene’s hands, his grandfather’s tremors vibrating through him. Eyes closed, he bent his head on a disjointed prayer for peace and comfort.

“I don’t know how to do this.” Gene pulled one hand free, swiped his wrist over the tip of his nose. With his free hand, Tick dug in his pocket for his handkerchief, still clean and crisp. His wedding ring caught the light as he passed the starched square over, a flash of memory flaring in his brain. His handkerchiefs were one of his and Caitlin’s Sunday traditions. She ironed them, a task that took less than thirty minutes, while he leaned on the counter in the laundry room and they talked about their week. Early on, he’d protested he was capable of ironing his own stuff, but she’d admitted she liked the routine of ironing, a holdover from her Woodfield days, a wry curve to her lips, dark lashes sweeping down. That private half hour on Sunday afternoon ranked up there with waking wrapped up with her.

And he liked thinking about her every time he tugged a starched square from his pocket.

He tightened his hold on Gene’s shaking hand. “I got nothing, Grandaddy, except I love you and I’m so damned sorry.”

Grandaddy folded an easy hand over the back of his bent head, and he closed his eyes. He recognized that touch, all the way to his soul. Gene had cradled him the same way when he’d come to get him in Cordele, at the State Patrol Post, after the accident. He’d been a mess, sobbing and shaking, hyperventilating after he’d retched his guts out, the pain radiating up his arm from his broken metacarpals spreading across his chest and suffocating him, burning like fire in his lungs.

Daddy was dead, and he’d listened to it, listened to the rushing flames and Daddy’s screams, to the sirens and first responders yelling and the awful silence when his father’s screams had stopped.

He’d wanted to die, too, the pain and grief bigger than he could stand.

That had been from losing his daddy. Gene had lost his life’s partner, his wife. The shock, the gaping hole of that . . . Tick shuddered. He’d glimpsed that loss, early on, the night Ben Fuller had tried to take Caitlin from him. They’d been three months into being a couple, and the idea of losing her had scared him shitless.

The idea now loomed unimaginable because he didn’t want to imagine it. She was everything, and he couldn’t live without her.

And Gene living that now twisted his heart up, wedged fear under his breastbone, so he could hardly breathe.

He lifted a hand to cradle Gene’s nape, the skin along the vulnerable line a little wrinkled and leathery with work and long years in the sun. Gene leaned forward, bowed with grief beyond bearing, and Tick pressed his brow to Grandaddy’s, holding the weight with him.

Chapter Two

Pictures of You

He looked awful, jaw tight and set, dark circles beneath exhausted eyes red-rimmed from grief and lack of sleep. Stepping from the SUV, Caitlin watched him straighten his shoulders and force a smile for Eleanor as she ran up the steps and into his arms. Their daughter’s shoulders shook, and Tick gathered her into his chest, bending his head to whisper near her ear.

Blinking hard, Caitlin bit her lip and swung the rear door open. Eva, already free of her booster straps, scrambled down and froze next to Caitlin, a frown drawing her brows together while she gazed at her sister and father.

“Mama,” she whispered, tucking her hand into Caitlin’s, “am I supposed to cry?”

Caitlin folded to her haunches so they were eye to eye. “There is no ‘supposed to,’ Eva. Everyone grieves differently. It’s acceptable to cry and acceptable if you don’t.”

“Daddy looks sad.” Eva’s chin wobbled. Her brows knit into a tight frown.

“He loves Grandma Louise very much.” Caitlin glanced over her shoulder, toward the porch. Eleanor stepped away from Tick’s sheltering embrace, wiping under her eyes. “He is very sad because she’s no longer with us and he will miss her.”

Eva dipped her chin in a solemn nod. “Like when you or Daddy travel for work and you’re not home.”

“Like that.” She smoothed an errant strand of dark hair from Eva’s brow. “But without being able to video call or know exactly when you will see us again.”

Eva released a shaky breath. “That would make me sad. It’s been a long time since Daddy saw his daddy, since before Eleanor was born.”

“Yes.” She glanced at her husband again. Eleanor had gone inside, and he walked toward them, leather soles crunching on the brick pathway. He had that look about him, the one talking about his father evoked, and unease prickled to life along her nerve endings. He simply didn’t do grief well. “It’s been a very long time.”

“Hey, Minnie.” Caitlin rose as he reached them, and he brushed a kiss over her lips before hunching down to Eva’s level. “I’m glad to see you.”