“Where the hell have you been?”
Shay hesitated at the door to her father’s private room at the Haven Nursing Facility in Jackson Hole. Her stomach was tied in knots, as always. And she wished she could shield herself from her father’s angry disposition. Forcing a smile, she said lightly, “I had an extra errand to run, Father. Sorry I’m late.” Today, he was in his blue pajamas and still in bed.
Ray Crawford’s small brown eyes grew slitted as he watched his daughter turn and quietly shut the door. “The least you could do is call and tell me you’re runnin’ late.”
Shay brought over some wildflowers she’d stopped and picked on the way in. They were the first up after the long winter and she had pulled off onto the berm, got out, and picked them for him. Long ago, she’d brought in a small vase and when she could, she brought them if they were in season. “A lot of things suddenly piled up on me, Father.” Her fingers trembled as she placed the bright red blooms in the vase on his bed stand. The TV was blaring and she took the nearby remote, muting it. Her father had been a big, muscular man but after a year of being partially paralyzed by the stroke, he had lost a lot of his weight. His triangular face was gaunt, his hawk-like nose more prominent. His thin mouth was pursed, as always.
“What’s goin’ on at my ranch?” he demanded. Struggling, he grabbed the overhead bar with his left hand, grasping it in order to sit up in bed. His right side was partially paralyzed. Huffing, grunting, he dragged himself by sheer will and sat upright. Breathing hard, he sank wearily against the headboard, glaring at her.
“A lot. I’ve hired another wrangler.”
“What?” Ray snarled. “Another stray dog you found in town? A worthless, broken vet? What the hell for?”
Shay rested her fingers on the brass footboard, wanting to be as far away from her father as she could get. Picking up on the scent of liquor on his breath, she wanted to cry. He was an alcoholic. His doctor told him he had cirrhosis. And yet, she suspected that he was somehow getting someone to bring liquor to him. “He’s a good man, Father. His name is Reese Lockhart.”
Snorting, Ray muttered, “You always picked up strays, Shaylene. Even as a kid, you rescued little birds that fell outta their nest, found a baby rabbit and fed it until it was old enough to go out on its own. You rescue things. You have too kind a heart. You never hardened it like you shoulda. Your mother was the same way. Look what it got her: breast cancer and she died young.”
Wincing internally, Shay kept the pleasant expression on her face even if it killed her. She didn’t dare show her real feelings to her father or he’d rage at her, curl his hands into fists, wanting to strike her as he had when she was younger. Ray couldn’t get up to do anything to her anymore, but that didn’t matter. Shay reacted to what had happened to her too many times in the past.
“Mom worked hard,” was all she’d say.
“Hell, we all worked hard!” Breathing heavily, he grappled with his anger and lowered his voice. “What else is going on with my ranch?”
Shay didn’t correct him. It didn’t matter that the ranch belonged to her. Her mother’s family had owned the ranch for generations. The last of the family line, Wanda had agreed to rename the ranch the Bar C in honor of her husband. But she left the ranch to Shay, with the stipulation that Ray run it until he was incapacitated. Then the responsibility to manage her inheritance would be transferred to Shay. She wasn’t sure her father remembered that, and she wasn’t going to remind him. He had always said it was his ranch and she patiently said, “We’ve got half the roof on the indoor arena. I have photos on my iPhone. Would you like to see them?”
“No! I think it’s a foolish risk, Shaylene. You ought to be putting the money into my cattle leases. They always paid well.”
It was an old saw to Shay. She wouldn’t argue with him. He’d fly into an uncontrollable rage. The doctors had warned her to keep Ray quiet and not to stress him. She wanted to laugh in their faces, but refrained. If they only knew her father’s hair-trigger temper. Talk about ongoing, daily stress for the first eighteen years of her life. The tension never went away, as much as she wished she could remove it. Her head knew one thing, but her emotions were trapped when she was eight years old and he started picking on her instead of her sick mother.
“Mr. Lockhart has a degree in business administration,” she said, hope in her tone. “He’s going to help me keep the accounting books.” And she added more softly, “I’ve never been good with numbers.”
“You failed math repeatedly in school,” Ray said bitterly, shaking his head. “You came from two smart people. What the hell happened to you?”
Shay gave a weak shrug. “I don’t know, Father. I do the best I can.”