When she looked over at Reese, she saw warmth in his eyes, pride for her, if she was reading him correctly. And she did feel good about sharing the situation with the vets. These men were intelligent and quick to catch on. And they brought good ideas to the table as well . . .
“If things go to hell in a handbasket,” Garret said to her, “what’s your backup plan? What if your old man throws a temper tantrum? Or maybe he knows where there’s liquor kept in the house? A thousand things can go wrong, Shay. You have to have a plan. My old man was real good at sabotaging me. He made it an art form.”
Shay felt her heart break for Garret. She saw the pain in his hazel eyes, the way his mouth drew inward, as if to blunt what he was feeling. Even more, she realized he was being vulnerable in front of all of them for the first time ever. If nothing else came out of this discussion, it was a healing moment for him . . . and for all of them. “You’re right, Garret.”
Reese gave her a glance. “Do you have alcohol here?”
She shook her head. “No. I hate the stuff. I won’t touch it. I remember him having stashes of bottles all over the place. There’s no alcohol in this house now.”
“He could talk Troy into stopping at a liquor store for him,” Garret warned.
Wrinkling her nose, Shay muttered, “I need to call Troy about that.”
“Yep,” Garret said, “cover your bases, Shay.”
Rubbing her brow, she muttered, “This is like learning all over again with him. I left at eighteen. I didn’t know what he was doing while I was in the Corps. I didn’t want to know.”
“Is your old man clean now?” Garret demanded.
Shrugging, Shay said, “I honestly don’t know. They don’t allow alcohol in the nursing home, yet on one visit I thought I smelled it on his breath.”
“Yeah, but someone could be going out to buy your old man a bottle,” Garret said.
“Shay, let me handle Troy,” Reese suggested. “I’ll talk to the manager about this, too. I think we can find out if your father is still drinking or if he’s sober.”
“He’d be crazy to do it,” Shay said, shaking her head. “The doctors have already told him he’s got cirrhosis. That if he doesn’t stop drinking, he’ll die. That should stop him cold.”
Snickering, Garret said, “Sorry, sweetheart, but alcoholics don’t care. All they want is that next drink, even if it kills them.”
She gave him a long look and felt the burden falling on her shoulders all over again. “You’re right,” she whispered, pushing the cake around on her plate with her fork. “There’s a lot I don’t know about his habits because I was gone so long and he refused to come back to the ranch after his stroke. I’m out of the loop.”
“Let me handle this,” Reese repeated. “If he’s still drinking, someone at the nursing home will know.”
“They’d smell it on his breath,” Garret promised.
“Right,” Reese said with a nod. “Tomorrow is Friday. I’ll drive over and talk to the nursing home staff and see what I can find out. I’ll buttonhole Troy and get plans set in regards to your father coming here.”
It felt good to have help. “And I’ll call Diana tomorrow morning. See if she wants to help us this Saturday,” Shay said.
“You need to set a time for him to leave here, too,” Garret warned heavily. “We’re working sixteen hours straight, Shay. We have lights to set up so the people building the houses can keep on going after nightfall. You don’t need your old man around that long. Make it a short visit.”
“You’re right about that, too,” she said. Feeling overwhelmed, Shay realized having her father here on Saturday was like an unraveling ball of yarn, and she couldn’t quite get her hands around it to stop it.
“I’ll talk to the manager,” Reese told her. “She’ll have suggestions on how long your father should be here. Let me get back to you on that?”
“Yes . . . thank you.”
Harper gave Shay a kind look. “Listen, your focus is the arena-raising, Shay. Let us help you. You stay clear of your father except when and if you want to come in and check on him yourself. All right?”
“And let Diana Adson deal with him,” Garret warned her darkly. “The more you come in to see him, the more he’s going to expect it. So don’t go there.”
*
Shay sat at the trestle table, a cup of chamomile tea in her hands. It was 3:00 A.M. When she heard a door open and close down the hall, she knew Reese was getting up. Relieved, she saw him amble down the hall in a white T-shirt and blue pajama bottoms, feet bare. His hair was tousled and his eyes sleep ridden. Max got up, going to greet him. Reese leaned down, ruffling the dog’s fur.
“How long you been up?” he mumbled, going to the cupboard for a mug.
“An hour,” Shay admitted quietly.
“Did you get any sleep at all?”