Page 11 of Bookworm

Waylon grins. “That’ll do it. Does every time.”

I’m not sure what to call Ann and I, so I don’t put a label on it. Though if it were my choice, I’d call her my wife right here and now. I’m not sure she’d agree.

“Well let’s get these horses loaded up. We can talk details in the morning.” Waylon unchains the back door on his trailer and lets down the ramp. “This storm is picking up something awful. You’re lucky you didn’t lose the whole roof.”

Luck isn’t the word for it. Those horses are like family. I can’t stand the thought of losing any of ‘em.

“Is that your dad?” Ann’s voice contorts with confusion as she turns toward the pasture. Her eyes squint into the darkness.

“Can’t be. Why would he be out here in the storm?”

“That’s him.” Ann takes off into the squall of white, sprinting toward him.

I follow behind.

“We’ve got this,” Waylon shouts. “I’ll call you in the morning. Let me know if you need anything else.”

I wave back toward Waylon, thankful that one problem is solved. But leave it to my father to amp up the drama. If there’s one thing he can be counted on for, it’s to do exactly the worst thing at the worst time.

Chapter Seven

Ann

“What am I doing out here?” Earl’s voice shakes when he speaks. “Ann, dear, did you bring me out here? You’ve forgotten my shoes.”

I look down at Earl’s crimson red feet and a shot of panic streaks through me before glancing back toward Holt. “He’s going to need help getting back into the house. Can you lift him?” Deep down, I’m sure Holt loves his father, but right now I’m sure this isn’t what he wanted to deal with. It’s been a long day. An insanely long day. A day with more problems than most people have in a month.

Regardless, he bends down and lifts the frail man from the ground and carries him into the house. Calm and stoic, not a word spoken. I imagine in his day, Earl was a big man as well, though now he’s flimsy by comparison to his son. A man that could probably lift both of us at once and not break a sweat.

“What’s going on with you, Dad? Why are you out here?”

I’ve seen this behavior before, in my grandad a year or two before he passed. I was too young to remember a lot of details, but he started forgetting things, and wandering off without remembering where he was going to. The doctors never diagnosed him with dementia because he never went to see a doctor. Most people up here repel the thought of modern miracles. They prefer a simpler way. Pops believed forgetting was a part of old age and started wearing a bell around his wrist, so we’d know when he was up and moving. As the years went on, there were bells on the doors and windows too. It worked for us, but for a lot of people, I can’t imagine that being the case, especially a busy guy like Holt.

“I was inside, and then I was out,” Earl says, his voice shaking.

Holt kicks open the back door and carries his father inside, wrapping him up in a blanket on the bed while I put another log in the fire. “You have to stay in the house at night. You could freeze to death out there. Understand?”

Earl nods and a pang of guilt hits me in the chest as he looks up at his son. I know they’ve had their differences, but there’s pain in Earl’s eyes to make up for those years. Sure, maybe he doesn’t deserve mercy,but do any of us?

“We’re going to head back to our rooms. You call us if you need anything.”

Earl reaches for Holt, gripping his shoulder. “I have something to give you, son. Can you sit for a minute?”

Holt looks back at me, his jaw clenched. He’s frustrated, rightfully so. His barn just collapsed, he found his dad wandering in the snow, and he was busy with day-to-day chores until well after nine. It’s a little much to ask for a conversation after all that.

Holt sits anyway, staring at his father from the edge of the bed. I’m not sure what kind of stare it is, but if I were to guess, I’d say it’s something along the lines of… obligation.

“I’ll go get some tea—”

“Stay.” Holt reaches for my hand and looks toward me. “Please.”

“Yes, dear,” Earl says, opening his side drawer. “You should hear this, too.”

As he sighs and opens his mouth, I dread what’s going to come out. Something tells me Earl’s about to ramble on with words that don’t make much sense at all. I wonder how I can convince him to see a doctor in the morning.

“Open it, son.” He hands Holt a crisp white envelope.

Thick lines form on Holt’s forehead as he pries open the letter. Inside, is a blue and white check. Holt’s gaze darts back to his father. “What’s this?”