Home for Good

Chapter Five

Ten children tromped like a herd of mustangs around the dining room, over the checkered kitchen floor and out the back door as Ali tried to pull the last of the food from the fridge to set out on the table.

“Don’t let the door—”

The last child jumped the three steps down into the yard, and the screen door smacked against its hinges, tearing the hole in the screen a few inches wider.

“I’ll fix the screen tomorrow.” Jericho took the heavy pile of plates from her hands and set them on the counter.

Heat blossomed on her cheeks. He had no right to look that good in a clean pair of jeans and shined boots. His tucked-in, starched red button-down hugged the coiled muscles in his arms.

The sight made her wish she’d taken another minute to give herself a once-over before guests arrived. But the emotional mess Kate had tossed on her that morning made her work slower in the barn. By the time she came back to the house, less than an hour remained until party time. Enough time to shower, but not enough time for makeup or to blow-dry her hair. Jericho probably thought she looked like a wet prairie dog.

She waved her hand, dismissing his comment. “You don’t have to fix that screen. It’s been like that for months.”

“I know I don’t have to. But I don’t mind. I have to come to tune that clank out of your truck anyway.”

Kate stuck her head into the kitchen, a smile on her face as she looked between Jericho and Ali rearranging the table. “Need any more help in here?”

Ali surveyed the room. “I think I’ve got the food under control. If you want to get one of the games started outside, that would be great.”

Kate saluted and meandered out the back door. Satisfied that everything was taken care of, Ali turned, nearly slamming into Jericho. She gasped. She’d almost forgotten he was in the room with her. Alone.

His gaze shifted down and up, then down again.

“What are you staring at?” She wiped her hands on a dishcloth and tossed the rag into the sink.

The hint of a roguish smile pulled at his lips. “You’re beautiful. I didn’t have a picture of you. For eight years I had to rely on my memory. Couldn’t do you justice. It’s nice to look at you.” Ali wanted to accuse him of lying, but his voice wrapped around her, ringing with sincerity.

“Ha.” She tucked a damp clump of hair behind her ear, only to have the doggone thing fall forward again. “Then you need to get out more.”

Jericho raised a dark eyebrow. “Nope. I don’t need to look anywhere else to know that this—” he swept his hand to indicate her “—is my favorite sight.”

She harrumphed. “I’m all wet, and I don’t have any makeup on. And I’m pretty sure I’m wearing yesterday’s socks. Still the prettiest sight?”

He leaned against the counter. “Yes, ma’am.” Teasingly, he continued, “But if you want to get good and soaked, I saw a horse trough out front I could dump you in.” He moved toward her.

Ali swatted at his hands. With a laugh, she bumped into the garbage can. “Jericho Eli! Don’t you dare. I’m too old to get troughed.” She dashed behind the table.

“Mom!” Chance burst through the door. “Can I open presents now?” A battalion of kids trailed in his wake.

“Sure, bud. We’ll open presents in the front room right now, and then we’ll eat.”

“Did you make your chocolate cake? The one made with—” he leaned toward her, knowing he wasn’t supposed to give away the secret ingredient “—mayonnaise?”

She winked, and her son’s gray-blue eyes danced with merriment. As he clomped away, a wave of joy washed over her. Threatening letters, lawsuits and financial woes couldn’t touch her today.

But an unwanted husband could.

Jericho took her elbow, turning her to face him.

“I may be asking you to kick me in the teeth, but I need to know.” Jericho stopped and looked down at his boots.

Her heart lurched in her chest. The muscles on the side of his jaw popped, and Ali’s gut rolled in anticipation of his question. A drunk she could keep secrets from, but a man who proved thoughtful, patient and kind? Everything a father should be?

But—no. He was still the same man who had run off on his wife without looking back, discarded his responsibility to her when it suited him and left his child growing inside of her. The shrapnel in her heart from his departure still chafed, and she wouldn’t open Chance up to that world of hurt. Jericho hung around for now, but he could still leave at any moment. A child deserved better than that.

Walking to the sink, she turned her back to him and rinsed off a plate. “I don’t really have time right now.”

His footsteps moved closer, but she didn’t dare turn around. He was so near. Ali’s breath caught in her throat. One look into his earnest eyes would unglue her resolve.

He took a breath. “I’ve been thinking. I did the math...being Chance’s birthday today, and him turning seven...”

Her hands gripped the cool metal of the sink.

“It only leaves two options.”

“Two?” Her voice came out small.

“Unless he was a preemie. But he wasn’t, was he?”

Ali locked her gaze through the window over the sink, to the corral. “No, Chance wasn’t a preemie.”

She felt him take another step closer. “Then it happened when I was still around.”

Spinning, she faced him, arms crossed. “It? It happened? I think you better go.”

Her emotions reflected in his eyes. The same torment. The longing for everything to be right again.

“Is Chance...is he mine?”

“Chance is mine. I asked you to leave.” Ali pushed against his chest, and he caught her wrists. She pressed her elbows into him. “Let go of me.”

“Let go of her!” Tripp crossed the kitchen in three seconds flat. Jericho dropped the light hold he had of Ali as Tripp sidled up beside her. “I don’t think you’re welcome here anymore, Jericho.”

“That true, Ali? If you want me to leave, I will.” His lips formed a grim line.

Tripp slid his arm around her waist.

She nodded. “I can’t deal with you right now. I need to take care of all the people here.”

Jericho narrowed his eyes, almost like he wanted to say something more, but then he put on his hat and dipped his chin. “Be talking to you later, then.”

When he left, Tripp took hold of her hands. “Alison, tell me what’s going on.”

“You saved me. I almost told him about Chance.”

The pressure of his hands increased a bit. Besides Kate, Tripp was the only other person in town who knew for sure that Chance was Jericho’s son. “You can’t ever do that. You tell him about Chance, and he’ll probably sue you for parental rights, or at least want shared custody.”

She broke away from him and rubbed her temples. “What am I going to do?”

“You need to divorce him. Make the separation legal. Divorce is your only option.” Tripp said it so easily. Divorce. The word tasted sour on her tongue. But the lawyer made it sound like going for coffee. His tanned arms showed from the rolled-up sleeves of his oxford, and his blue eyes seemed to take her in, while his wavy brown hair stayed perfectly in place.

She brushed at crumbs on the counter. “I don’t see the point.”

“I don’t see the point of not divorcing him.”

“I know him. He won’t sign any papers.”

Tripp shrugged. “It doesn’t matter. He abandoned you. Didn’t send word for eight years. No court will deny your petition.”

An uproar in the front room drew her attention. She glanced at the door separating the kitchen from the rest of the party. “Doesn’t a divorce cost a lot of money? You know about our financial situation.”

He waved his hand. “I have a friend at the firm who can do the paperwork for you. I’ll take care of everything. I’ll need your signature, that’s all.”

She wrung her hands. “I don’t know.”

Tripp took her shoulders so she faced him. “But what if...what if another man wants to marry you?”

Her gaze snapped to meet his, and she didn’t see a trace of mocking in his blues. Like a spooked horse, panic bolted down her spine. Another man? Did that mean...?

The door banged. “Mom! Look at what Jericho gave me. Where is he? I want to show him how I’ve been practicing.” Chance thrust a lasso into her hands.

She slipped away from Tripp and took the thick bound rope, running her thumb over the rough surface. “He had to go home.”

“Aw, man. I wanted him to show everyone. He’s so cool.” Chance started walking back toward his party, then stopped. “He’ll be here tomorrow, right?”

“I think so, honey.”

“Good. I like him the best out of all your friends.”

She hugged her middle as she watched Chance leave the room. What was she going to do about his growing attachment to Jericho? It couldn’t continue. For Chance to be safe, and her life to continue without any bumps, Jericho needed to leave town. Soon. Because if he didn’t, Jericho was bound to figure out that Chance was his son.

* * *

Adrenaline tingled through Jericho’s muscles as he walked the short length of the Silvers’ hay field toward his father’s expansive land—the Bar F Ranch. The pain in his knees throbbed, almost blinding him with intensity, but he limped without stopping to rest. He’d ice them at home.

He’d like to rub that smug look off Tripp’s face. How dare the man touch his wife?

Scooping up a rock, he tossed the stone into the deep gully separating their properties and waited, listening for the ping of it hitting bottom. His heart felt about as jagged and bottomless.

No wonder she didn’t like the sight of him. Ali hadn’t cheated on him. Chance had to be his son. Not only had he left his teenage wife, he’d left her pregnant and alone.

Why didn’t she tell him? He would have stayed. No. That was worse. To stay for the sake of the child when he hadn’t been willing to stay for the sake of his wife? Cow manure ranked better than him right about now.

The army chaplain’s voice drifted through his mind. You are not your past errors. You are redeemed. Jericho had rejoiced in that. He had learned to live in victory, but he wanted his wife’s forgiveness, too. What would he have to do to prove to Ali that he could be trusted? Would he ever get through to her?

Husbands, love your wives, just as Christ loved the church and gave himself up for her.

The scripture whizzed through his head and stopped him cold in his tracks. He looked up at the sky as a burning Montana sun began to wrap purple capes over the mountains.

Love her. Keep on loving her.

That much he could do.

Chapter Six

Jericho stared at the clock on the dashboard.

Twenty minutes.

He ran a hand over his beard. He needed a shave. Maybe he should do that first. No. He refocused his eyes on the front doors of the nursing home. It was now or never.

Never sounds good. But he pushed open the Jeep’s door and climbed out onto the sun-warmed pavement.

The over-bleached smell of the nursing home assaulted his senses. The hollow clip of his boots on the laminate floor echoed along with the one word ramrodding itself into his head. Failure. Failure. Reaching the door bearing a nameplate reading Abram Freed, Jericho froze. He pulled off his battered Stetson and crunched it between his hands. Then he took a step over the threshold.

The sight of Pop tore the breath right out of Jericho’s lungs.

Once the poster of an intimidating, weathered cowboy, Abram now just looked...weak. His hair, brushed to the side in a way that Jericho had never seen, had aged to mountain-snowcap-white, but his bushy eyebrows were still charcoal. Like sun-baked, cracked mud, cavernous lines etched the man’s face. The once rippled muscles ebbed into sunken patches covered by slack skin.

Jericho waited for his dad to turn and acknowledge him. Or yell at him. Curse him. But he didn’t move. What had the doctor told him about Pop? The call came months ago. Stroke. He’d lost the use of his right side. None of it meant anything at the time. But now he saw the effects, and his heart ached with grief for the father he hardly loved. Abram Freed looked like a ship without mooring—lost.

“Hey there, Pops.” He hated the vulnerability his voice took on. Like he was ten again, chin to his chest, asking his dad’s permission to watch cartoons.

Pop’s body tensed, and his head trembled slightly. With a sigh, he raised his left hand off the white sheet by a couple inches. His dad couldn’t turn his head. A stabbing, gritty feeling filled Jericho’s eyes as he skirted the hospital bed and pulled out the plastic chair near his father’s good side. His dad’s eyes moved back and forth over Jericho’s frame, and the left side of his dad’s face pulled up a bit, while the right side remained down in a frown.

A nurse bustled into the room. “Well, now, look at this, Mr. Freed, how nice to have some company. Saw you had a visitor on the log—thought it was that pretty little lady always popping by.” She moved toward his father as she spoke.

Pretty little lady? Jericho scanned the room. A fresh vase bursting with purple gerbera daisies sat on the nightstand next to a framed picture of Chance. The photographer had captured the boy’s impish smile, crooked on one side and showing more gums than teeth as his blue eyes sparkled. He was holding up a horseshoe in a victorious manner.

Ali?

The nurse poured out a cup of water and set it on the bedside table. “And who are you?”

“I’m his son.”

“Mercy me.” The nurse leaned down near Pop, speaking loudly. “I bet you’re glad to see this young man, ain’t you?”

“Ith...Ith.”

Unwanted tears gathered at the edge of Jericho’s eyes as he watched his father struggling to speak.

Abram smacked his left hand on the bed and closed his eyes. “I dondt know. I dondt know.”

Jericho searched the nurse’s face. She offered him a sad smile. “That’s the only understandable phrase we get. It don’t mean anything. He says it no matter what’s being talked about. But he can hear just fine. He likes when people come and talk to him. Don’t you, Mr. Freed?”

Pop’s drooping eyes slid partially open, and his head nodded infinitesimally.

Everything inside Jericho seized up. He clenched his jaw, blinking his eyes a couple times. His last meeting with his father whirled in his head—him screaming at Pop, blaming his father for all that had gone wrong in his life.

Over the last eight years, Jericho had pieced back together his world. He’d returned to Bitterroot Valley for two reasons—to repair his devastated marriage, and to restore his relationship with his father. But how could he do that with a man who couldn’t speak? He wanted his father to tell him that he was sorry for the abuse and neglect after Mom died. But that apology would never come. And like it or not, he had to be okay with that.

“Since you’re here, will you help me move your pa?”

“What?” Jericho scratched the top of his head. “I guess whatever you want me to do, just say.”

“We try to move him every hour or so. Prevent sores. It helps to fight the chance of pneumonia, which is always a possibility.” She leaned back to Pop. “But we’d never let that happen, sweet man like you. We take good care of you.”

She motioned for Jericho to move his father, and after a moment of hesitation, he lifted Pop’s frail body in his arms. The old man fit against his chest. Tiny. Breakable. His father’s right side hung limp, whereas the muscles on the left side of his body pulled, straining for dignity. A flood of compassion barreled through Jericho’s heart, burying all the anger he’d felt for the man who’d caused him such suffering. Abram Freed could never hurt him again. His dad deserved to be treated with respect, no matter their past.

The nurse indicated a beige wingback chair. Jericho recognized it from his childhood home. With extra care, he set Pop down. As he began to move away, his father touched his hand. Jericho turned, and Abram pointed to a nearby chair.

He looked back toward the nurse as she inched toward the door and raised his eyebrows. She smiled. “It’s okay. Just go on and talk to him.”

Clearing his throat, Jericho rubbed his hands together, eyes on the floor. He looked back at his father, and the despair swimming in the old man’s eyes unglued Jericho’s tongue.

So he began to ramble. Told Pop about the past eight years, and went on about still loving Ali. Told stories about the war, and in the midst of it an emotion filtered across his father’s face that Jericho had never seen before. Pride.

Swallowing the giant lump in his throat, Jericho leaned forward, and in a voice barely above a whisper said words he hadn’t planned. “Pop. I’m sorry I left that night. I didn’t just walk out on my wife. I walked out on you, too. We had our bad times between us, but it was never like that when Mom was alive. I understand now why you drank. Losing the woman you love...I get it. I forgive you.”

Jericho waited, bracing himself for the backhand to his face or the kick to his side that didn’t come. Instead a soft, weathered hand covered his and squeezed. He looked up and his breath caught at the sight of tears slipping from his father’s eyes.

“Forgive me?” Jericho whispered.

With his good hand, Pop patted Jericho’s cheek, trailing fingers down his chin as if memorizing every inch of his face. His father sighed. He pointed, shaking his finger at the top drawer of the nightstand.

Jericho shifted his chair and set his hand over the handle of the drawer. “Want me to open this?”

“Yeth, yeth.” Pop nodded. He opened the drawer and found a single envelope with “Jericho” written on the inside. Could Pop still write? Or had this always been waiting for him?

“You want me to have this?”

His father waved his arm, motioning toward the framed picture of Chance. Jericho scooped the photo up and handed it to him. Pop stroked the picture, tapped the glass then pointed at the envelope bearing Jericho’s name.

Jericho gulped. “Should I open this now, or you want me to wait until later?”

Pop tapped his finger on the envelope and then pressed the packet into his son’s hands. Jericho nodded and slipped his finger under the lip. Into his hand tumbled a gold watch and a very thin copper-colored key. The tag on the key ring bore the number 139.

“This is Grandpa’s watch. You sure you want me to have it?”

“Yeth.”

Eyes burning, Jericho slipped the watch onto his wrist. His dad had worn it every day that Jericho could remember. “And what’s the story with this key?”

Pop jabbed his finger at the photo of Chance.

“It has to do with Chance?”

“Yeth. Itha. Tha. I dondt know.”

Jericho covered his dad’s hand and gave it a squeeze. “Don’t worry about it, Pop. I’ll figure it out.”

* * *

Denny’s rhythmic pounds worked the knots out of Ali’s muscles as he galloped across the wide field near the grove of cottonwoods. The trees stood like a gaggle of old women with their heads bent together sharing gossip. Hunching, she avoided the low-growing branches as her buckskin horse carried her.

She sighed. If Ali could have her way, she’d stay on Denny’s back and ride off into the horizon like the heroes did in those Old West movies. No stress. No responsibilities.

“You’re better than any therapist money can buy. Know that, Denny?” His giant fuzz-covered ears swiveled like a radar to hear her better.

“What are we going to do, huh, bud?” Swinging out of the saddle, she stood beside him, tracing her fingers against the yellow-gold hair covering his withers. He nudged his forehead into her shoulder, and she laughed. “You know I have a carrot in my pocket, don’t you?” She pulled out the offering, giggling as his big lips grabbed the food. The warmth of his breath on her fingertips was as comforting as a loving mother’s arms.

What would she do about Tripp Phillips’s attention toward her? Ali rubbed her temples. She didn’t want that. Not with Tripp. Not with any man. Marriage? No, thank you. But she didn’t want to lose his friendship, either.

She walked away a few paces, then leaned against the trunk of the largest cottonwood. She slowly let her body slump to the ground. Cocking her knees, she looped her arms on them and looked out across the river as it rippled past. The scene felt familiar, and she instinctively turned and glanced up at the initials Jericho had carved there so many years ago. Funny, the things that could fill her heart with peace. The crudely chipped JF loves AS shouldn’t cause anything to stir in her, but it did nonetheless.

What was she going to do about that man?

Denny nickered, as if reminding her of her real purpose. “Thanks, bud.” She pulled the now crumpled warning letter from her back pocket and smoothed it over her thighs.

If you value what’s important to you, you’ll stay away from him. You’ve been warned.

No more threats had arrived. But that morning, Rider had reported that their fence line bore malicious damage. This time it caused one of the heifers to tumble to her death in the gully. Ali couldn’t afford to lose any of the stock so carelessly.

It had been alarming enough to find all the horses in the front yard yesterday morning, and she’d wasted hours catching them. One stall left unhitched, she could believe. But ten stalls unlocked and the barn door left wide open? No coincidence, especially since Ali had been the one to lock the barn last night. And, although she wouldn’t give fear lease enough to voice it, she thought she’d heard something outside the house while she lay in bed.

Nine years ago, I made a promise to protect you.

Startled by Jericho’s voice in her mind, she pushed it away and tried to focus on a solution. One he was not a part of. Wasn’t his presence the cause of all the problems anyway? The answer was simple—get rid of Jericho. If he left her alone, this magazine-gluing maniac would stop pestering her.

What Jericho had to say didn’t matter. It also didn’t matter that he’d showed up this morning on the steps with a giant bouquet of her favorite flower—he’d remembered about the daisies. Nor did it matter that, even now, he buried his biceps in grease, putting her truck’s engine back together. Nor that Chance’s eyes lit up at the sight of the man.

Ali looked at the sky to keep the wetness from trickling out of her eyes.

She shoved the letter again into her pocket and clicked her tongue to call Denny back to her side. Running a hand down his glossy muzzle, she leaned her forehead against his face.

“And it doesn’t matter that it still feels like my heart’s a hummingbird stuck in my rib cage each time I see him. Or that he really does seem changed. The ranch. Chance and Kate. Protecting them. That’s what’s most important, right?” Holding his bridle, she stepped away. His gentle eyes, fringed with thick black lashes, surveyed her for one long moment before blinking.

Climbing back into a saddle that felt more like home than any other place on God’s green earth, Ali gave Denny his head. He cantered across the field as if he knew she needed the easy back-and-forth rocking motion to cradle her lost hope one last time.

Jericho Freed needed to leave. For good.

* * *

Denny plunged his lips into the trough. “Go easy, big guy. No colic for you.”

“Hey, Mom!” Chance showed up at her elbow. He gave Denny’s thigh three solid pats.

“Hey there, Chance-man.” She ran a hand over her son’s hair that stuck up at all angles. “Where’s your aunt?”

Chance rolled his eyes and grabbed the edge of the trough. He used it as leverage and swung side to side. “She’s making rhubarb jam. Bor-ing. And I told her that, so she banished me from the kitchen.”

“Banished you, huh?”

“Yeah, but Jericho said he could use my help, and he showed me how to fix your truck. Then we changed the oil. Good thing I was there to hand him all the tools. Did you know how dirty your engine was, Mom? Major gross-out. Jericho had to use lots of rags just to see stuff.” His earnest little expression made Ali bite the inside of her cheeks to keep from smiling at him.

She nodded solemnly. “That sounds serious.”

Handing him Denny’s lead, Chance fell into step beside her toward the corral. “And then he fixed a bunch of stuff on our truck.”

“A bunch?” Ali wrinkled her nose.

“Yes. You’re lucky he had so many tools in his car. He said—” Chance dropped his voice to imitate Jericho’s “—‘We’ve got to keep your mom safe. Got to fix all these things.’” Chance shrugged. “Then he did.”

Great. What was he trying to do, heap coals upon her head? He was supposed to leave, not make her truck purr.

“I know a secret, Mom. Jericho told me.”

Ali grabbed her son’s shoulder and clamped down. There was only one secret Jericho would have involving Chance. No. He wouldn’t—would he? “Secret?” she croaked.

“You have to promise you won’t tell him I told.”

“I promise. What is it?”

“I told Jericho that I like Samantha.”

Ali’s heart started beating again. “Oh, honey, you told me that months ago.”

“That’s not the secret.”

“What is, then?”

“Jericho said you were pretty.”

Ali rolled her eyes. “Secret’s out. He told me that, too.”

“But then I told him if he thinks that, he should marry you.”

“You didn’t!”

Chance gave two nods. “He said he liked that marrying part.”

She popped a hand on her hip. “And where is Mr. Jericho right now?”

“He had to clean up, so I told him to use the hose out back and not to go in the house because I knew you’d yell at him. Remember when Drover and I played in the puddle and then we went in the kitchen and you were so mad you turned red? I told Jericho about that, and he said he’d better take his chances with the cold hose.”

“He did, did he? Hey, can you do me a huge favor and find Rider for me? Let him know I need to talk to him about the fences.”

The ranch—and maybe Chance—were in danger. If Jericho wanted to keep them safe, he needed to leave them alone. That thought propelled her forward. Drover trotted beside her, banging into her leg as Ali rounded the back of the house.

* * *

Jericho crouched. With the hose pressed between his arm and side, water splashed out in front of him. He rubbed his grease-covered hands together under the stream.

The Silvers’ dog, Drover, pounced forward, snapping at the fountain. “Crazy dog. You’re going to get all wet.” Jericho laughed and backed up, right into someone. He peeked over his shoulder and spotted Ali, her eyes wide as the moon in surprise. Looking all cute and startled.

“Oh. Sorry.” He dropped the hose and it sprayed into the air like a geyser, soaking his jeans and shooting at Ali in the process.

He leaned toward the handle attached to the hose and turned off the water. Then took his time standing. He needed to read her face. Was she upset with him for showing up at her house again? Hopefully not. When he turned, he stepped closer. Ali’s mouth hung open, and she blinked a couple times.

Jericho couldn’t help himself. Using one finger, he tucked a chunk of hair behind her ear. When he grazed her skin she gasped. The sound made a tight fist unwind in his gut. He had to start telling her what was in his heart. Now or never—or risk losing her all over again.

After another step forward, he cupped Ali’s elbow. He licked his lips. “I’m so sorry. I’ve missed so much. Ali, I—”

“Al!” The back screen door smacked the house as Kate rushed down the steps. Jericho tried to think of a kind way to tell Kate to go away, until he saw the tears flowing down her cheeks.

“What’s wrong?” Ali grabbed hold of her sister’s forearms, and Kate shook her head several times. “It’s Ma. Ali, Mom’s dead.”

Ali’s knees wobbled, and Jericho steadied her. He wanted to hug away the pain in her eyes, but for now he’d have to make do with being whatever she needed.