Darcy nods. “Was he sick?”
“No,” I sigh, looking over the hats. “Car accident. Drunk driver got him on the way home from his buddy’s place.”
A cool, soft hand meets mine and squeezes. “I’m sorry, Jake. That must have been awful. Hard, still.”
I can’t bear to look at her for long because I hate seeing sympathy from people. “I do alright,” I say.
I drop her hand, take my hat off my head, and plop it onto hers, picking up a ball cap for myself. “Just wear mine.”
She studies me for a second longer, I think getting the hint that I don’t feel like talking about my dad. Her smile is understanding as she taps the brim of my cowboy hat. “Are you trying to get out of stall duty? Because wear the hat?—”
“Muck the stalls, yep. I know. I’ll still do it.”
“Good, since it’s your job to do what I say,” she says, adjusts the hat, slightly too big on her head, and waltzes out into the hallway.
SIXTEEN
DARCY
I thinkI’m going to be waiting on Jake in the morning, but I am sorely mistaken. When I pop out on the porch with a cup of coffee while the sun lights the sky a pale purple, I assume I’m going to have some leisurely sipping time. But he’s already sitting on the steps, talking to Barkley and petting him. Stormy races for Jake, leaping up into his lap. Barkley and Stormy seem to have made amends. Perhaps the coyote thing brought them together too.
“Morning, St. Francis,” I say, looking over Jake with a dog on his right and a cat in his lap. “When are the birds going to land on your fingers?”
“St. Francis?” he asks.
“The one who was good with animals. There were two flavors of Francis, but he’s the more popular one.”
“Ah,” he says. “I don’t know my saints. I grew up a WASP.”
“Wasp?” I ask.
“White Anglo-Saxon Protestant.”
I snort. “I should have known.”
He squints looking up at me. “I’m up early to help you, boss, and instead of bringing me a cup of coffee, you just bring me a fresh round of hell.”
“Oh? Is it a WASPy thing for a woman to bring a man coffee?”
He sighs. “No, but it’s a nice thing to do. And you’re such a nice girl.”
“Am not,” I say, turning to go back inside.
“I was talking to Stormy about being a nice girl.”
“Pest!” I call out as the screen door bangs behind me.
And yet, I get the cup of coffee.
“Here,” I say, holding it over his shoulder. “Peace offering.”
He turns his lips up on the first sip. “A little bitter, darlin’.”
I sit next to him on the steps and take a big inhale off my mug. “Ahh. Just like me.”
“I know there’s sugar in there somewhere,” he says, elbowing me before taking another sip and grimacing again. “You spit in this?”
I shrug. “The joy of homemade. Might have a hair in it. Maybe a little spit. Who could say?”
