Layla kissed Heath on the forehead. “I’m just going to see my daddy for a few minutes, and then we will head back home to your daddy. All right, Heath?”
“Da!” the baby said, returning to his play with the newspapers, crinkling up one page at a time, inadvertently making deformed balls out of them.
She took a deep breath and strolled toward the stairs in the back of the store, leading to her father’s home. When she realized she was dragging her feet, she said a silent prayer.Lord, please guide my steps. I need the strength to help my father.
In a surge of anxiety, Layla mounted the steps quickly, and when she emerged at the small kitchen, her heart pounded. She paused to look around. The countertops were still spotless. The small basket of fruit that sat off one side held one orange, one grapefruit, and one pear. Even the water bucket on the countertop was still filled to almost the very top.I don’t know what I expected to change, Layla thought as she continued to survey the relatively tidy kitchen.
Tiptoeing down the hall, she realized that the reason she expected the house to look different than it had just the night before was thatshefelt different. Just after her mother passed and Emmett had taken to drinking, Layla had not been very bothered by his new behavior. She didn’t like that her father drank, but she figured he could do as he pleased. In those early days, his habits had not started to affect work or his relationship with her, so Layla tried to give her father his space.
But one night of drinking led to another, and Layla recalled how it had all disastrously culminated with her father spending more time in saloons and gambling money he didn’t have. She thought of the spectacle Emmett created the day before at the fair, and it brought back the painful memory of the last time she had seen him that drunk—the day he told her that they were going to have to forfeit the house and the store to Mark. A disarming idea occurred to her. If her father only got that drunk when he had done something so awful, so life-shattering that he looked to drown his thoughts in a bottle, what could have prompted him to imbibe the way he had yesterday?
She picked up her pace, eager to see her father and question him.
“Father!” Layla called out as she reached his bedroom door. She knocked on the heavy wooden door, waiting for a response.
“Come in,” Emmett answered, his voice sounding hoarse and almost strangled. Layla entered the room, leaving the door open behind her. She gasped as the room smelled terrible. It reeked of sweat, vomit, and stale alcohol. Layla’s eyes swung around the room as the smell of whiskey was so repugnant that she wondered if her father had somehow continued drinking from a hidden supply after she and Mark had brought him home.
Once her eyes locked on her father, though, all thoughts of secret whiskey stashes fled from Layla’s mind. Emmett was lying in bed with the gray, red, and white quilt pulled up to his chin. Even though she could only see his face, she could tell that he was trembling underneath the blankets as his teeth were chattering. His gray eyes were sunken, and she could see a sheen of sweat on his forehead. Her eyebrows scrunched together in concern, and tears watered her lower eyelids. She had not expected him to be in such a state.
“Father,” Layla said as she knelt by his bedside and grabbed his hand. His touch was clammy. “How are you?” she asked, pressing her free hand lightly to his forehead. “I don’t detect a fever.” She stared at her father’s haggard face.
He shook his head slowly, his chin quivering. “I don’t have a fever. I’m just cold and thirsty. Do you think you could—?” Before Emmett could finish his question, she raced into the kitchen. She filled a glass halfway from the pail and rushed back to her father’s bedside.
He took the glass from Layla with shaking hands and lifted it to his lips. He slurped at it, spilling a little down his chin. “Could you?” Emmett asked, holding out the glass toward Layla, who put it on the nightstand. One of his red handkerchiefs was already lying on the nightstand, and she used it to pat his chin.
“Father,” Layla spoke nervously. The way he sloppily drank the water concerned her. He should have recovered from the side effects of the drink by now; the behavior was not only unusual, but it was also unsettling. “I’ve never seen you this way before. Tell me what happened. I need to know how you’re feeling and what brought you to this state.”
“I am so sorry for the trouble I’ve caused you, Layla,” Emmett said, and even his voice trembled. Layla adjusted the quilt, hoping that she could find a way to help her father stop shivering.
“But what happened, Papa?” Layla repeated, her eyes searching his face for answers that were not there.
“I drank too much, my dear girl. I know I promised that I’d stop, but it just happened.”
“No.” Layla did not accept his explanation and shook her head forcefully. “Things like that don’t just happen, Father. You can have one drink, maybe two, but then you must know that it is time to stop. I’ve only seen you like this once before, and that was on the day you thought you were going to have to give up your house and the store.” She gulped. “What urged you to drink this time? Why couldn’t you bring yourself to stop?”
“I don’t know,” Emmett said and then was overcome by a cough. He hacked; the coughing fit was so powerful his body arched in the bed as he tried to get past it.
Layla’s brow wrinkled in concern. This was new. Typically, when her father was recovering from one of his bouts of drinking, he stayed in bed, drank lots of water and coffee, and ate many helpings of bacon. But this shivering and coughing were different. Layla handed her father his red handkerchief, and he wiped his mouth where he had drooled.
When Emmett was able to, he looked at Layla, and she could see the fear in his gray eyes. “Something’s wrong,” Layla said quietly.
“Yes, my dear. I fear something is wrong,” Emmett replied.
Chapter Eighteen
Mark knew he should probably be in a far worse mood, as yesterday had ended in a bit of a disaster, but he enjoyed the morning he’d spent with Layla and Heath. It was nice to help her prepare the breakfast time meal. Her smile when he showed her how easy it was to prepare the batter warmed his heart. Her beautiful smile reminded him of the errand she would be running this afternoon, and he wished he could keep her from that kind of pain. Mark didn’t know what Layla would find when she went to check on her father that afternoon, but he knew it wouldn’t be pleasant.
Walking around the horse stables, he was slightly surprised to see no other ranch hands this morning. Then he remembered that he’d given them most of the day off yesterday in honor of the fair, so they might get a late start too. He imagined some of them had probably been drinking right alongside Ol’ Emmett. Mark shook his head thoughtfully. It was terrible seeing what too much drinking could do to a man. He hoped that his workers had more sense than to overdo it, but he couldn’t be sure. Before, he might have docked the pay of those workers who showed up late, and as a businessman, that was the sensible thing to do. But now, Mark stared at the rising sun and felt somewhat forgiving. He would rather his workers show up able to complete their work competently than arrive poorly prepared to take on the day.
The cows would need his attention first. He rubbed his hands together vigorously to try and warm them for the task he needed to get done.
“Good morning, Betty Sue,” Mark spoke to the cow nearest him. She promptly mooed in response. He patted her side and kept right on moving down the line. When he got to the edge of the barn, where the first cow, Martha May, was positioned next to the wall, Mark saw Jack standing just outside the door.
“Morning, Jack,” Mark called.
At the sound of Mark’s voice, Jack jumped nearly an inch off the ground. As he moved, a piece of paper dropped from his hands and into the soft sand at his feet. Jack scrambled to retrieve the paper, and Mark just stood there and watched him.
“Morning, Mr. Flint, sir,” Jack said in a high-pitched voice.
