She patted my back awkwardly.
So, I was coming back home, I thought. Only for three weeks. It would be good to spend some time with my sisters.
“Before you go, you need to get your father’s things,” Phee said.
“Excuse me?”
“He’s already packed,” Phee assured me, apparently misreading my dismay. “I told him I was moving in today.”
“Where...?”
“The front room. By the stairs.”
I opened the unobtrusive door next to the bathroom. Not a closet, as I’d assumed. A second, smaller bedroom over the driveway, facing the house. A single bed, neatly made. An empty table with a lamp. A chest of drawers—bare—a stack of cartons, two suitcases, and an army duffel bag.
Not a home, just a place to stay. Like a monk’s cell. It was poignantto see how little my father owned after almost three years of living here.
I peeked inside one of the cartons. Books. “I can’t carry all this.”
“Take what you can. Ashton can come for the rest.”
“But where is it going to go?”Where is he going to go?
Phee’s mouth tightened like the end of a coral balloon. “That’s up to your mother.”
CHAPTER 10
Abby
It’s always a mistake to sleep with your ex-husband.
Husband.
Still.
Time was, I was crazy for Ashton March, when all he had to do was look at me a certain way and I couldn’t wait for us to be alone. Our daughter’s wedding stirred things up. For both of us. I was proud my girls were moving on with their lives. Following their dreams. I kept busy. I was needed. But the truth was, birthing goats and diapering grandbabies were no substitute for sex.
The goats came running from pasture, the ladies nickering for their supper, the kids yelling and bouncing. Clover, my big white Saanen, leaned against my legs, seeking attention. I scratched her scruffy forehead.
I wasn’t that girl anymore, grateful Ash had pulled his nose out of a book long enough to smile at me. Last night, the earth hadn’t moved. But it had trembled. Habit and nostalgia were powerful things. It feltgood to be held, to touch and be touched. Ash and I had a lot of history. Could be I’d always expected too much. Of him and of sex.
Or maybe I hadn’t demanded enough. “The woman makes the marriage,” my mother used to say. Sometimes I wondered what I’d made of mine.
Dan came from the barn. Together, we separated the kids from their mommas. He was a good worker, quiet and steady and patient with the goats.
I couldn’t stop the flush in my cheeks. This morning had been awkward, all the embarrassment of being caught like a teenager with all the responsibilities and regrets of an adult. But he didn’t say a word.
When Naomi bolted for the kids’ enclosure, I wrestled her back. “Milking time, girl. You’ll see your babies in the morning.”
“Seems to me she’d be glad for the break.”
I looked up in surprise. Dan didn’t talk much. Behind his beard, it was hard to know what he was thinking most of the time.
“Hard to argue with maternal instinct.” I gave Naomi a rub. “You got kids, Dan?”
“Nope.”
Which was the closest we’d come to a personal conversation since Ash invited him to Thanksgiving dinner three years ago, another homeless vet needing a berth for the holidays.
