“Wanted some once,” he volunteered, surprising me. “Wife wanted to wait.”
“You’re married?” He seemed so young. But then, I’d been a mother at twenty-one.
“Divorced.”
“I’m sorry.”
He shrugged.What are you going to do?“I was gone a lot.”
Like Ash. The thought popped up, irresistible. Unwelcome. “Afghanistan?”
“Iraq.”Also like Ash. “She changed while I was away, she said.”
We herded the lady goats toward the milking parlor. “Shechanged,” I repeated. It was really none of my business. But he’d been upfront about his PTSD issues when I hired him.
A short nod. “Reckon we both did.”
That, too, was familiar.
Opposites attract, my mother said, and for Ash and me it was true. He was thought and I was feeling. He was cool and I was hot. When we were younger, I found his deep reserve mysterious, his mental preoccupation a challenge. I’d taken pride in being the one who could provide him with connection and comfort.
But after his third deployment, he had changed. Not merely distant but... gone.
And maybe the fact that I took charge while he was away made it easy for him to go, harder for him to come back again and take his place in the family.
The goats clattered up the ramp. “Deployments are hard on everybody,” I said.
“Yeah. Plus, she cheated, so...” Another shrug.
Oh. I caught myself sneaking glances at Dan as he latched the goats into their stations and scattered grain in the trough. He wasn’t handsome like Ash, but good-looking in a rough sort of way. And kind. “I’m sorry.”
“You spend an awful lot of time apologizing.” He might have been smiling. Hard to tell with that beard.
“Sorry,” I said. Joking.
Yep. Definite smile that time.
I went down the line, squirting, checking, wiping teats as Dan hooked up the cups on the milking machine. Six goats at a time, feed, wipe, milk, sanitize, repeat. We were almost done when I heard a car. Amy, back from Oak Hill.
She jerked open the trunk of the car. Hauled out a familiar-looking duffel and dumped it on the gravel.
My stomach sank.
Dan followed my gaze out the door. “I got the milking. If you want to...”
“Thanks.” I wiped my hands on a teat towel and went out. “What’s all this?”
Amy reached for a suitcase. “Dad’s stuff.”
“I see that,” I said. “What are you doing with it?”
She lifted her chin. “Aunt Phee said I should ask you.”
Anger tightened my throat. At Phee. At Ash.
For thirty years, I’d been the good preacher’s wife, the good military spouse. I handled the questions, deployments, and disappointments, the times Ash missed dinner or Christmas, the fact there wasn’t any money for summer camps or college.Don’t bother your father. Your father is doing important work. We need to be strong for your father.
Three years after I kicked him out, he was still missing the important discussions, still leaving the explanations to me.
