“Well, I’ll come up with something.” She squeezed Mom’s hand. “It’s going to be okay, I promise. I won’t let this place go under.”
She’d meant every word, but since her mom’s death Charlotte had been struggling just to make ends meet. She didn’t make the income her mom had made at the bank. The expansion was a last-ditch effort to make this ranch a full-time operation once again. Otherwise, Charlotte didn’t see how she could keep up this pace.
Her sister bounded down the steps. “See you later, probably Wednesday.”
“Wednesday?”
Emerson glowered.
Charlotte sighed. “Fine. Drive carefully. Tell April I said hi,” she called just before the screen door slapped shut.
She wished they’d had a chance to talk things out, butCharlotte wasn’t feeling so amenable right now. It was entirely possible she might’ve said things she couldn’t take back.
They hadn’t argued like that since they were teenagers. Emerson used to complain that Charlotte bossed her around, and Charlotte insisted Emerson got away with murder—which she had. All the rules that had been written in stone for Charlotte were up for negotiation where Emerson was concerned.
Days like this she wished her mom were still alive. Or her dad, for that matter. Emerson had been adrift since they’d passed. She didn’t go to church anymore, never visited the gravesites, and seemed to have no direction in her life.
Charlotte missed both her parents terribly. She’d always known Patrick Simpson was not her biological father. But she barely remembered her life before he entered it when she was seven, bringing a toddler with him. Emmie, having been recently abandoned by her mother, latched onto Charlotte like a leech to a host. Charlotte was happy to accept the big-sister role.
And having a dad around was a novelty she embraced. During the summers he sometimes took her on his truck-driving routes. She loved riding in his big rig and listening to him talk over the CB radio. Sometimes he let her talk too. She learned all the slang, and Dad laughed with pride as she conversed like a pro with the other drivers. She was mesmerized by this secret language. But what she loved most was that, even in the wee hours of the night, she could reach out into the void and someone would always answer back. It was comforting somehow.
She only had a few memories prior to her parents’ marriage. One of them was in the stable after her mom’s beloved horse Luna foaled.
“Where’s the baby’s daddy?” Charlotte had asked her motherwhile watching Luna clean her spindly-legged baby, the familiar smells of straw and horseflesh filling her nose.
Mama squatted down next to her. “Filly, honey, remember? A girl foal is a filly.”
“Where’s the filly’s daddy? Is she like me?”
Mama’s green eyes fixed on her. “What do you mean?”
“Doesn’t she have a daddy?”
Her mom was quiet so long, Charlotte thought she didn’t hear. “Mama, doesn’t she—?”
“She has a daddy. It’s Rogue, the stallion who visited awhile last fall, remember?”
The black thoroughbred stallion was one of the most beautiful horses Charlotte had ever seen with his shiny coat and thick mane. He was tall and powerful, and Charlotte hadn’t been allowed near him.
Mama turned Charlotte toward her and stroked her cheek. “You have a daddy, too, honey. But he can’t be with us.”
Charlotte thought about the big strong horse. “Like Rogue?”
Her mom’s eyes went sparkly and she nodded. “Yeah, honey. Like Rogue.”
Somewhere she had a strong, powerful daddy who couldn’t be with her. That was enough for Charlotte. Maybe her real daddy was a superhero.
She later brought up the subject of her father during her elementary years. But her mom was always vague and quickly changed the subject. But by the time she reached fifth grade, she was old enough to know superheroes weren’t real. But maybe he was an FBI agent or an astronaut or a Navy SEAL. They had secret missions too. His work was important and he couldn’t have a normal family life like other dads.
Then in the sixth grade, the morning after her daddy-daughter dance, she caught her mother alone in the kitchen. They exchanged good mornings and talked about the dance as Charlotte poured herself a bowl of Apple Jacks. She’d had so much fun with Dad last night. But in the afterglow of the evening, the question she’d submerged for years burst to the surface.
She settled across the table from her mother and drew a breath of courage. “Mom... who’s my real dad?”
Her mother’s spoon stopped halfway to its destination. She blinked. “Patrick is your father, Charlotte. The only one who matters.”
But she was old enough to be curious about where she’d come from. And old enough to wonder why he couldn’t be with her. Her class had done a family tree last semester and half of it felt fake. “You know what I mean. Don’t I have the right to know who my real father is?”
Just then Dad appeared in the doorway. He stopped short. His eyes turned down at the corners. His lips loosened. He seemed ten years older than he had last night when he was laughing and spinning her around the dance floor.
