They both knew that meant yes.
Hank showed up at the clinic the following morning with two coffees and the expression of a man who had received extremely entertaining intelligence.
“I hear you wore a tiara yesterday,” he said, setting a cup on Dillon’s desk.
Dillon closed his eyes. “Who told you?”
“Arlo told Rose, who told Walter Meeks, who told Ruth Sanger, who told approximately everyone.”
“Arlo was not present at the tea party.”
“Arlo has binoculars and nothing else to do.” Hank dropped into the chair across the desk and grinned wide enough to be visible from space. “I hear the tiara was purple.”
“Makayla asked me to stay for tea. I stayed for tea. There was a dress code.”
“Uh-huh. And the French braids?”
“How do you know about—” He stopped. “Ruth Sanger again?”
“Nope. Makayla showed Bonnie Watson at the post office. Bonnie told Grace. Grace told Charlotte. Charlotte told approximately everyone.” Hank leaned back and crossed his arms. “Let me get this straight. You’re buying this kid clothes. You’re teaching her to ride. You’re braiding her hair. You’re attending formal tea functions in costume. Her drawings are on your refrigerator.”
Dillon huffed. “She’s a good kid.”
“She is. And you’re a good man. Which is why I need you to hear what I’m about to say.” Hank’s grin faded into seriousness.
Dillon braced himself for a truth bomb. His older brother only took this tone when had heavy news to tell a patient.
“You’re not babysitting that girl, Dillon. You’re fathering her. The braids, the boots, the riding lessons, the tea parties—that’s not what a family friend does. That’s what a dad does.”
The word landed in the center of Dillon’s chest and detonated.
“I’m just her mom’s vet.”
“Vets don’t learn how to do French braids.” Hank stood, drained his coffee, and set the cup down. “Look, I have a daughter. I wasn’t around nearly enough when she was little, but I did my fair share girl-dad stuff like you’re doing now.”
A girl-dad? Was that what he turning into? Honestly, the thought didn’t scare him nearly as much as it ought to.
Hank continued, “I’m not telling you what to do. I’m just telling you what you’re already doing because you’re the only one who doesn’t see it.”
After Hank left, Dillon sat at his desk, stared at his case files, and didn’t see a single word. Instead, he thought about Makayla throwing her arms around his neck after the braid. About her singing harmony to country songs in his truck. About her sitting tall on June, heels down, grinning like the sky had opened up and poured gold into her lap.
He thought about Tessa. Not the polished version from the funeral. The real one. The one who mucked stalls in ruined t-shirts and patched fences with bleeding hands and applied Dolly’s medicine three times a day because twice wasn’t enough if the animal was suffering. The one who’d called him that first day with her pride in shreds because the cat needed insulin and that mattered more than her dignity.
He’d watched her learn to give Chairman Meow his shot with her hands shaking. She’d done it again, and the morning after that, until her hands didn’t shake anymore and the Chairman merely grumbled instead of hissing at her.
He’d watched her negotiate a business contract on the phone with one hand while stirring pig supplements with the other, speaking in a voice that was precise and confident and completely at odds with the woman who’d stood frozen in front of a goose a few weeks ago. He’d seen her photograph Charlotte’s wedding gowns at sunset with an artist’s eye for light and composition, then drive straight back to the farm to swab Dolly’s mange and check June’s feed bucket for uneaten pills.
She was building two lives simultaneously. The business with Charlotte was taking shape—he’d overheard enough phone calls to know it was going well—and the farm was slowly, grudgingly yielding to her stubborn refusal to fail at it.
She was exhausted. He could see it in the shadows under her eyes and the way she leaned against the barn doorframe she thought he wasn’t looking. She didn’t complain. She just got up at five-thirty every morning and did what needed doing.
She was clearly terrified of the animals, of the responsibility, of the foreign-ness of it all. But she stayed anyway. Not because she had to—she could’ve walked away from Fern’s will and stayed in her careful, controlled city life. She stayed because of Makayla, and Tessa loved her daughter more than she loved her own comfort.
His phone buzzed. Makayla had texted him a photo—a drawing she’d made in school. It showed the porch of the farmhouse with three rocking chairs on it. In the small chair sat a girl with a pink hat. In the middle chair sat a woman with brown hair. In the large chair sat a man with a cowboy hat and a very big smile.
Underneath, in careful eleven-year-old handwriting, she’d written: My family.
He all but dropped the phone on his desk.
