Chapter twelve
Sure enough, Josh and Mike the Prepper’s collaboration proves exhausting for my husband. When I come back from my errands in Buckholt—Jack and Rose had good checkups and no cavities—Josh is sprawled on the sofa, staring at the ceiling, a beer in hand, even though it’s only four o’clock in the afternoon, which is a little early for him.
“How was it?” I ask as my dad goes to make tea, Jack flops on the opposite end of the sofa with the iPad—his post-YouTube ban was lifted last week—and Rose runs out to greet Celestia and Moonbeam.
Josh doesn’t move his gaze from the ceiling. “It was… productive,” he says after a moment, his tone resigned.
“Well, that’s good,” I offer cautiously.
Josh sighs. “Yeah… if I can just get over Mike acting as if he knows better than me everysinglesecond, I’ll be fine.” He finally turns to look at me, smiling ruefully. “And the trouble is, hedoesknow better than me. And he’s a nice guy. So, I’m just a jerk.”
“Well, you’re a very nice jerk,” I tell him, coming over to kiss him.
Josh catches my hand in his. “I feel sorry for the guy, really,” he tells me as he threads his fingers through mine. “I think you were right when you said he was lonely. A lot of the time we were working, he was saying what a nice family we are, how lucky I was.”
He’s silent for a moment, staring down at our twined fingers.
“And he was right. Iamlucky. When I think of him building his whole setup there—and it’s impressive—just for himself, it feels… sad.” He glances up at me, looking surprisingly emotional, although Josh has always been a bit of a weeper. I used to be a pretty solid non-crier, but these pregnancy hormones have really socked it to me. “It made me glad and thankful that we’re doing this together,foreach other.”
“Me, too,” I answer, my voice thickening. There go my pregnancy hormones. I think of Mike heading back to his homestead, and I vow to make more of an effort.
The next morning, Mike is back bright and early with his thermos of chicory coffee and a cheery smile. I invite him in for eggs and toast—I baked a loaf last night—the homemade butter and jam already on the table. Okay, I might be bragging a little, but something about Mike makes me—and Josh, it seems—want to prove that while we may not beentirelyself-sufficient, we are getting there.
“How’s the root cellar going?” Last night I inspected the hole they’d started digging in the hillside, propped up by wooden supports.
“Pretty good, pretty good,” Mike assures me as he makes himself comfortable at the kitchen table. “But your dear husband didn’t think we needed supports!” He lets out a full belly laugh. “He’d have had the whole hillside crashing down on us if I hadn’t talked some sense into him.”
He’s still chuckling as Josh comes into the kitchen, his slightly strained smile evidence that he heard Mike’s remark.
“They didn’t use supports on the YouTube video,” he mutters to me, then smiles wryly at his own response.
I pat his shoulder and pour coffee.
“So, Mike,” I ask as I serve up the eggs, “do you have family nearby? I was wondering if anyone might come and visit.”
Josh gives me a look—maybe I was too obvious.
Mike’s usual expression of good cheer falters just a little. “Nope, no family as such,” he tells me. “My dad died a few years back, and my mom is out in Arizona. She remarried when I was a kid and hasn’t looked back since.” He pauses, seeming as if he is trying to summon a smile. “My brother left home when he was just fifteen, headed out to California. I hear from him now and again, but not as much as I’d like.” He tries for a humorous look, not quite managing it. “And I’m sad to say there’s never been a Mrs. Landry for me, so…”
Josh and I exchange glances. I think we both feel pretty bad that we’ve been so hard on poor Mike.
“Well, everyone in Wildflower Valley feels like family,” I tell him firmly. “And of course, you’re welcome here anytime.” I raise my eyebrows, smiling. “Would you like four honorary children, along with three cats, a dog, seven chickens, two cows, two goats, and two pigs?”
“And a goose,” Josh chimes in. I turn to stare at him disbelievingly. “I’m picking up a goose next week,” he explains semi-apologetically. “They’re very good at weed control.”
We already have two goats for weed control, I think, but decide not to say. “And a goose,” I tell Mike, widening my smile.
He chuckles. “Well, that sounds mighty nice, Miss Abby,” he tells me. “I like the thought of being an honorary anything, but especially when it comes to family.”
Later, while I’m making dinner—Rose is setting the table, my dad is in his room, Jack is out in the barn, and William is still at work—I let Josh in on my plan.
“I’m sure we can think of someone who’s single…” I muse meaningfully as I peel potatoes.
Josh, who has been idly scrolling, looks up from his phone.
“Are we talking about Mike the Prepper?” Rose asks, ever alert to parental conversations.
“Just Mike,” I say firmly. I wish I’d never coined that nickname, although upon reflection, I think Jack said it first. Still, it stuck.
