Somehow I fight the urge to ask what he has in mind. I just grin. “You’ll have to prove it first.” Then I turn and don’t look back, or I might make a big mistake.
Chapter 7
Tristan
It’s been the week from hell.
Two sales fell through because the buyers didn’t want to pay a delivery fee, insisting that I drive nine hours to deliver the horses—for free.
Another fell short due to the other farm’s budget constraints, which wouldn’t be a big deal if we hadn’t had another buyer who made an offer we had to refuse, who then went and bought other horses.
Sadie is still being ornery and picking fights with me. She’s sweet as pie to my sisters and her grandad, but me—I’m the worst.
I need to check on the horses, and then I’m going to the bar with Jimmy to complain about the status of my life.
When I get outside, I see someone on the roof of the barn, but not just anyone, my freaking eighty-one-year-old father.
“Dad!” I yell, rushing that way. To what? I don’t know—catch him if he falls. “What the hell are you doing?”
He glances down at me. “I’m fixing the roof. What the hell does it look like I’m doing?”
Trying to kill yourself.
“You can’t be up on the roof.”
He scoffs. “Says who?”
“Says the doctor after you broke your wrist a year ago when you thought you could cut a tree down—alone.”
Let’s say the score was…tree 1, Dad 0.
“Ah, what does he know? I’m fit as a fiddle.”
“And dumb as rocks,” I say under my breath.
“Huh?”
Also partially deaf, which we all use to our benefit at times like these. “Nothing. Get down. I’ll fix the roof.”
“You have enough to worry about. This is my farm,” he argues.
Six years ago my father suffered a heart attack. Knowing that he wasn’t going to be able to continue in the way he had, he signed the farm over to the four of us. I took the majority share so that I could run the farm, but my sisters each split the remaining shares. Neither of them wanted to run it, and they agreed it was the best way to handle things.
So, technically, this is my farm, but he’d probably grow wings to fly over here and kill me if I remind him of that fact.
“Dad, you can’t be on the damn roof. Where is Harper?” I ask. Harper’s job is to watch Dad. Clearly she’s on a break.
“Who knows. I told her I was going to nap.”
Of course he did.
“So you lied?”
He scoffs. “I did nap, and then I woke up.”
I move the ladder to an easier spot and climb up. “Come on,” I urge him.
My father, stubborn as ever, crosses his arms over his chest. “I’m fixing the damn roof, Tristan. I’ll get down when I’m done.”
