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Dad stroked her hair. “Honey, you should eat more. You need your strength.”
“I don’t need this much, Dad. I sit around all day. I’m lazy like that.”
I laughed, but Dad scowled. “That’s not a funny joke.”
She shrugged a shoulder. “We laugh so we don’t cry. Right, Daddy?”
He softened and sighed. “I suppose so. I wish your mother was here. She always did a better job of taking care of you than I did.”
I swallowed down a protest. If anyone took care of Dakota, it was me. From the moment she transitioned out of inpatient rehab, I was the one living with her. I accompanied her to all her physical therapy sessions. My mom had burst into tears nearly every time she saw Dakota in those early days, and Dad had insisted that as a sports medicine major, I’d understand the terminology better to help Dakota.
I was glad I’d stepped up. Being involved in Dakota’s recovery had been eye-opening, emotionally draining, and inspiring. I’d seen the impact those doctors made on Dakota’s life. The way she’d gone from grieving and hopeless to determined and driven.
It was the reason I’d changed my focus when I’d finally gone back to school—commuting between Riverton and Omaha to pursue a physical medicine doctorate. I wanted to help people like my sister, give them the strength to live life on their terms and the tools to be as independent as possible.
Dad wore rose-colored glasses when it came to Mom, though. She’d never done any wrong in his eyes, and hell, I missed her, too. She was a hot mess when Dakota was first hurt, but she’d pulled herself together in the years after, popping by to go shopping with my sister, to take her for mani/pedis, and to gossip on the phone every night.
Dakota had confessed once that she was relieved I’d offered to live with her, because she and Mom grew closer than ever, like best friends. A relationship she didn’t think they could have had if they were living in the same house.
Dad sat back with a sigh and patted his stomach. “That was good, honey. You spoil me.”
She smiled. “You deserve a little spoiling now and then.”
He wrapped an arm around her shoulders and patted her. “You want some more water?”
She glanced at her glass. “Oh, uh—”
“I got it, sweetie. Stay where you are.” He pushed back his chair and stood up.
“No, Dad,” she said.
“You gotta keep your hydration up for your bowel program,” he insisted. “I’ll get you a refill.”
“I can get water if I need it,” Dakota said. “And I can decide for myself when I need it. I drank water the whole time I was cooking, Dad. Just sit down.”
He hesitated. “It’s easy for me to get it. You can save it for later.”
Dakota’s jaw clenched, and I winced.
“How about we clear the table?” I suggested. “Dad, you want some leftovers, right? We could pack something up.”
“That would be great,” Dakota said, relaxing a fraction.
I picked up the serving dish and carried it into the kitchen. Dad followed, a frown creasing his already wrinkled forehead and exaggerating the crow’s feet around his eyes. “Why does she let you do things for her, but not me?”
“Dakota likes to take care of herself,” I explained, for probably the tenth time. “Packing up leftovers is about taking care of you.”
He scowled. “I can take care of my dang self.”
I pointed at him. “See? That stubborn streak. Your daughter has it too.”
He let out a reluctant chuckle. “All right, fair enough.” He shook his head. “That girl amazes me. She’s gone through so damn much. I can’t help it if I want to make her life easier, even in the smallest ways.”
“Yeah,” I said softly. “You and me both.”
CHAPTER 5
JOYRIDE
