Chapter Twelve
Timothy’s weary eyes fluttered open. The dull ache in his bones was a testament to the back-breaking work that awaited him, as regular as the dawn. He sat up in bed, running a hand through his hair, and allowed himself a solitary moment to acknowledge the weight settling on his shoulders.
With practiced movements, Tim swung his legs over the bed’s edge. He dressed swiftly in the dim light, pulling on his faded jeans and a shirt that had seen better days. Laundry really needed to be done, but short of asking Brenda for more than he already had, it wasn’t going to get done. It was all he could do to keep up with his ranch chores, cook breakfast, convince the kids that Amy was all right, and make sure she ate and took her medicine. He’d had no idea what a strain being a caregiver put on someone. Thankfully, Felicity’s mother had been visiting when she took ill, and she’d taken care of her daughter and grandchildren.
He stepped outside, feeling the heat and humidity burrow its way inside him. He often thought he should move to somewhere like Montana to ranch, but it was too cold in the winter there. There was no winning where temperature was concerned.
“Morning, old girl,” he greeted the chestnut mare tied near the barn, her coat gleaming in the new light.
Tim scooped feed into troughs, his hands moving with the efficiency borne of countless mornings just like this one. His muscles remembered the routine, even if his mind was elsewhere.
“Pa, you fix that fence by the creek yet?” George called out, emerging from the tool shed with a hammer in hand.
“Planning on it after I fix breakfast,” Tim replied, wiping sweat from his brow with the back of his hand. “You want to give me a hand?”
“Sure thing, Pa,” George said. He was growing up fast, eager to walk in his father’s boots, and Tim couldn’t help but feel a surge of paternal pride.
As soon as they’d finished breakfast, leaving the dishes for Brenda, they walked the length of the pasture, inspecting the barbed wire. They worked in silent agreement, Tim showing George the ropes while fixing the loose strands that threatened the boundary of their land.
“Looks good, son,” Tim nodded, satisfied with their handiwork. “Keep this up, and you’ll be running your own place in no time.”
“Hope so,” George grinned, the image of youthful optimism.
Tim heaved another bale of hay onto the wagon, his muscles protesting as much as his mind. He paused, leaning against the wagon’s edge, feeling the rough wood grain press into his palms.
“Pa, you all right?” asked George, his brow furrowed with concern.
“Ah, just thinking,” Tim replied. His gaze drifted toward the house where Amy lay ill, her nurturing presence sorely missed in every corner of their home.
“Amy’s going to be fine, Pa,” George added.
“Sure, son,” Tim said, though the knot in his stomach tightened. “Let’s get back to work.”
As the day wore on, chipping away at the endless list of chores, Tim’s thoughts were never far from Amy. The livestock fed and watered, fences mended, and yet an important piece was missing.
Stepping inside the sweltering heat of the house, Tim found Amy propped up in bed, a shawl wrapped around her thin shoulders. Her breaths came shallow and labored, the sound like rustling dry leaves. She offered him a weak smile, and it struck him how something as simple as breathing could become such an arduous task.
“Hey there,” he muttered, taking a seat beside her. His large hands felt clumsy as he touched her forehead.
“Tim...” she whispered, her voice barely audible, “the children...”
“They’re fine, Amy. Focus on getting better, all right?”
The lines on Tim’s face deepened with worry as he watched her struggle for each breath. He knew the ranch demanded his attention, but the thought of leaving her side, even for a moment, twisted his heart with guilt.
“Get some rest, Amy. I’ll be right outside if you need me,” Tim assured her, brushing a stray lock of hair from her forehead.
Leaving their room, he closed the door gently behind him. Outside, the ranch sprawled before him, its needs vast and unending. But within those walls, Amy fought a battle that dwarfed all others.
“Pa?” George’s voice called from the porch.
“Coming, son,” Tim answered, squaring his shoulders. If the ranch was his legacy, Amy and his children were his lifeblood. And he would find a way to nurture both, no matter the cost.
“PA?” GEORGE’S VOICEcalled again from outside, urgency lacing the word.
“Coming, son! Just give me a second!” Tim raised his voice in response, then immediately regretted it. He turned back to Amy,his features softening. “I gotta go see what he needs. Will you be all right for a spell?”
“Go,” she insisted, managing a nod. “The ranch won’t run itself.”
