What the fuck, Wyatt—knock it off!
Way too soon.
But was it? Because his heart, which he listened to and trusted, wanted to say these things to him now, and he didn’t want to ignore it. But he also didn’t have time to process it now. Not here.
Aunt Carol shot Wyatt a surprised look before clasping John’s hand. Aunt Nancy followed, eyes wide.
“Good to finally meet you both,” John said politely, and Nancy stiffened.
“Dr. John Donnelly?” Nancy asked.
John’s eyebrows raised, and he nodded. “I believe we spoke on the phone.”
She swung her gaze to Wyatt, lips parting in surprise. John had mentioned that one of his aunts had called the hospital trying to get a hold of him and he had intercepted the call, which meant he had probably used his title when answering… which meant she had just figured out where they had met.
“Nope,” Carol said flatly. “Not goin’ there, they just got here.” She glanced at the rental car. “You boys need help unloadin’?”
“We didn’t bring much,” Wyatt admitted.
Carol pursed her lips, “Short stay?”
“Yeah.”
Disappointment reflected on her face, but she hid it well behind a cool nod. “Well, c’mon in then.”
The front door opened, decorated with fresh flowers and medical supplies.
Wyatt stopped in his tracks.
John’s reassuring hand was on his lower back as he released the breath in his chest and walked through. The house's natural wooden beamed ceiling gave it a wide, open feeling, along with its floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking theranch. His father had done a lot of the woodworking in the home himself after his mother had left them. He supposed it was his father’s way of fixating on something—giving himself a project rather than pursuing the woman who had left him. Wyatt’s mother died several years later in her sleep from a brain aneurysm. He was barely ten when he went to her funeral and met his half-brothers and sisters—the family she had built outside of him. He was confused and angry that she had chosen herself, leaving him behind with his cold, unapologetic father.
“He’s in his room,” Nancy informed him. “The hospice nurse will be back soon…”
“What’s his diagnosis?” John asked, slipping his sunglasses off and over the open collar of his shirt. His eyes slid to Wyatt’s, held, and then returned to Nancy’s.
Wyatt didn’t want to walk down the hallway.
He didn’t want to see his father.
He wanted to go to the barn, see the horses—be anywhere else.
“Cancer,” Nancy said tightly. “Prostate cancer. He stopped treatment two months ago. He was getting too sick with the chemo, too uncomfortable. He made the decision himself to just—you know…”
They did.
His jaw clenched. His father was a stubborn old bastard, and when he had made up his mind about something, he refused to bend. Another family trait, he supposed.
He released another breath and headed down the hall.
“Wyatt,” John called softly. “Do you want me to…?”
He shook his head and followed his feet to his father’s bedroom. If he didn’t go now, he would never go.
His father’s door was open, and the heart and oxygen monitor he was hooked up to were silent. Thankfully, the hospice nurse had muted the beeping. His throat bunched, and he finally looked at his father. His once handsomely stoic face was gray and ashen, the skin loose over the planes of his cheeks. The oxygen tube wrapped around his ears and into his nostrils, sustaining what was left of his lungs and body. His hair was patchy and thin, yet Wyatt could still see the streaks of sunlight mixed with the chestnut.
The strong, imposing man his father had once been was gone. He hadn’t realized how bad it had gotten, and regret clawed at his insides for waiting this damned long to have the courage to come back. Tears formed at the corners of his eyes but he blinked, refusing to show emotion.
“Water,” his father’s voice was the barest of whispers.
