Before she finished speaking, her father shook his head. “You know how small the pool I swim in is. I gave that man my word. If I ask to back out of the deal, no one will trust me again.”
Fatigue from trying to explain life’s realities and years of shouldering more than her share of responsibility swamped her. How could someone in her early thirties, who’d lived so little, be so bone-tired?
Then she remembered. Three months, and four days.
The thought revitalized Carly, and a calm enveloped her. With each passing day, she grew closer to riding off into the sunset.
Time for tough love and preparing her dad for the changes to come.
“I won’t manage the ranch’s finances anymore. Consider this my two-week notice.”
His eyes widened, and his mouth hung open. He tried to speak, but sputtered, stopped, and started again. “What’ll I do?”
Rhett Butler’s famous words about not giving a damn rattled through Carly’s head. Cliché, but fitting, the phrase would be satisfying to throw at her father. It would also be petty, and she refused to give into the childish emotion. “You’ll have to figure it out. I hate managing the ranch finances. I always have. I only handled the books to help, but I’m done.”
Since becoming executive director, she’d dreaded getting out of bed in the morning. She wanted to leap out ready to tackle the day because she couldn’t see living her life any other way. And that meant leaving Service before she became a bitter woman with a house full of regret and cats as her only companions.
“Two weeks, then you’re on your own with the ranch,” Carly said, resolve ringing in her voice. Then she turned and walked away. For the first time, she felt as if she’d taken charge of her life.
*
The giantWelcome Home, Owen! Service is Proud of Youbanner hanging above the traditional Southern-style porch of his parents’ house, along with half the town crowded on the front lawn, sent a queasy feeling roiling through Owen’s stomach. Settled on a small ranch a mile from town, his parents’ place was the perfect blend of privacy and access to town. Except today. He swallowed hard and concentrated on his breathing, hoping the breakfast burrito he’d eaten during his layover would stay down.
“Surprise!” his parents shouted in unison from the Suburban’s front seat as his dad parked the truck in the driveway. “We decided to have a small welcome-home party.”
Lord help him if they’d decided to throw a big bash.
“I wish you’d warn—” He paused, swallowed hard, and chose another word. “I wish you’d told me.”
His mother peeked over her seat and smiled. “Then it wouldn’t have been a surprise, and I know you. If we’d have told you about the party, you’d have asked us not to have it.”
She had that right. He’d never been one to make a big deal out of something, and even less so now. The last thing he wanted was attention and a party over his return. It didn’t feel right celebrating he’d gotten out with his skin attached, when Landon, or rather the pieces they scraped up, came home in a box and lay buried in a plot in Service’s cemetery.
Damn. Coming back to Service is gonna be harder than I expected.
No avoiding dealing with it now. Time to cowboy up and barrel through.
“How many invitations did you send? It looks like half the town’s here.”
“I didn’t formally invite anyone. I just mentioned to a handful of people that you were coming home and said if they wanted to stop by, they could.”
His father shut off the engine. “You know the folks in Service. We honor our veterans, especially heroes like you.”
Damn. He hated that word associated with him. Landon was the hero for throwing himself on the suicide bomber to save the rest of them.
The memories clawed at Owen, tearing up his insides. No, he refused to go there now. He couldn’t. Not with friends and neighbors he’d known most of his life, surrounding the truck, cheering and calling out greetings, their gazes locked on him with pride. Owen inhaled deeply, trying to shut out their excited voices pricking at his skin.
Forcing himself to smile, he waved back at folks. After another deep breath to prepare for this performance, he opened the truck door. When he stepped out, the chaotic mix of voices and cheering created an indiscernible noise pounding in his head. The crowd advanced on him with hands outstretched to shake his while others thumped him on the back.
“Give the man some room,” his father’s voice boomed as he cleared a path with Owen stumbling behind him. If his dad’s chest puffed out any farther, he’d bust out of his best blue dress shirt. “Y’all come inside. There’ll be plenty of time to talk to Owen.”
Owen staggered forward hoping his legs, stiff from sitting too long, would hold him. He misjudged the porch step and stumbled. His mother materialized beside him, leaned forward, and whispered in his ear. “Take my arm.”
“I’m fine.”
“No, you’re not. Where’s your cane?”
He’d left the damn thing in the car because he wasn’t an invalid. While the doctor insisted he needed it for stability, Owen managed fine without. Course, he moved slower than a hog leaving the feeding trough, but if he took his time, he got where he was going. More importantly, he had no intention of raising questions resulting from him waltzing in with a cane. “I’m not sure where it is.”
