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Swearing, he went back to the broccoli.
The phone rang again, and he cut his finger. Blood squirted across the vegetables and dotted the countertop.
Bret screamed, “Daddy, you’re bleeding!”
Riiiiing … riiiiing …
The smoke detector went off, buzzzzzz. Liam reached for the phone and knocked the wok with his hip. Greasy chicken and burning oil and smoke flew everywhere.
It was Myrna from Lou’s Bowl-O-Rama, wondering if there was anything she could do.
When Liam hung up, he was breathing so hard he felt dizzy. He saw Bret, backed against the cold fridge, his whole body shaking, his thumb in his mouth.
Liam didn’t know if he wanted to scream or cry or run. Instead, he knelt in front of Bret. The smoke alarm was still bleating, blood was still dripping from Liam’s forefinger. “I’m sorry, Bretster. But it’s okay. ”
“That’s not how Mommy cooks. ”
“I know. ”
“We’ll starve. ”
He put his hands behind Bret’s head and stared into his son’s eyes, as if by pure will he could make Bret feel safe. “We won’t starve. Now, how about we go to town for dinner?”
Bret looked up at him. “I’m gonna go change my clothes, okay?”
Liam hugged him again. It was the only thing he could think of to do.
Bret was crying, softly now, silently, and Liam felt as if his own heart would break at the pathetic silence of those tears.
Chapter Three
Jacey came home earlier than Liam expected, looking wan and tired. She hardly said a word; instead, she kissed his cheek and headed up to her room.
When he was pretty sure that both kids were asleep, Liam went into Mikaela’s office. He opened the door and flicked on the light.
The first thing he noticed was her fragrance, soft and sweet as newfallen rain. Her desk was scattered with piles of haphazardly stacked papers. If he closed his eyes, he could imagine her sitting at that desk, a cup of steaming French Roast coffee in her hand, her gaze glued to the computer screen as she wrote letter after letter on behalf of animals that were being neglected.
On an ordinary day, she would have looked up at him, her mouth turned downward, her beautiful eyes filled with compassion. There’s a mare in Skykomish so starved she can’t stand up … Can we take in one more?
He went to her desk and pushed a pile of newspapers off the chair. They hit the wooden floor with a thwack. He turned on the computer and maneuvered himself onto the Internet, where he ran a search for “Head injury. ”
For the next hour, he read about other people’s pain. He filled up almost an entire yellow legal pad with scribbled bits of information—books, specialists, medications. Anything and everything that might make a difference. But in the end, he knew only what he’d known at the beginning. There was nothing to do but wait …
He clicked the machine off without even bothering to close out of the program and left the room.
Downstairs, he poured himself a double shot of tequila—something he hadn’t done since the Tex-Mex hoedown at the Legion Hall two summers ago. He drank it in one swallow. Disappointed that the world still seemed remarkably stable, he poured and drank another. This, at last, lent his mind a soft dullness, and finally the knot in his throat eased.
He went to the big picture window that framed the darkened pastures below. The horses couldn’t be seen now on this black night, but they were out there. A dozen horses that Mikaela had saved; they’d come from all over the western half of the state, from groups and individuals and bankrupt farms. They arrived, broken and starved and untended, but Mike healed them, one by one, then gave them away to good homes. She had such a tender heart. It was one of the things he loved most about her.
But when was the last time he’d told her that? He couldn’t remember, that was the hell of it.
He’d never been good with words. He showed his love, over and over again, but he knew that words mattered, too.
He wished to hell he could remember the last time he’d told her that she was his sun and his moon, his whole world.
He poured another shot and slumped on the overstuffed down sofa.
She could die …
