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“Great,” Tessa murmured.
“He’ll call back,” Mitchell said without much conviction. “And when he does, just make sure you answer the phone.”
“I will.” Leaning her head against the window, she sighed and said, “We’ve got to talk to Dad, you know.”
Mitchell’s shoulders stiffened. “About what?”
“You know what. His drinking. He needs help.”
“I’ve talked until I’m blue in the face. It doesn’t help.”
“Something’s got to. Not only is it unhealthy, but it’s dangerous.” She swallowed against a lump forming in her throat. “It won’t be easy, but we’ve got to help him.”
“He drinks because of the fire, damn it! Everyone blamed him, the town was against him, Colton and Denver all but accused him of murder.”
“He drank before the fire, Mitch. We both know it. When they pulled him out of the stables, he was out cold, and it wasn’t just from the smoke.”
Mitch tossed her an angry glare. “You’re beginning to sound like a McLean.”
“I’m not—”
“A few days in California and Denver’s got you convinced that Dad started the fire, Dad’s got a drinking problem and Dad was ripping off the ranch,” he grumbled, the back of his neck dark with rage. “Just remember who stuck by you, Tess. When you were torn apart. Where was McLean?”
Tessa clamped her mouth shut and seethed in silence.
Mitchell cranked down the window. Cool air swept into the warm cab. “The only other things that have happened on the ranch are that one of the tractors broke down—the clutch went out, and there are a couple of calves that turned up sick. I think they might have gotten into something—probably turpentine poisoning. Several branches from a pine tree near the barn blew down and the calves got into the needles. I called Craig Fulton and he said he’d be over as soon as he could.”
“How serious?” Tessa asked.
“Not too bad, but I can’t tell.” He glanced at her. “Look, I’m sorry I got on you about McLean, but that guy has a way of getting under my skin.”
Mine, too, Tessa thought, sighing. Mine, too.
* * *
Before she changed, Tessa thought she’d check on the two sick calves. She found them in a corner of the barn, lying on straw, rolling eyes up at her as she entered. “How’re you?” she asked, rubbing her hand along one ruddy hide.
The calf bawled, his head drooping, but he struggled to his feet. As well as she could, she examined him, noting that though he was listless, he seemed sturdy. The other calf, a heifer, was worse. She barely moved when Tessa examined her. “Come on,” Tessa said, rubbing the heifer’s white face. “Hang in there.”
Dusting her hands, Tessa walked toward the south end of the barn, but stopped as the odor of stale liquor filtered through smells of horses, cows and dust.
Then she saw him. Lying facedown on a bale of straw, an empty bottle dangling from the fingers of one outstretched arm, her father, dead to the world, snored loudly.
“Oh, no!” Tessa whispered, swallowing hard. “Dad, no.” She touched him gently on the shoulder.
He didn’t move.
“Wake up, Dad,” she said, shaking him. Why couldn’t she help him? Why couldn’t he help himself? What demon possessed him that forced him to seek comfort in a bottle of Scotch?
Her stomach tightened painfully.
He snorted.
“For God’s sake, Dad,” she muttered, hauling him to a sitting position before shaking his shoulders so that his eyes rolled open and he co
ughed.
“What the devil?” he growled, rousing a little. He shoved her hands aside. Wincing and squinting one eye, he grumbled loudly. “Wha—what’s goin’ on?”
