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Chapter Twenty
Spencer lay on Clarissa’s couch and stroked her hair as she finished the story of her “disastrous demo” in San Antonio.
“I’m so sorry, baby,” he whispered. Her tears had wetted the front of his shirt, and his heart bled for this good woman. She had a dream, and she’d gone after it. She’d come up short, and that hurt, no matter who it was. He’d had things like that happen to him too, and he understood.
Outside, a summer thunderstorm rolled through the sky, where thunder could break and grumble and groan through the clouds for over a minute. The rain hadn’t actually started yet, but all the cowboys had been out early on this Monday morning to get every cow, horse, pig, and chicken fed and sheltered before the storm hit.
Clarissa had arrived home last night, but she hadn’t answered her phone or her door when Spencer had texted and dropped by. Now he knew why. Her humiliation felt like a bottomless pit to him, and he wanted to tell her she’d never see Marco Holmbrook again anyway.
He wasn’t going to tell her that though. He was just going to hold her and let her know he supported her. He closed his eyes as her breathing evened, and he didn’t mind the gray light coming through the windows so much if he could hold this woman in his arms.
“I’m going to go anyway,” Clarissa said several minutes later. She sat up, and he shifted with her. He stay laying down, his spine pressed into the back of the couch while she perched on the edge of it.
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, if I stay here, I’m never going to go to San Antonio,” she said, pushing her hands through her hair. She combed it with her fingers, trying to get it to lie flat. “I’m just going to pack and go. I’m not going to wait until I have a job.” She got to her feet, the energy in her house completely different now. “I can stay with Cherry while I figure out an apartment. I can be there, applying in person for jobs at cafés, coffee shops, those little kiosks in the mall.”
Spencer sat up too, sure Clarissa had no idea what she was saying. “I’m pretty sure they don’t cook at those kiosks,” he said. “That’s called frying churro dough and sprinkling on cinnamon sugar.”
“Someone has to make the dough,” she snapped back at him.
He didn’t think so; they came frozen in boxes. But he said nothing as he got to his feet. “I’m going to head home and get my laundry done.”
Clarissa acted like she hadn’t heard him, and she probably hadn’t. He reached for his cowboy hat, which he’d hung on the hook by her back door, and turned to kiss her good-bye. “Who’s cookin’ tonight at the farmhouse?” he asked.
He only went if Wayne or Clarissa invited him, though Chrissy had a few times too. Spencer had dodged those, because they felt like attempts to set him up with Clarissa. He supposed they were dating now, and the setting up had already happened.
“Daddy cooks on Mondays,” Clarissa said, her heart not in the kiss at all. Spencer had kissed her enough to know the difference.
“Okay, I’ll see you later.” He stepped out onto the porch and looked west to the rest of the farm and then east toward his house. He took a deep breath, not sure which way to go right now. Should he and could he follow Clarissa to San Antonio? Should he and could he call the New Jersey police and find out if they’d found his father?
The Deputy Chief had assured him that the tip could remain anonymous to the perpetrator, though Spencer had given his name. Only the cops would know; they wouldn’t tell anyone else, and it wouldn’t be reported in the news.
Spencer had been checking every day, and so far, he’d seen nothing. No mention of him, but there was no mention that the cops had caught up to Ernest either. He honestly wasn’t sure he wanted them to, though he had called in the tip and given the make, model, and license plate number of the light blue truck to the detective.
His conscience pricked at him constantly, and he told himself he had to be an upright, law-abiding citizen. He’d seen too many men make silly or innocent mistake and end up in prison. Heck, some of his best friends at Hope Eternal had stories just like that.
The thunder broke the sky again, and that got him to move. He hurried down Clarissa’s back steps, jogged across the lawn as a wind picked up, and had just arrived on his back porch when the sky opened and the rains fell.
The sound of the water drops against the rooftop was deafening—and also one of his favorite noises. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath of the earth getting cleansed and renewed by the rain.
He went inside his house, the whole afternoon in front of him. There would be a lot of work to do tomorrow to clean up around the farm, but for right now, he just wanted chocolate, an old western on TV, and a pillow so he could take a nap.
* * *
Just as predicted,the following morning, Spencer found himself working through his second pair of soaked and muddy gloves as he helped Gary and Lee reset a fence.
“A little higher on that side,” Lee said, plenty of pressure in his voice. “Got it, Gary?”
Spencer and Gary lifted the heavy metal gate a little higher, though Spencer’s muscles felt like they could snap at any moment. His patience felt the same way, actually. Clarissa had ignored his texts for another evening, and he really thought they’d matured past such a thing.
Lee grunted, and Spencer groaned, and together, the three of them got the gate seated on the pins. The weight released as the posts bore it, and Spencer stepped back, his chest heaving.
Lee dropped the bolt in place and started tightening it while they all breathed a sigh of relief. “That’s it for the dairy herd,” he said. “How are things lookin’ on the agri-side?”
“Not great,” Gary admitted. “We lost a door on the stable to the wind overnight. A couple of chickens are missing, but they usually turn up. I’ve got Chris and Mack out casing all the fences in the pastures before we let any animals out. And our equipment shed guys are checking any vehicles left out in fields during the storm.”
“So we don’t know everything yet,” Lee said.
