leave,” Buck said, his throat closing as he swallowed.
“Bea?” The rough hand rubbed against Buck’s.
“Mama’s here, too. All of us.”
There was a long pause. Green spikes marched in regular waves across the heart monitor.
“Buck?”
“Yeah, Daddy?” Buck leaned forward. Even without seeing him, Hoyt knew who he was, knew he wasn’t T.J. or Hank.
“Don’t let Bea wear herself out, hear? You know how she gets.” Hoyt’s words echoed his earlier ones.
“I know how Mama gets.” Buck smiled in spite of the lump in his throat. “I’ll watch out for her. We’ll take care of her.”
“Shoot, son, sounds like y’all got me with one foot in the grave already.” Hoyt’s breath rattled as his chest rose laboriously up and down. “Don’t go picking out my tombstone just yet.” Slow, spaced out, the words fell into the quiet, the man’s spirit rising above the limitations of body and tubes. “I ain’t ready to call it a day, you know. I got things to do. Grandkids I ain’t seen yet.”
Tightening his hold around his daddy’s large hand, Buck said, “Reckon that means you want us to cancel the flowers, huh?”
The rasping cough was Hoyt’s version of a chuckle. “Hell, yeah. No sense in wasting all that money. I got a few miles left. Ain’t time to count me out, son.”
“I won’t.”
Hoyt’s eyes closed. “Good.”
“They were awful nice flowers, Daddy.”
“Hope to Billy hell they were.” An almost-smile twitched the corners of Hoyt’s mouth. “Y’all better show this old coot proper respect.” He grunted and then was silent, his chest moving slowly, slowly, rising and falling to the regular rhythm of his sleep.
Holding Hoyt’s hand between both of his, Buck stroked the rough, weathered skin as he whispered, “Hang in there, Daddy.” Carefully he squeezed his father’s hand. “I love you,” he whispered, his throat raspy with unshed tears.
For the rest of the night as Bea and Buck alternated visits, Hoyt drifted back and forth between consciousness and wherever he’d been. Like wings beating lightly against his face, Buck felt hope settle softly in him, easing the dreadful weight of fear. What would be, would be. They would handle it Together.
In the twilight between sleeping and waking, Buck saw a tiny red race car barreling past him over and over again while two women—one with sleek blond hair, the other with wildly tumbling curls—strolled toward him and continued past, their mocking laughs blending into one as they left him behind, alone.
And when night sounds changed to morning bustle, he sat up with a start, everything coming together in his brain with an almost audible click.
He knew damned good and well who she was.
And he was going to find her, one way or the other.
Oh, yes, he remembered Jessica Bell.
“I dub thee Sir Mommy.” The metal toy sword tapped Jessie’s left shoulder, then her right.
Her son’s excited eyes met hers as she opened them blearily. “I’m a knight of the realm, am I, love bug?”
“Yep.” He stood up, wrapping the rag-tattered afghan around him. A plastic, economy-size peanut butter bucket wobbled on his head. The strap under his chin kept it from falling off. “Me and Skeezes is kings.” He pointed. The dog’s shaggy eyebrows supported a paper plate cut into points. Red and blue and black scribbles decorated the plate. Sparkles drifted onto the floor, onto Skeezix’s coat.
Jessie yawned. “Nice hat. Skeezix, you’re the next GQ cover.”
“Skeezes is wearing the crown.” Gopher frowned. “See?” He lifted the unevenly cut cardboard. “Rubies and jewels. Oxen—” he frowned again “—and turkey-something.”
“Onyx and turquoise?”
Releasing his chubby grip on Skeezix’s crown, Gopher nodded, sparkles floated and Skeezix sneezed.
“How silly of me. I should have known. You’re a warrior king?” She tapped the top of the bucket. Snagging the strap under his chin, she tugged him toward her. “Well, this knight of the realm expects a big old smackeroo kiss from the warrior king, so pucker up, warrior king.”
Gopher’s soft lips puckered up, and he planted a warm, wet, sweet kiss on Jessie’s mouth. The bucket smacked her in the forehead, Skeezix planted his version of a smackeroo, and the doorbell rang.
Collapsing on top of her, giggling and woofing, child and dog wrestled her off the sofa. “Wow. Now that’s what I call a kiss, sugar. Haul Skeezix off me, will you?” Jessie fumbled for her glasses that had twisted off and lay buried somewhere under dog and child and cushions. “Hey, guys, anybody see my glasses?”
The doorbell rang again, two short, commanding peals.
Gopher held up her glasses. “Ransom, ransom!” Shrieking toward the door with the dog following him, he galloped around unpacked boxes and stacks of paint cans. “Ransom!”
“Never, says I, me buckeroo!” Chasing after him, Jessie leaped over a roll of wallpaper that appeared out of nowhere, staggered, and bounced off Skeezix’s flank. Sliding to a halt, she extended her arms in an effort to block Gopher’s feints and dodges.
“Runrunasfastas you can—” he paused for breath “—can’t catch me! I’m the gingerbread man!” He lowered his head and barreled toward her.
Four and a half was a delightful age, old enough so that she could see the person her son would be, young enough for goofy kisses and games. But four and a half was hard on a thirty-five-year-old body, she thought ruefully as he slipped through her grasp like beads of mercury.
On a prolonged note, the doorbell shrilled. “Hold your horses. We’re on our way,” Jessie grumbled, lunging for her speed-demon child. Grabbing Gopher around the waist, she threw him over her shoulder and pulled open the door as the bell sounded again. “Good grief,” Jessie muttered. “Keep your pants on, buster.”
“Yep, good grief,” Gopher repeated. “Keep your—”
“Enough, sugar.” Jessie blew a strand of hair out of her face.
Fanny wiggling in the air and nose pointed toward the door, Gopher lifted his head. “Hey, mister. You got your pants on. Why din’t you hold your horses?”
“Sorry.” Jessie laughed as she scooped her hair behind her ear. Late-afternoon sun shone into her eyes, made the man in front of her a lean shadow. Peering up and clasping her son’s bottom with one hand, Jessie inhaled. She didn’t need her glasses to recognize trouble when it came knocking at her door. “Hello, Jonas Riley.”
“And a very pleasant afternoon to you, Ms. Jessica Bell.”
“My mommy’s not a bell,” Gopher informed him. “She’s a McDonald, like old McDonald and me. Only we don’t got any chickens and cows, but we got dogs, Loofah and Mitzi and this is Skeezes—” he pointed “—and I like your hat and—”
“That’s enough, sugar,” Jessie repeated, letting her talkative terror slide to the ground. “Hand over my glasses, please.”
“Nope.” Gopher stared up at her, his bare toes curled under. “Ransom first.”
“George. Glasses. Now.” Jessie stared him down until he reluctantly handed her her eyeglasses.
“Unfair to Gopher!” he