distressed hen. “Come in! As if you ain’t been through enough, my brains joggle at the sight of you and I leave you in the cold. You must be terrible tired and horrible hungry, but I’ll get you fed up and settled in before you know it!”
“Thank you.” Jess allowed herself to be led through the door but halted in the hallway.
Home
. Dark wainscoting paneled the lower half of the walls, familiar but faded damask wall hangings stretched to the ceiling. Jess breathed in the scent of beeswax tinged with lemon oil, laid over the earthier fragrances of ranch living and rain. For one mad moment she fought the urge to race along the hardwood floors and take the turn into Papa’s office so fast her feet slipped.
No matter how fast she ran or how hard she wished, she wouldn’t find him. Never again.
Her chest constricted painfully until Jess drew a jagged breath. The tight ache eased enough to allow a few steps, taking her past the round occasional table gracing the entry. She fought the urge to reach out and finger the fresh wildflowers filling her mama’s blue willow-patterned vase. If she stopped, she feared she might do something unutterably foolish—like snatch the vase to her chest, sink to the floor, and weep until she ran dry.
Instead she continued to the right, down the hall, and opened the door to Papa’s study. Bookcases cushioned the walls, bracing the massive claw-foot desk she remembered so well. But the desk sat empty. No cheery fire cast flickering light around the room. The stale smell of cigars long since smoked teased her memories and sparked sudden outrage. Her grip tightened on the door handle, unwilling to let go as she turned to face the woman her father chose to take care of him.
The woman who’d let him continue smoking cigars, even after the doctor cautioned against them. Papa’s lung might have been weakened by the bronco’s kick seven years ago—old guilt grabbed her at the thought—but was it any wonder it kept collapsing if he kept doing the work of younger men and refused to give up something as insignificant as cigars? Was this why he died?
“You let him smoke?” Accusation bit through the words, questioning more than mere cigars.
“I didn’t
let
Simon do anything, or
make
him do anything.” The housekeeper sounded sympathetic. “No one did. He laid down his own laws.
“Simon?” Jess caught hold of the familiarity, partly out of curiosity but mostly because she didn’t want to admit the woman made a valid point. She knew better than anyone that when Papa set out on a path, no amount of reasoned arguments or emotional pleas could make him change course.
“Simon,” Desta repeated softly, not defensive or apologetic. If anything, the woman looked thoughtful. “I wondered if you were just surprised by my coloring, but you don’t know the other.”
The blatant reference to things she didn’t know made Jess’s teeth clench. “Other?”
“You’ve suffered a long day capped with disappointment. What say we get you upstairs and I’ll bring up water for a hot bath? Once you’re rested, you can ask all the questions you like.” If she’d sounded superior and issued orders, Jess would’ve demanded answers straightaway. But even after she’d snapped questions about her place in the household and implied the woman hadn’t cared properly for Papa, the housekeeper remained calm and kind, trying to ease Jess’s homecoming.
Something about this woman spoke of strength and called for the same in others. For the first time since she hit the porch and the door opened, Jess spared a thought for someone else.
What must it be like for this woman, who’d looked after the Bar None for a half-dozen years, to find Jess on her doorstep? Did she chafe at her subservient position to an unexpected visitor? What deep-seated decency made her welcome the daughter of the man she’d worked for, fielding insolent questions with quiet understanding? Shame cooled Jess’s rioting
“Thank you.” Jess allowed herself to be led through the door but halted in the hallway.
Home
. Dark wainscoting paneled the lower half of the walls, familiar but faded damask wall hangings stretched to the ceiling. Jess breathed in the scent of beeswax tinged with lemon oil, laid over the earthier fragrances of ranch living and rain. For one mad moment she fought the urge to race along the hardwood floors and take the turn into Papa’s office so fast her feet slipped.
No matter how fast she ran or how hard she wished, she wouldn’t find him. Never again.
Her chest constricted painfully until Jess drew a jagged breath. The tight ache eased enough to allow a few steps, taking her past the round occasional table gracing the entry. She fought the urge to reach out and finger the fresh wildflowers filling her mama’s blue willow-patterned vase. If she stopped, she feared she might do something unutterably foolish—like snatch the vase to her chest, sink to the floor, and weep until she ran dry.
Instead she continued to the right, down the hall, and opened the door to Papa’s study. Bookcases cushioned the walls, bracing the massive claw-foot desk she remembered so well. But the desk sat empty. No cheery fire cast flickering light around the room. The stale smell of cigars long since smoked teased her memories and sparked sudden outrage. Her grip tightened on the door handle, unwilling to let go as she turned to face the woman her father chose to take care of him.
The woman who’d let him continue smoking cigars, even after the doctor cautioned against them. Papa’s lung might have been weakened by the bronco’s kick seven years ago—old guilt grabbed her at the thought—but was it any wonder it kept collapsing if he kept doing the work of younger men and refused to give up something as insignificant as cigars? Was this why he died?
“You let him smoke?” Accusation bit through the words, questioning more than mere cigars.
“I didn’t
let
Simon do anything, or
make
him do anything.” The housekeeper sounded sympathetic. “No one did. He laid down his own laws.
“Simon?” Jess caught hold of the familiarity, partly out of curiosity but mostly because she didn’t want to admit the woman made a valid point. She knew better than anyone that when Papa set out on a path, no amount of reasoned arguments or emotional pleas could make him change course.
“Simon,” Desta repeated softly, not defensive or apologetic. If anything, the woman looked thoughtful. “I wondered if you were just surprised by my coloring, but you don’t know the other.”
The blatant reference to things she didn’t know made Jess’s teeth clench. “Other?”
“You’ve suffered a long day capped with disappointment. What say we get you upstairs and I’ll bring up water for a hot bath? Once you’re rested, you can ask all the questions you like.” If she’d sounded superior and issued orders, Jess would’ve demanded answers straightaway. But even after she’d snapped questions about her place in the household and implied the woman hadn’t cared properly for Papa, the housekeeper remained calm and kind, trying to ease Jess’s homecoming.
Something about this woman spoke of strength and called for the same in others. For the first time since she hit the porch and the door opened, Jess spared a thought for someone else.
What must it be like for this woman, who’d looked after the Bar None for a half-dozen years, to find Jess on her doorstep? Did she chafe at her subservient position to an unexpected visitor? What deep-seated decency made her welcome the daughter of the man she’d worked for, fielding insolent questions with quiet understanding? Shame cooled Jess’s rioting
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