24

Sienna

“I’m not back to full functioning anyway, Dad, and I’m worried I’ll hurt myself if I push it. I’ve already done too much, and my shoulder hurts as much as it did my third day after the fall.” Parts of this are true, sort of like parts of the letters were true. Maybe. There is a war taking place in my head. On one side, I know he’s not well enough to manage the ranch without me, and he can surely sense there is something bigger going on than what I’m telling him. On the other side of the battlefield is everything else. And that is what’s winning.

“You’re already coming over for Easter dinner tomorrow,” Beck says, smiling in a way I hope looks natural to Dad. She asked Clint to cover for her at the Easter egg hunt, which I know wasn’t easy for any of them. “And I’ll bring something by on Monday.”

“I don’t need dinners,” Dad says, a bit more sharply than either of us expects. He shakes his head. “Going through a storage unit can’t be easier than helping supervise things around here. Why do you have to go do that now?”

“Tyson was planning to do it but then came to the ranch instead. I feel well enough to make the drive, and we need to get it taken care of before the end of the month.” I don’t feel bad about lying anymore. Apparently lies and deception are the foundation of our relationship.

Dad lets out a breath and runs a hand through his hair, causing it to spike up. “The timing . . .”

“Is bad, I know. But I need to go. I’m sorry.” It’s a cold response and yet it’s as warm as I can manage. Eagerness to get out of here and do something has been growing like bindweed in my head, taking over everything else. I’ve been played for a fool, twisted and manipulated and powerless in my ignorance.

Dad stands up from the table and heads to the back door, a familiar response to conflict like this. All my life, that’s how he dealt with things, going outside to find something productive to do and keep from saying something he’d regret later. “All right, then. Good luck.”

The door closes behind him, and I turn to look at Beck.

“That was awful,” Beck said.

I nod and look around the house I grew up in, exactly the same now as it was twenty years ago. Orange and brown furniture, pine-paneled walls, brass light fixtures, and faux marble countertops. All the happy times and contentedness I used to feel slides through my fingers, and all I can see are the times Grandma chewed me out for this thing or that and the times Dad left the room instead of defending me. Was my childhood a happy one? Were the good times as big a lie as the letters were?

“You’re sure you’re up to this?” Beck asks as I stand and roll my shoulder.

“Yep.” I have to be. I can’t stay here a minute longer.