Page 8

My heart pounds wildly inside my chest, and one of the monitors I’m hooked to makes a shrill sound. A nurse rushes into the room as I fight to keep my emotions in control. She flits nervously around me, checking my pulse and pushing buttons on the machines, and when I struggle to sit up, she helps me. Her eyes are sad, and I instantly know that she’s aware of what’s going on. “Try to relax,” she whispers before exiting the room.

The minute the door shuts behind her, something inside of me shatters.

“No!” I cry. “Ple—ease, no…” Slumping forward, I wrap my arms around my stomach. In the blink of an eye, several sets of arms come around me, holding me as violent sobs wrack my body.

“I’m so sorry.”

“Oh, Katie.”

“We’ll get through this.”

Words of comfort are whispered, but with the blood rushing through my ears and the pounding in my head, I can’t make out who they’re coming from … or maybe I just don’t care. Everything around me becomes muffled except for the two words that keep echoing through my head.

He’s gone.

Oh my God, he’s gone.

“No!” I cry out, trying to curl myself into a ball, only to feel the grip around my body get tighter. “Nooooo. Oh, God—” I choke on my own words as I fight to suck in air. A mangled cry rips from my lungs when a knife-like pain stabs through the center of my chest, shredding everything in its way as it carves a path straight to my heart and then even deeper as it slices straight through my soul.

Hundreds of memories flash through my head.

Standing on his toes as we dance across the kitchen.

His smile the first time I hit a home run in Little League.

My hand slides into my hair as a memory chokes me.

Waking up in a vehicle, seeing glass and metal twisted around me like a cage I can’t escape from.

The memory jars me, and an instant later I see another image.

My Daddy tying my hair in pigtails, tugging playfully at each one, telling me I’m his little princess.

I grip my head tighter as the pleasant memory dissipates into something frightening.

My father is covered in blood, his eyes are cracked open—lifeless—and I watch, helplessly, as the color drains from his face.

This can’t be happening. He can’t be gone … he just can’t. I didn’t get to say goodbye. A deep groan rumbles through my chest at the thought of never getting to see him again, or hug him, or tell him I love him. “Ple—ase,“ I beg, hiccupping through the sobs.

“I know, baby. I know.” This time I recognize my mom’s sweet voice, and I fist my hands in her shirt and hold on for dear life.

I have no idea how long we sit here and cry. Minutes … maybe hours. But I eventually cry myself to sleep, and when I wake up some time later, the room is dark, lit only by the dull glow of the moon filtering through the window. At some point during the night, everyone must have switched places because Mom and Bailey are both asleep with their heads on the bed at either side of my body. Bailey’s arm is stretched across my legs as though she’s holding on to me, and I reach out a hand and brush it softly across her forehead. Wyatt is passed out in the recliner next to my bed, his head propped awkwardly on a rolled-up sweatshirt.

Stretching my arms above my head, I let out a big yawn. My heavy lids bob several times as my sleep-induced fog lifts, and within seconds, I’m being slapped in the face with a heavy dose of reality.

My nose burns with impending tears, and I take a deep breath to try and hold myself together—if only for a minute. And really it’s only a couple of seconds. Bending forward, I bury my face in my hands and I bawl. My chest physically aches, and if hearts can truly break, then mine has been demolished. The thought of not seeing my dad every day scares the living shit out of me. He was the first man to ever love me, and knowing that he’s gone—knowing that he’ll never walk me down the aisle or teach my kids how to saddle a horse—is devastating. Squeezing my eyes shut, I try and remember everything about him that I possibly can because suddenly I feel the need to catalog every memory.

Christopher Devora was a bear of man. Six foot two and well over two hundred and fifty pounds. His thick hair was the most beautiful shade of silver, but you never would’ve known it because he refused to go anywhere without his Stetson. I’ve been told countless times that my rich chocolate eyes are the exact replicate of his, and I’ve always taken that as a compliment.

He was so much more than just my dad—and he was an amazing dad—he was also my best friend. Sure, I was close with my mom, but growing up I was a daddy’s girl through and through. Dresses and makeup? No, thank you! Most days you would find me in a ball cap and cowboy boots, raising hell on the farm. Everything he did, I did, and not once did he make me feel like I couldn’t do something just because I was a girl. By the time I was twelve, I was helping him break horses, mend fences and I could change the oil in every tractor, four-wheeler and snowmobile in our shed.

“Katie?”

I look up, wiping the tears from my face, and find my mom watching me.

“How long have you been awake?” she asks, stretching her arms above her head. Her eyes are still bloodshot and puffy—from all the crying, no doubt. I can’t even imagine the hell she’s gone through.

I lean back on the bed. “Not long. Ten or fifteen minutes.”