Page 54 of Scent to the Feral Cowboys

"That's not right," she said, shaking her head firmly. "Richard never goes anywhere without telling me. He's never even taken a business trip without calling me every night." Her voice rose slightly. "Where is he? Why isn't he here?"

"He's—" I couldn't finish the sentence. Every lie I could come up with stuck in my throat, like I’d swallowed a tablespoon of peanut butter. I had nothing to wash down the stickiness, nothing to make this better and help my grandmother accept a falsehood.

"I want to see Richard," she insisted, her fingers clutching at the armrests of her wheelchair. "He promised he'd never leave me. He promised."

"I know he did," I whispered.

"You're lying to me," she said suddenly, her eyes sharpening with a moment of dreadful clarity. "Something's happened to him, hasn't it? Is he hurt? Is he in the hospital?"

I looked away, unable to meet her gaze. "No, he's not in the hospital."

"Then where is he?" she demanded, her voice rising. "What aren't you telling me?” She looked past me, gaze going frantic. “Richard! Richard!" She called out his name, looking towards the doorway now, as if expecting him to appear any moment.

A nurse I didn't recognize hurried over, her eyes meeting mine with sympathy. "Mrs. Shaw seems agitated. Let me help her back to her room for a rest."

"No! I don't want to go to my room. I want to see my husband!" Grandmother's face had flushed, her hands now gripping the nurse's uniform. "He's never late. Never. Something's wrong. Where is he?"

"It's alright, Mrs. Shaw," the nurse soothed, beginning to wheel her away. "Let's go have a nice cup of tea, and I'm sure Richard will come see you soon. You're his special girl, aren’t you? He’d never stay away for long."

Why could this stranger spit the lies out? Why could she say it so sweetly, so full of kindness?

Was that all my grandmother had left in this world—lies upon lies, to explain why my grandpa was gone? How many times would she ask for him, only to be distracted or redirected from the painful truth?

Desperately, I wanted to follow them. I wanted to kiss my grandmother’s forehead one last time. I needed to hear her say my name. Just a few more moments, that’s all I wanted, to look at her beautiful, aged face and remember when it had fewer wrinkles and worries. But I was even more a stranger to her now than the gentle nurse. She wouldn’t find my touch comforting.

The nurse looked over her shoulder briefly, giving me a small nod as she wheeled Grandmother out of sight. She’d already calmed down under the nurse’s soothing touch. I wondered if that was part of their training here, learning what to say to someone who can’t remember their grief, but somehow feels it so sharply.

Back in my car, the dam broke. I pressed my forehead against the steering wheel and sobbed—ugly, gasping cries that seemed to come from some deep, wounded place I hadn't known existed. I cried for Grandpa, for Grandmother, for myself and the life I'd lost. I cried until my throat was raw and my eyes burned, and my chest ached with the effort of it.

When there were no tears left, I sat up and looked at myself in the rearview mirror. My face was blotchy, my eyes swollen.

I looked like hell. I felt like hell.My entire fucking life was hell.

I shook myself back to life, or an approximation of it, and I started the Subaru.

It was already packed with the belongings from the hotel and everything I hadn't sent to storage—clothes, a few books, my ballet keepsakes. I’m not sure why I kept the stupid ballet awards and photos with me, all they did was torture me with the loss of my dreams. Maybe remembering was better than forgetting though.

On the passenger seat lay Grandmother's handmade quilt, folded carefully into a square. I’d thought about having it preserved. Sealed in a box. Put into storage for safekeeping. My heart couldn’t take it though. I knew using it every night meant it wouldn’t last forever, but I couldn’t bear to part with it. It was home to me now. The last bit I had left.

Next week, I'd drive back up to supervise the movers emptying my Tacoma storage unit, but that would be quick and businesslike. This was the real goodbye.

As I pulled away from Serenity House, the sun was setting behind me. It painted the sky above bright pink and cast long shadows across the pavement ahead. A part of me felt terrified that this was a warning—that I was leaving any remaining happiness behind and heading towards even darker days. After that disturbing though, I didn't look in the rearview mirror again. Even though it was now tainted by broken dreams, lost family, and a shattered heart, I couldn't bear to watch my home city recede into the distance.

Whatever lay ahead in Seattle, it had to be better than what I was leaving behind.

It had to be, or I might not survive it.

14

COOPER

Two weeks ago...

[Almost present day]

Sagebrush Ranch, Wyoming

To keep from losing my shit and throwing the expensive stand mixer against a wall, I moved to the kitchen window. I slid one finger up the splattered, sweetened egg whites on my chest and shoved that same finger into my mouth.