Page 20 of Unbroken (Poplar Springs #2)
EIGHTEEN
ELI
I hated having to spend time in town. Stepping foot anywhere around Poplar Springs had me feeling as if I were under the town’s magnifier.
I couldn’t shake off the anxious sense that, any second now, the sun shining through that lens would burn me to a crisp.
Admittedly, that might be blowing the situation out of proportion but if one more person looked in my shopping cart and made a comment, I would not be responsible for my actions.
“Someone sick?” a male voice asked and I only just managed to swallow down an angry retort when I realized the questioner was our local sheriff, Brian Thorne.
“Patrick,” I told him. My son had been sniffly most of yesterday and woke up in the middle of the night burning up with a fever.
An internet search, plus advice from my mom, was how I came up with the shopping list: chicken broth, garlic, ginger, berries, bananas, carrots, celery, dinosaur shaped pasta, crackers, juice… . It was a lengthy list.
Brian nodded. “Yeah, something seems to be making the rounds. My nephew, Henry, came down with something last week. My sister-in- law, Amy, said he felt like shit for two to three days but was then back to normal. I think the mayor’s been sick too.”
“That’s good to hear about Henry’s recovery.
I’ve no idea where Patrick could have gotten it from since he spends most of his days either with me or my mom and neither of us are sick.
” As I said it, there was a ruckus and several people came through the main entrance in a cluster.
They were all wearing polos with the name of my dad’s church over the breast and on the sleeve.
One of them made a big show of grabbing boxes of facial tissue while someone else was carrying soda.
“Or I guess he could have picked up something from my dad.” I shook my head watching the church members sniffling and touching things in the store while they shopped.
“On that note, I think I’m done shopping here for today,” Brian said. “I do not need to get sick.”
One of the group coughed, and that was it for me. “I think I am too.”
Brian clapped me on the back and laughed. “Let’s get out of here.”
We paid for our respective groceries. Once everything was loaded, I drove to my mom’s house.
When I’d left there two hours ago, Patrick had been lying on the couch under a blanket, and watching cartoons.
When I walked into her place—loaded down with bags, since I’d been determined to bring everything inside in one trip—Patrick was still in the same spot, but he was sound asleep.
His breathing sounded raspy but he didn’t appear to be struggling.
“Did you get everything I asked for?” my mom called from the kitchen. I told her I did and unpacked everything. She had chicken simmering on the stove already and she grabbed some of the fresh items and prepped them to add to the chicken soup pot.
Growing up, my mom didn’t have a huge repertoire of meals that she would make.
I had memories of her cooking more when I was younger—more adventuresome meals—but as I got older, the list of options dwindled and our dinners became downright boring.
Mondays was pot roast, Tuesdays was soup or stew, Wednesdays was spaghetti with canned sauce and some sort of meat added, Thursdays and Saturdays were leftovers, Fridays was some sort of frozen and breaded fish, and Sundays, we tended to nibble the leftover foods the parishioners brought.
Even now, I could list out the different meals from memory.
Once Beatrice Carter left my father and moved into her own place, she shared that he had made disparaging comments about her cooking for most of their marriage and had pigeon-holed her into only making certain dishes.
At the point she started cooking for herself, she’d returned to trying new things and had even taken a couple online cooking classes.
It was in one of those classes that she’d picked up her recipe for “anti-inflammatory chicken soup,” which was laden with garlic, ginger, citrus, and a bunch of herbs.
I hadn’t thought Patrick would like it since it was always a battle to get that kid to eat his vegetables, but he’d proved me wrong and he loved it when his grandma made it for him.
Hence why she was currently leaning over a steaming pot on a Sunday morning and throwing ingredients into the biggest cooking pot I’d ever seen.
“It smells amazing, Mom, but how many people are you cooking for?”
She had a spoon in her hand, blowing at the hot broth before tasting it.
“Well, there’s the three of us, plus George and Maureen next door have been feeling poorly, and I plan to freeze a lot of it, so I won’t have to make it again for a while.
Did you get the almond crackers or the regular saltines? ”
“Both. Some of Dad’s helpers were in Hastings while I was shopping and they looked like they had the same thing Patrick does.
I guess now I know where he got it.” Patrick spent very little time with his grandfather, but if my old man was sick, he definitely could have passed it on.
Samuel Carter was a devoted believer in shaking anyone and everyone’s hands, often quoting Proverbs: The rich and the poor shake hands as equals, or something like that.
I’d gone looking for it at one point, but could never find the actual quote.
Suffice to say, whenever anyone in his church became ill with a cold or the flu, Samuel Carter was sure to get it too since he still insisted on shaking their hands.
I let Patrick sleep and I used my phone to look at some of the drone footage that Zoe had gotten back when she was building up the ranch’s website.
This particular footage showed the mountain trails that danced between Lost Valley’s property line and the Colorado State Park.
We’d been toying with the idea of creating add-on packages for the regular trail rides.
Mostly dreaming about ways to bring in more customers.
Josh had already been approached by the local troop leaders about setting up some badge days where the kids could earn the Horsemanship Merit Badge for the Boy Scouts and the Equestrian Activity Badge for the Girl Scouts.
I remembered completing the merit badge when I was a Boy Scout and I liked the idea of helping kids complete badges.
We’d also had requests for overnight trips, which was why I was looking at the trail routes.
I wasn’t entirely sure how I’d manage any overnights while taking care of Patrick, unless I brought him with me.
Though come to think of it, he’d probably love the chance to ride horses and camp.
When Patrick roused around two, he was looking a lot better.
Also, he was hungry, which was a relief.
I couldn’t stand it when he was sick. He always looked so small and miserable and it would break my heart that I didn’t have some sort of an easy button I could tap to help him feel better faster.
But now, he looked like he was on the mend, and all he needed was a big bowl of grandma’s special soup.
After we finished, I helped my mom clean up and she packaged up a portion of the soup for us to bring with us.
As I drove us home, I was hit with the very real reminder that when—not if—I found another job and we moved, I would no longer be able to rely on my mother for help with Patrick.
While she would be available by phone and video chat, if Patrick got sick and had to stay home from school or if I got held up at work, she wouldn’t be there to help.
As much as I prided myself on being a single parent and raising a great kid, I’ve never been truly on my own before.
A part of me wondered if I could do it or would I end up returning to this damn town in defeat with yet another reason for everyone to look at me like I was a failure.