Daddy's Home

It was she who rose each night for the two o’clock feeding, she who burped and cuddled and changed the boy.

She hadn’t planned to be anyone’s mother. Not for years yet, in any case. If only…

“Don’t you think you’ve done enough for one day?” Gram asked, reaching for the infant and bouncing him against her shoulder, patting his back in an age-old, soothing rhythmic gesture. “You have to go to work early tomorrow. Besides, you’ve been called out three evenings in a row. Can’t the people around here stay out of trouble for a single night?”

She chuckled. “I don’t mind, Gram. Really. That’s why I went to medical school. I survived my residency with far less sleep than I get here. This town rolls up the carpet at six o’clock in the evening! In Denver, our worst hours were late at night.”

“Be that as it may,” Gram argued, “things have changed. You’ve got a little one dependent on you. You need to keep yourself healthy. For Sammy’s sake, Jasmine, if not your own.”

She laughed. “Gram, I’ve never been sick a day in my life, and you know it. I rarely even catch a cold!”

“For Sammy’s sake,” the old woman repeated, kissing the infant’s forehead.

Jasmine sighed. “For Sammy’s sake. Everything I’m doing is for Sammy’s sake. Not that I regret a minute of it.” She stroked one finger down his feathery cheek, enjoying the loud giggle that erupted from him. Staring down at him now, her heart welled with love.

“Take care of my baby.”

Her sister’s voice echoed through her head as if it were yesterday, and not three months past. Would that fluttery, empty feeling in the center of her chest ever really go away, or would she eventually learn to live with it? It caught her unawares at the oddest moments.

She closed her eyes and took a deep breath to steady her quivering nerves. “I’ve got to get back to these sweaters, or I’ll never get this done.”

Gram settled herself on the rocking chair in the corner of the baby’s room and adjusted Sammy on her lap. “We’ll be fine, dear. Just don’t be too long. I think he’s hungry.”

“I’m not surprised. That baby eats more than most kids twice his size,” she commented as she moved into the opposite bedroom. “There’s a bottle ready in the fridge if he gets too restless.”

She eyed the open closet defensively. Jenny’s clothes—blouses crammed haphazardly onto hangers, blue jeans rolled and stuffed on the shelf top above, the one dress she owned to wear for special occasions—beckoned to her.

She’d already put off this unpleasant task too long. The time had come for her to finish packing Jenny’s things away and to sell the bungalow.

She reached up to the shelf above her head and tugged on a pile of jeans, which came fluttering down on top of her. Something solid hit her head, making a loud, clapping noise and stinging her skin where it slapped. She instinctively threw her arms over her to protect herself from being beaned with further projectiles, but none were forthcoming. It was just one book.

A book had been rolled up in a pair of jeans? That was something she didn’t see every day. Curious, she reached to retrieve the errant missile.

A Bible. Jenny had a Bible, hidden away like a treasured possession. Somehow she’d assumed Jenny had left the faith, if her actions were anything to go by.

Curious, Jasmine thumbed the pages, recognizing the flowing loops and curves in the margins as Jenny’s handwriting. Even though Jenny said she hadn’t made peace with God until the end of her life, this Bible obviously had held some significance for her. Bits of paper were carefully folded into the book, as well as a single white rose, carefully pressed and dried, softly folded onto the page with the family tree.

Jasmine brushed her fingers over the crisp, dry calligraphy. “February twenty-fifth. Jennifer Lynn Enderlin married Christopher Scott Jordan.”

Tears burned in her throat, and she bit her lip to keep them from flowing. Would the pain never lessen?

She ran a finger over the black ink, the carefully formed letters. Jenny’s handwriting had always been so much neater than her own. It had been a source of endless amusement for Jenny to be able to harass her older sister about the chicken-scratching she passed off as handwriting. It was, she had often teased, God’s sure sign to her that Jasmine was meant to be a doctor.

She curled up on the floor against the edge of the bed, staring at the Bible. It was a tangible piece of Jenny. She could run her fingers down the cracked leather binding, read the notes Jenny made in the margins about the Scriptures she read.

Slowly, almost reverently, she opened the Bible, silently flipping page after page, pausing to read a comment here and a highlighted Scripture there. Jenny had obviously spent a lot of time in the Word before her death. Jasmine’s throat constricted around her breath.

The doorbell sounded. She snapped the book shut and stuffed it under Jenny’s pillow. Her thoughts whirlwinded as she considered who might be at the door. Perhaps someone was here to look at the bungalow, even though it wasn’t listed yet.

“I’ll get it!” she whispered, peeking into the extra bedroom. Sammy was sound asleep in Gram’s arms, and it appeared Gram, too, had taken the liberty of a small nap. Her chin nestled against the baby boy, and her mouth had dropped open with the light buzz of snoring.

Jasmine chuckled quietly and moved to the front door. It was only when her hand was already on the knob and she’d half opened the door that it occurred to her who might be waiting.

“Christopher!” Jasmine confirmed, staring up at the tall, ruggedly handsome man before her. “What are you doing here?”

Her heart skipped a beat, then thumped an erratic tempo in her throat, blocking her breath. Anger, shock and a dozen other emotions buzzed through her like a swarm of angry bees.

A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth, but it didn’t reach his eyes, which gleamed like cold, gray stones. Despite herself, Jasmine remembered how those eyes used to twinkle, changing in shade from a deep gray to a cobalt blue whenever he was happy.

He clearly wasn’t happy now. The quirk of a smile changed into a frown, matching the twin creases between his light brown eyebrows.

“That’s a fine welcome for an old…friend,” he commented slowly, his scowl darkening.

“What do you want?” she snapped, her voice cold. She felt a stab of guilt for her rudeness, but she brushed it away.

The man didn’t deserve better. In her book, anyone who deserted his family didn’t deserve much of anything. Except maybe a swift kick in the backside.

“Cut to the chase, Christopher.” The determined gleam in his eyes left no doubt he wasn’t here for a social call. And the sooner he was gone, the better.

Every muscle in her body had tensed to the point of physical pain, but that was nothing in comparison to the wrenching agony of her heart at seeing him again. She had no idea it would be this difficult to face the man she’d once loved with all her heart. She clenched her fists, her fingernails biting into her palms.

I’m not ready.

She knew she’d eventually have to confront him, but she’d hoped to be doing it on her terms, in her time, on her own turf. Three strikes and she was out before she even got a chance to bat.

He was taller than she remembered, with a lithe frame and broad shoulders. He curled a steel gray cowboy hat in his fists, leaving exposed the cowlick that made his light brown hair cock up just over his left eyebrow. She remembered once telling him it gave him a roguish appearance. He’d just laughed and shaken his head. Maybe if he’d known just how much she’d wanted to spend her life with him—to marry him and raise a family with him—things might have been different If only…

“Medical school has done wonders for your manners,” he commented gruffly. “What do they teach you there? How to offend your neighbors in one easy lesson?”

The barbs found their mark. “You’re not my neighbor.” She scratched out the words, since her throat had suddenly gone dry.

He raised one eyebrow. “No? Whatever happened to the Good Samaritan? Or didn’t you learn that one in church?”

Jasmine cringed inwardly. It wasn’t like him to throw Scripture at her that way. He possessed a strong, quiet faith, which he neither took lightly nor tossed in someone’s face like pearls before swine.

She wondered where that faith had gone. The past few months were proof of his decline. Choosing to marry Jenny over her without even the courtesy of a phone call, then up and abandoning the poor girl once she was carrying his child—the change was too great to fathom. The icy-eyed man standing before her was a virtual stranger.

“Maybe you haven’t heard,” he continued. “I’m living at Lucille’s place now.” He rolled the brim of his hat once more, then jammed it on his head.

“With the ranch hands,” she added dryly.

“Mmm. So you did know, then. I was wondering how long it would take for the news to get back to you. Small town and all.” He peered over her shoulder into the room. “Aren’t you going to invite me in?”

She heard Sammy cry out, and wondered if Christopher heard it, as well. With lightening swiftness, she stepped out onto the front porch and quietly but firmly closed the door behind her.

“No. I’d rather not.” She wondered if he heard the quavering in her voice, and determined to control it with all the force of her will.

Christopher appeared unaffected by her intentional rudeness. He placed a hand on the door frame above her right shoulder and leaned into her, his face only inches from her own.