Dry Creek Daddy

She shook her head. “My dad just misses Mom.”

“We all do,” Mark said and then paused. “Do you forgive everyone?”

“I try.” Hannah remembered how Mark always seemed to know her heart. She looked up as he stood there. In a moment, the hard years rolled away and she felt a rush of emotions. Maybe it was nothing but nostalgia. She didn’t know, but she had been in love with Mark a long time ago. She saw the same kind of emotion flit through his eyes before he turned thoughtful.

“Then why did you send back my letters?” he asked.

“What?” Hannah wondered if his mind was playing tricks on him. She’d never gotten any letters. Nor had she expected any since he was in a coma for so long. She’d taken Jeremy to visit him once in the hospital nursing home over a year ago, but Mark had not been conscious for that. Still, he was looking at her like he expected a response. “I—”

She was interrupted by the sound of a dish breaking in the kitchen.

“I better go,” she said as she headed for the doorway. She heard Mark’s footsteps following behind her. She wished he wasn’t here to witness the problems with her father, but she had no choice. She only hoped he would leave before her whole world crashed down upon her.

Chapter Three (#u2c88dd81-83c0-5bf4-9b0a-8c4774282058)

Mark stood in the doorway, relieved to see the kitchen hadn’t been as trashed as the living room. Yellow striped cotton curtains hung from rods on these windows. The beige countertop was worn, but empty of clutter. Mark was only beginning to understand the ripple effect of that night when he’d been injured. It hadn’t been only his and Hannah’s lives that had been thrown into chaos. His family had been hurt. Her father wounded. And Jeremy—what price had his son paid?

“You’ve kept the teakettle up nicely,” Hannah said from where she stood at the sink. “It’s polished.” Her father nodded from his place by the refrigerator. She seemed determined to be cheerful as she turned the water on and began to fill the copper kettle. Mark remembered she had often done that when they were children. Most children would complain at least a little about their parents. Not Hannah. She just put on a positive face and pretended everything was all fine.

“I kept everything up,” her father said as he walked over to the table. “That is, until—”

Mr. Stelling stood there mute before finally pulling out a chair.

Hannah’s jaw tightened, but she was silent.

“Until what?” Mark demanded. He might not have much to offer Hannah any longer, but he could at least stand as her champion in this house. He didn’t like that she felt the need to pretend to a satisfaction that couldn’t possibly be there.

The older man winced as he sat down. “I thought she—” he nodded toward Hannah “—and the boy might want to come for Christmas. I decided I needed to paint the living room before I asked—”

Mark heard the kettle fall and hit the bottom of the sink. He looked over at Hannah. Her mask was crumbling. Wide-eyed, she was staring at her father in genuine gratitude. Her father might be cranky, but he was not her enemy.

“But you never even wrote to me,” she said.

“I didn’t have your address,” her father mumbled. “I was going to get it from Mrs. Hargrove, but I thought I’d do the walls first. Then you called.”

“But I don’t care about the walls,” Hannah said as she took a step toward her father. She was wiping her wet hands on her jeans as she went. “At least, not much.”

Mark was struck by something else.

“You didn’t have her address?” he asked her father.

The other man shook his head.

Mark had assumed Mr. Stelling would know where his daughter was. All of the letters Mark had written when he was recovering in the nursing home had been addressed to this house with the notation to forward them. No wonder they had been returned.

By the time Mark figured it all out, Hannah was standing in her father’s arms. Mark wasn’t sure, but he thought there was a tear or two trailing down her cheeks.

Lord, thank You. Mark sent the prayer up as he watched the reunion between Hannah and her father. Mark would have given anything to be Hannah’s protector again, but it was not necessary.

He had nothing useful to do for Hannah, he realized. When they had been children, he’d stopped that boy in their class from teasing her on the playground. Mark had been proud to do that. Even his mother had been pleased with him that day. Accomplishments like that had brought expressions of love from his mother. She beamed when Mark was on the honor roll. She cheered when he won races at the school track meet. She would have screamed encouragement at his rodeos if she’d lived that long. Being a hero in his mother’s eyes had been the way Mark gained her love. He had always assumed that he would be able to lay similar accomplishments at the feet of Hannah and earn her love, too.

But his days of winning were over. He doubted he’d ever ace another competition. He’d had plenty of compliments in the nursing home, but in the real world, no one was likely to genuinely praise him because he’d remembered how to use a spoon.

“I was going to paint the walls eggshell white,” Mr. Stelling said as Hannah stepped back. “Your mother always said that was a color that looked good in any light.”

Hannah nodded. “Yes, she did say that.”

Hannah’s face wore the expression Mark had hoped to see when she looked at him. She was luminous with love. She just wasn’t looking at him.

Mark glanced away toward the window. The sky was dark as gunmetal. It could start to rain at any moment.

“I’d best get that jug of water,” Mark said as he turned toward the sink. He felt about as unnecessary at the moment as a doorstop in a room that had no exits.

“On the top cabinet,” Mr. Stelling said as he pointed to a high shelf.

Mark nodded his thanks to the man as he reached for the gallon jug. That was the most civil comment he’d ever heard from Hannah’s father.

“I’ve got the mechanical part you bought in Miles City out in the back of my pickup,” Mark offered as he pulled the glass container down off the shelf. The replacement part for the combine had ridden there on the trip back from the hospital. “I should have the old one off and the new one on before long.”

“I can help you with that,” Mr. Stelling offered.

“The doctor said—” Hannah protested.

“I won’t be doing anything much,” her father replied. “The faster we get that new part on the combine, the quicker Mark can start harvesting the wheat.”

Mark took the jug to the sink and turned the cold faucet on. He’d appreciate having some water when the day grew warmer. That is, if it didn’t rain.

The water soothed him as he let it run. Crops and ranching had been deeper in his blood than he’d realized in high school. He wondered if he would have been content in the world of awards and money he’d dreamed of back then.

* * *

Hannah watched her father stand by as Mark filled the jar with water. The next step would be to wrap an old gunny sack around the glass and get the cloth wet. The moisture on the sack would evaporate and keep the bottle’s contents cool. It was an old rancher’s trick that her mother had explained one hot day.

“I’ll call Mrs. Hargrove,” Hannah said to the men. “She might be able to drive Jeremy back here if I explain what happened today.” She looked at Mark. “I hope you can eat with us. I’ll have something ready at noon. I’m not sure what it will be, but—”

Mark beamed at her. “Make something Jeremy will like.”

Hannah smiled. “Are you sure? That would be macaroni and cheese or peanut butter and jelly sandwiches.”

“Fine with me,” Mark said.

“The boy should have some vegetables,” her father said gruffly. “He can’t get over whatever ails him on macaroni and cheese.”

Hannah felt the smile fade from her face. For a moment, she’d forgotten. “Food won’t make any difference.”

“How come?” Her father barked the words like he was a drill sergeant. “Vitamins and fresh air will cure most anything that’s wrong with a young boy.”

Hannah could see that her father was curious. It was Mark who worried her more, though. He stood there with a thoughtful look on his face.