Winter's End

“Yes?” Marc pulled his attention from the scores with effort.

“Kayla Doherty,” the voice continued.

Marc bit back a groan. She still sounded perky, even this late. Was it a blonde thing? At the moment he wasn’t sure. And really didn’t care. As he turned to his father, she continued, “I wanted to follow up on the meds situation from this morning. Are the side effects still as strong or are you feeling more in control?”

“Wrong man.” Offering no explanation, Marc handed the phone to his father, fighting the rise of disapproval. “Your nurse.”

Pete’s eyes narrowed. “Miss Doherty?” His features relaxed as he listened. No way could Marc miss the ease in tension that had been prevalent the past few days, as if the nurse held all the answers.

Yeah. Right.

“No, that’s fine,” Pete told her, a brow shifting up. “We do sound alike. Everyone says so.” He glanced Marc’s way, paused, then bobbed his head again, eyes crinkling. “Yes, much better, thank you. Tired, but not confused.”

Marc listened, unabashed, as his father continued.

“I’d like that, too, Miss Doherty.” A brief silence followed, then Pete shrugged assent, his look intent. “Kayla, then.” His face relaxed, his eyes taking on a youthful gleam at whatever she was spewing, then he chuckled out loud. “I expect that would work with man or beast.” He nodded once more before he firmed his voice. “That would be nice. Thursday’s good.” Pete said his goodbye and disconnected.

Marc’s inner turmoil shifted upward. “What would work?”

“Hmm?” Pete turned Marc’s way while Jess hung up the phone.

The younger man pushed down impatience. “You told her something would work with man or beast. An odd thing to say to a nurse, Dad.”

Pete laughed again, a good sound, no matter what inspired the reaction. Or who. “She’s feeding cookies to a neighbor’s dog who offered to take a chunk out of her as she approached her apartment. Seems the owner’s away and the gate latch is broken.”

“Cookies?” Why did he not have a hard time picturing that? Marc humphed. “Who gives cookies to a dog?”

“It would work on me,” Jess proclaimed. “I could live on cookies.”

“Empty calories,” stated Marc, his voice gruff. Somehow the picture of the leggy, blonde nurse thwarting a dog attack with cookies increased his ire. Too late he realized his tone and words might be misconstrued.

Jess’s look confirmed his fear. Weight was an issue since puberty set in, and he’d just put his size twelve shoe in his big, stupid mouth. “I just meant—”

“I know what you meant.” Her eyes clouded. She looked away. “I’ll pass on supper, thanks.”

“Jess, I—”

“I’ll be upstairs. See you later, Daddy.” She swiped a kiss to her father’s cheek before charging from the room, her lower lip thrust out. Marc was pretty sure it trembled, too.

“Oh, man—”

“Marc, you’ve got to use a little sensitivity around her,” Pete protested.

Marc shot him an incredulous look. “I didn’t mean to hurt her feelings. My mind was on cows, how we strive to balance energy food versus nutritional needs to achieve a proper ratio of fat to lean. Good marbling.”

His father eyed him, his features a blend of amazement and disbelief. “I don’t think that explanation’s going to do it for her,” Pete chided. “Comparing her to a cow might make matters worse. If that’s possible.” He rubbed a hand across his jaw. “I’m still trying to figure it out myself.”

“She’s too sensitive,” Marc returned.

“She’s fourteen.” Pete’s tone stayed matter-of-fact. “That’s how they are.”

“And how am I supposed to know that?” Marc asked. He slid into the chair opposite his father. “My experience with adolescent girls is limited to what I gleaned seventeen years ago in eighth grade, and let me assure you, I was more caught up with the physiological than the psychological.” He hoped his arched eyebrow clarified his declaration.

Oh, yeah. A grin tugged his father’s mouth.

“So my training is zip,” Marc went on. “Zilch. Nada.” He raised his hands up, palms flat, displaying their emptiness. “Knowing that, you might want to discard any notion you have of dying, dial up Kaylie or Kylie or whatever her name is, and tell her you’ve decided to outlive us all because I can’t raise Jess on my own and not make a complete mess of things.”

His father met his gaze. His voice stayed level. “I can’t change the inevitable, Marc. I would if I could, at least ’til my work’s done. You know that.”

That was part of the trouble. Marc didn’t know that. He heard his father’s words but couldn’t believe them.

Pete’s body was wearing out from choices the older DeHollander made long ago. A steady smoker, Pete’s actions probably brought this cancer on, and Marc had no clue how to rationalize that. In Marc’s mind, sucking poisons into your system was asking for trouble. Marc didn’t understand the choice and he sure didn’t like it.

Everyone else seemed okay with the eventuality of the prognosis. They used terms like natural. Understandable.

Their acceptance exacerbated Marc’s anger. His father’s cancer wasn’t inevitable, but avoidable. Watching the fabric of his family torn by years of bad choices, Marc tried to deal with both sides of the issue and came up short.

Jess had come to terms with Pete’s illness, on the surface at least. She seemed determined to make her father’s last months stress-free. Quite a commitment for a hormone-stricken teen. A teen who shouldn’t be left with no one but Marc to steady her path to adulthood. At fourteen, Jess needed an understanding mother and a thriving father. Through no fault of her own she had neither.

Resentment choked him. He knew his feelings were counterproductive, but had no clue how to change them. Mounting thoughts swelled, emotions he didn’t dare show. Suppressing the urge to throw something, he stood to finish supper, his fingers tight, his shoulders tense, a rod of anger anchoring his steps.

In one day he’d managed to lose a pair of livestock, insult his father’s nurse, ruin his sister’s wobbly self-esteem and add weight to a dying man’s pressures.

And it was only the dinner hour. If his streak continued, he might be able to instigate World War III by bedtime. Nuclear holocaust. Plagues of locusts.

As long as his luck held steady.

Chapter Three

A welcome blast of heat greeted Kayla as the pneumatic door of the VNS offices swung open.

Christy Merriton glanced up, dropped a questioning look to her leather-strapped wristwatch and compressed her lips. “What are you doing here?”

Kayla met the supervisor’s frown with a half grin. “I, um, work here.”

“Not at six-oh-five,” Christy argued. “At six-oh-five you should be home making supper. Or on a date. Maybe curling up with a good book. Having a life.”

“About that…” Kayla indicated her boss, then tapped her more feminine timepiece. “You’re here.”

“Mmm-hmm.” Christy stood, stretched, then leaned down, her fingers tapping computer keys. The main drive shut down as the printer kicked in, the sound marking the end of a long day. “I have an excuse. Brianna gets picked up from basketball practice at six-thirty, so it didn’t make sense for me to drive home and come all the way back. What’s your story?”

“Supplies.” Kayla raised her tote. “I saw the lights and figured I could restock. Save time tomorrow.”

Christy looked unconvinced. “I’d have bought that line an hour ago. It’s after six, Kayla.” She studied the younger woman, then nodded toward the door. “Go home.”

“Consider me gone.” Kayla opened her case and moved to the supply cabinets. “Right after I load up.”

Christy stepped to the printer and retrieved a fresh pile of assignment tickets. She handed a slim stack to Kayla. “Tomorrow’s schedule.”