Page 2 of The Cowboy of the Mountain

Oink’s had a rough time. His mother rejected him when he was a baby and now he refuses to go near another pig out of fear. He either cowers or runs away squealing.

“And you’d like one too, huh?”

He shakes his head. “Yeah!”

I glance at Oink. “Would you like a buddy?”

He raises his head but then puts it down again.

“He does,” Luke assures me as he eyes the stack of pancakes.

“We’ll talk about it once summer comes around. It’s not far off.”

“Okay,” he says, smiling.

“But for now,” I say, grabbing a bowl from the counter and heading over toward him. “I’ve got something nearly as good.”

His eyes widen as I set the plate down and let chocolate chips rain down on his pancakes.

“What do you think?”

“I think I like it when you don’t come to Uncle Reid’s on the weekend,” he says as he douses his pancakes with syrup.

I snort, roughing up his already messy hair.

“I love you, little man,” I say with a sigh as I head back to the stove. Luke’s growing up so fast and I can hardly keep up. This will be the first day and night in a while that I won’t be spending with him.

“Love you too, Dad.”

I swallow the lump in my throat as I start making a few pancakes for myself.

A few minutes later, he says, “Dad?”

“Yeah, Luke?”

“I wish you were coming.”

It feels like I’ve been submerged in an ice bath as my lungs seize. The rest of my body feels like it’s being crushed. It takes me a few moments to recover.

“Me too.”

Everything I do is for him. The long hours, sleepless nights, and early mornings. Running a farm is hard enough, but throw in single-parenthood and there aren’t enough hours in the day to do it all. And right now it feels like I’m failing both.

Luke’s the best kid in the world. Tough. Smart. Kind. I hate seeing him sad, especially when I’m the cause.

“I’ll make it up to you.”

I hate that I keep saying that because it means I keep letting him down.

Luke shakes his head. “It’s okay. I understand.” He smiles at me and it lifts my sails a little.

“How about I pick up some of Mom’s cobbler for you?”

His eyes widen again and he shakes his head. “But how will you get some?”

Mom’s cobbler is always gone by the time we make the drive to Whispering Winds. It’s a staple of our small town, made by the town’s mom. I think her real name’s Susanna, but I’m probably making it up. Mom is the only thing anyone ever calls her.

“I’ll find a way,” I say. There’s nothing I wouldn’t do for Luke.

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