Page 54 of A Cowboy in the Streets

I understood. I didn’t like it, but I understood it.

I wasn’t a forever guy. Why should she toss aside her reputation for a relationship that was going to end eventually anyway? That wasn’t something I could ask her to do. I respected her and her career too much for that. If she wanted to keep us a secret, fine. I would take my time basking in her sunshine for as long as she would have me.

And when she decided it was time to let me go, I would take that, too.

Chapter 22

Adam

I kept my promise to Ben.

On my way out of the barn Monday evening, I grabbed the box of Emily’s stuff from the office and brought it with me to the big house. I took out the photos and artwork and then shoved the box—along with those damn journals—in the back of my closet.

After dinner, I ripped off the band-aid. “Let’s clean up and then we can look through those photos of your mom Deacon gave us. Okay?”

Dishes clattered in the porcelain sink. I looked over to find my dad staring at me, slack-jawed. I shrugged.

“Okay,” Ben said, the epitome of cool, like it didn’t matter to him either way. But I didn’t miss the way his eyes lit up, and he hustled through the chores with a purpose he’d never once shown before.

James was right. He needed this.

And dammit all, if Ben needed something, I was going to provide it, come hell or hailstorm. I might flail my way through solo parenting, and lord knew I’d made a mess of things more than once, but there was nothing I wouldn’t do for my son.

Even if it hurt.

But I wasn’t above taking a deep swallow of the finger of bourbon Dad had wordlessly left for me next to the sofa.

Ben and I settled on the couch with the photo album and stack of artwork in a pile on my lap. Dad made himself scarce, muttering something about catching up on his television show, and left us to it. I wasn’t sure if I was grateful for the privacy or annoyed at the abandonment.

I hadn’t so much as glanced at the photos when I grabbed them from the box, and I found myself reluctant to do so now. If I could have found a way to procrastinate another five minutes, another five years, I would have. But I could feel Ben’s eyes on me, that expression on his face, the one that worried me the most because it said he felt responsible for things he had no business feeling responsible for. He was about to offer me an out, I could tell, and fuck that.

I opened the photo album to the first page. Emily, looking tired but happy, smiling down at Ben in her arms. One of his chubby fists had grasped a lock of her blonde hair. By this point, cancer had ravaged her insides, but on the outside, she was as beautiful as ever. For one breathless moment, I felt slapped. She looked so damn alive.

“She has her hair,” Ben said. I glanced at him, surprised. Of all the things to say, I hadn’t expected that. “Grandma lost her hair when she had cancer.”

That was true. Emily had never lost her hair. The first infusion of chemo had slowed the cancer somewhat and bought her some time. The second infusion hadn’t done anything at all. There had never been a third infusion. “Chemo affects people in different ways. Most people lose their hair, but some don’t. I remember…I remember she was happy about that. Her hair was so pretty. She didn’t want to lose it.”

I flipped to the next photo. Ben was in his crib, holding his feet, looking shocked that he even had feet. We both laughed and moved on. Most of the next photos were just Ben, in that adorable newborn stage I had missed so much of. I ached at that, but I couldn’t be mad about it. I hadn’t been there the first time he rolled over or crawled or sat up. I wished with all my heart that I’d had more than an hour every day. I’d missed his first year, but Emily had missed all the years after. It wasn’t fair.

I did my best now to tell Ben little memories I had of her, to fill in the gaping hole she had left in his life. It was interesting to see the art she had continued to work on while she was sick. She had never shared much of that with me when we were together. But it was clear now how much it had been a part of her.

“Can I hang this in my room, Dad?” Ben asked, holding a small watercolor painting.

“Yeah, of course. I’ll get it framed for you the next time I’m in town. We can also frame one of the photos of you and your mom. Maybe put it on your dresser where you can see it. If you want to,” I added, because maybe he didn’t want that. Maybe seeing her every day would hurt more than help. Ben could be hard to read sometimes.

“Really?” he asked. Like he needed permission to have a photo of his mom displayed. That was a kick in the gut. A deserved kick in the gut. I shouldn’t have waited this long.

“Really,” I assured him.

The last photo was a sweet one. Ben was nestled on Emily’s chest with his legs curled under him and his big, diapered butt in the air, sound asleep. She looked directly at the camera, her eyes filled with love, a soft smile on her lips.

No, not at the camera.

At Deacon.

The person holding the camera was Deacon. The person she was looking at with all that love in her eyes was Deacon.

I waited for pain to replace shock, but it never came. I felt sadness. For Ben’s loss, mostly, and a little bit for mine. I didn’t feel like I was looking at my wife. It was like looking at an old friend, someone who should have been there for milestones and birthday parties and first days of school.

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