Page 24 of Wyatt

Makes me realize how I feel like just another cog in the machine at Ithaca University. It’s a super-professional environment, but it feels sterile in comparison to Hartsville. Then again, it probably feels that way because I haven’t been there long enough. My residency lasted three years, but that’s a drop in the bucket compared to the years I’ve spent in Hartsville. And I haven’t found a “squad” in New York like I have here, people I know and work with easily. I’ll eventually find those people in New York, though. I just need to give it time.

Still, I continue to force my smile. “Thanks, Dad.”

“Well, I for one am glad you’re here.” Ava holds out a gallon-sized jug. “Some cider Mrs. Wallace made from the harvest. The orchard is apparently overflowing this year.”

I’m smiling for real again as I tuck the jug into the crook of my arm. Say what you want about small towns, but never inmy ten-plus years at school has someone given me a gift for my services. Much less a thoughtful one.

Thisis why I love Hartsville. And this is why it’s always so hard to leave.

“This stuff is delicious,” I say. “Please thank her for me. I think I’ll use it to make some mulled cider.”

“You put whiskey in that cider?”

“Of course I put whiskey in my cider. Key is to use a lot of it.”

She grins. “I like you.”

“You have to stay warm out here somehow.”

“There are lots of ways to do that on a ranch. Especially if cowboys are around.”

Vance chuckles. Dad turns red.

I blush a little, too, but I’m able to laugh, despite the image of Wyatt on horseback streaking through my mind, his hat on his head and a lasso in his hand. Man rides harder and faster than anyone I know.

I’d bet good money he does the same in bed.

I email Ava and Vance a detailed summary of Pepper’s post-op care plan. Then Dad and I climb into his pickup and head home, the gallon of cider tucked carefully behind my seat.

On the drive, Dad gets a call from a nearby rancher about a horse that’s not eating.

“Sounds like colic,” Dad says when he hangs up. “I’ll drop you back at the house, and then I’ll head over to Jordan’s to handle the horse.”

“You sure?”

“Of course. You should get some sleep. You did awesome, Sally. Really, you have so much talent. I can’t wait to watch you soar in New York.”

My heart swells at his obvious pride. I’m proud of myself too. I love how happy my success makes my dad. But I’mstarting to wonder if my definition of success is the same as his.

I flip down the visor against the strengthening sun. With the light no longer blinding me, I can see just how blue the sky is. My window is cracked open, letting in a crisp, clean breeze.

It’s going to be a gorgeous fall day here in South Texas.

How many more days like this will I get? I’m supposed to start my job in Ithaca in a month and a half. It will be beautiful here when I leave. But Ithaca? It will be a gloomy, frozen tundra.

My chest hurts when I think about it, so I try not to. Only Dad seems intent on reminding me of my duty to honor the “talent” I have.

“I know you don’t want to move into your apartment until after the holidays,” he says, referring to the two-bedroom place I’m renting just off campus in Ithaca. “But since your lease starts December 1, Mom and I thought the three of us could fly up there early as a little Christmas present for us all. I’d love to get to visit Ithaca again, and we could start moving you in.”

I turn my head to look out the window. The view of Hill Country is spectacular from this stretch of Highway 21—pale earth, green cacti, the orange and fiery-red leaves of the gnarled oaks dotting the undulating landscape.

Home.

“Y’all don’t have to help me move in,” I reply carefully. “I’m not in college anymore.”

“We’d like to be there for you, Sally. This is an exciting time for you, and we’re excited too.”

Talk about twisting the knife.

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