Page 60 of Eight Second Hearts

Beau laughs when he hears me, and Tripp’s dad whips his eyes to him.

“What the fuck you laughin’ at, stray?” he spits. “I expected better from you after the bringin’ up I gifted you.”

Beau grins at him. “Well, that’s your fault,” he laughs. “I got nothin’ to do with that.”

“Get out,” Tripp’s dad snarls. “Out! Out! Out! And take that stupid bitch babysitter with you!” he yells while gesturing to Darla. She doesn’t react to the anger. She doesn’t react at all as he shoves over the table tray and sends his breakfast spilling across the hardwood floor. The need for paper and plasticwaresuddenly makes a lot of sense. I wonder how many plates were broken on these floors.

I wonder how many holes have been patched up in the walls.

Because men like this? Their anger stains everything they touch.

“Darla,” Tripp says while his dad rages behind him. “I need to talk to you. Outside.”

She twists her hands together and nods. She gestures to their dad. “He’ll wear himself out in a minute.”

We follow her back outside to the sounds of a former legacy screaming obscenities and racial slurs behind us. I keep my back ramrod straight, if only to keep myself from turning around and burning the image into my memory. So much makes sense now. Tripp’s hesitation to come back here. Their somber expressions. The way this house seems to haunt them.

Why they don’t stay in this house anymore.

Once the door shuts behind us, the sounds are cut off, and I realize how truly soundproof it is. The thought makes me sick to my stomach. Houses like these, the facades are just as much a mask of cruelty as the rose bushes planted along the stairs are.

“I’m sorry you had to witness that,” Tripp murmurs to me. “For what he said?—”

I shake my head. “Don’t apologize for him. His actions aren’t your responsibility.”

He shrugs. “They are now.”

Now. Now that he’s declining.

“How long has he had it?” I ask gently as Darla moves over to the stiff chair and sits down, her chest rising and falling as she takes deep breaths.

“The first signs of dementia started about eight years ago,” he admits. “It’s gotten worse every year. Sometimes he remembers who I am. Sometimes he doesn’t.”

“And sometimes he remembers you at younger stages,” I say, understanding.

He nods, his shoulders so tense, I worry he’s gonna throw his back out. He touches my cheek gently, a small thing, but it seems to bring him some sense of comfort despite the place he’s in. The air shifts right after, and I know the feeling won’t last while we stand on this porch.

Tripp looks at Darla and his expression shifts from shame for his father, to animosity for his sister. I take a step back, preparing for the confrontation that’s been brewing since we turned the nose of the truck from Nebraska to Steele, Wyoming.

I tuck my hands into my pockets and prepare myself.

Chapter 37

Indie

“How long has it been since he remembered who you are?” Tripp asks, his voice hard.

She has the same eyes as Tripp. Apparently, those cruel blues pass on through the Savage family. “It’s been a few weeks now. I’ve just started saying I’m the nurse. It’s easier.”

Her words are matter-of-fact, and in them, there’s no care, no love. What burden she carries taking care of that man. One who treats his own daughter like garbage. Why don’t they use an actual nursing service? Aren’t there dementia care facilities? Darla and Tripp both don’t seem like they have any desire to take care of that awful man inside.

I slip my hand into Ram’s, stealing some of his warmth. I feel like I need it after standing inside that brutal house, after hearing him be referred to in such an awful way. I’m no stranger to racism. I’m the daughter of Chinese immigrants, so I’ve met my fair share of bigots, but Ram? This is where he grew up. At least I’d been able to escape it.

Tripp crosses his arms and bares his teeth at his sister. “And when did you decide it was a good idea to try and sell the ranch?”

The tension in the air is as thick as the fog out in the fields. You could cut that shit with a knife. I watch as the color in Darla’s face drains completely, making her look almost strange with the makeup painted there. Her hands twist together nervously.

“I. . .” No other words come out of her lips, as if they fail her in the face of her brother’s anger.