Page 19 of Cowboy Bull's Promise

I try not to let it get to me, but Jesus, I can’t believe the price of things. The world’s going to hell, and grocery bills are leading the charge.

Good thing I went vegetarian in my teens because the cost of meat? I don’t even want to think about it.

Gramps, on the other hand, still needs his lean proteins, so I make sure to get him a small pack of chicken or fish when I can swing it.

Our apartment is small.

I call it cute and cozy, but really, it’s just small.

Still, I do my best to keep it warm, keep it ours.

A green and gold wreath I made for St. Patrick’s Day hangs on the door, the little ribbons dancing every time we walk past.

A small ceramic pot of fresh herbs sits by the closed kitchen window, drinking in whatever sunlight manages to break through the overcast sky.

Our eat-in kitchen sits off the living room, where Gramps’ old recliner is parked directly in front of his prized possession, a forty-inch TV he won at church bingo five years ago.

The man brags about it like it’s a damn trophy.

From that chair, he can see everything.

Every move I make in the kitchen.

Every sigh I try to swallow down.

Every moment I spend thinking too hard about things I can’t change.

“Hiya, Gramps. Want some tea?” I ask as I start unpacking the groceries.

“That would be lovely, my dear,” he says with a toothless grin that melts me on the spot.

For a man in his seventies, he’s got more wit than most people half his age.

But his body?

Not so much.

The walker is new to him, and I know it kills him, having to depend on something other than himself from time to time to get around.

I see it in his eyes. But the way he moves these days, it’s safest all around.

I remember when his hands were like a surgeon’s, but now they tremble often. He checks them when he thinks I’m not looking.

I just want him to enjoy his golden years.

But that’s not easy when we’re stuck in this tiny apartment, living on scraps of luck and paychecks that barely cover the rent.

“Don’t brood, Arliss dear. It’ll be alright, won’t it?”

His voice is soft this time, watching me closely, reading me too well.

I force a smile. “Of course it will.”

I don’t know if I believe it.

But I need him to.

“I’m making us sandwiches and fresh shortbread for the tea,” I announce, winking at him before turning to get started.

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