Page 3 of And Forever
I stand there long after the dust trails from Curtis’ truck have faded, the offer he brought to me turning over and over again.
It’s not a good idea.
Or maybe it’sthe bestidea.
I’ve spent nearly every day since Charlotte left thinking about her. I’ve processed every emotion I’ve ever felt through the lens of my love for her: anger, sadness, regret, desperation, hope. They’ve all woven a tangled image of our history together and muddled every possible scenario I’ve imagined of a life with her in it.
Even if it terrifies me, maybe it’s finally time to find out what will happen.
2
CHARLOTTE
EVERS RIDGE, MONTANA — LATE MARCH
“Mama!”
“Mama, get up!”
I shift over, away from the tiny voice that has surround-sound quality this early in the morning. The late winter sunlight sneaks around the edges of the drawn curtains, penetrating my closed eyes. I think of the impending season change, and how much I love to see the dormant, sleeping natural world on our property come back to life. Vigor and hope restored, it is motivation enough to open my eyes and pay attention to the owner of the voice that has now climbed atop my back.
“Mama!”
It’s a little more insistent, but I smile when the body that accompanies it stretches out along the length of me. Sweet, slightly toxic morning breath fans across my cheek before a cold nose buries itself in the crook of my neck. I squeak, prompting the devious creature to slip off me and tuck itself closer, giggling the entire time.
“Morning, Squish.” I pepper my daughter’s face with fat, sloppy kisses, drawing a squeal from her. I roll us so that I get her to wiggle under the cover beside me. Winona’s wild blackhair has slipped free of the pigtails I put in at bedtime and makes a valiant attempt to choke me as I laugh with her in my bed. After a few more moments of cuddles, I prop myself up on an elbow. “Did you have good sleeps?”
“Yeah,” she answers.
“That’s good,” I say around a yawn, looking past my girl to the brightly illuminated numbers on my nightstand clock. It’s just past seven, making today a rare day of sleeping in for Winona. A few months shy of her third birthday, she puts my early-riser ways to shame with how much get-up-and-go she has in the morning. But she’s always been this way.
My beautiful baby girl, who slept well but got up early because she couldn’t wait to see what the world would offer her every day of her life.
It’s been exhausting on the worst days and enlightening on the best. Winona greets every day like the opportunity it is. I push aside my fatigue and try to show her that I like mornings, too. Even if they are not the same as they once were, with coffee kisses and racing in the dusty arena of whatever city I called home for the week.
“Can we have waffles?” Winona asks, playing with her favorite stuffy, Meehaw: a small security blanket with a stuffed calico cat head. It goes almost everywhere with her and is her most prized possession.
“Of course we can.”
We extract ourselves from the tangle of blankets, and I send her on to the bathroom to do a preliminary brush of her teeth. I’ll do the more thorough clean after breakfast, but I’m trying to instill the independence of the routine at the moment. Plus, it gives me time to change out of my pajamas and into jeans and a sweater. I finger-comb my shoulder-length hair as I enter the kitchen.
“Win? Do you want the Mickey Mouse chocolate chip or Mama’s?” I call down the hall, secretly hoping she’ll pick the frozen, fun-shaped variety over the ones I make from scratch. It’snot that I don’t like making breakfast, but I have a full day of work ahead of me.
“Mickey!” Winona cheers as she comes into the kitchen, Meehaw flying around in agreement. She flashes me her teeth, and I give her an approving nod. I help her climb onto her booster seat before turning for the fridge. After pouring some milk in a cup with a lid and straw, I hand it over to her grabby hands and set about popping some waffles in the toaster.
My back door, located in the mud room off the kitchen, opens, and my father walks in. At fifty years old, Mitchell “Mitch” Stryker still has a full head of black hair under the tan, pinched-front cowboy hat he removes after ensuring the door closes behind him. He hangs it on a hook. Before I can even greet him or he can get his jacket loose, Winona sets her milk on the table, scrambles out of her chair, and streaks across the tiled floor.
“Happy!” she yells with delight before launching herself at her grandfather, a full three steps away from him. With practiced ease, my dad scoops her out of the air in a tight hug. Winona has always called him “Happy” for reasons we’ve never figured out. Maybe she associates him with the feeling she gets, and as I lean against the counter observing the pair, it’s easy to see that the feeling is reciprocal.
“Good morning, Winnie Girl!” He readjusts his hold, looping a strong forearm under her as he settles her at his hip. The look on his tanned, weathered face is joyful. His chestnut-colored eyes crinkle in the corners, and his smile is wide and full as he regards his granddaughter when she begins to explain her breakfast selection. She gestures to the abandoned place setting, and my dad complies with the unspoken request to be returned to her seat.
Returning home pregnant three and a half years ago changed everything about my relationship with my parents. Despite their absence in attending the National Finals Rodeo that year, I called after to tell them of my title win and the tragic death ofTravis Frost. It was the first time theyaskedme to come home—and to bring Wilder with me. I declined, insisting that he and I needed to stay together in Idaho. That being together was what would help him cope with the loss. They begrudgingly agreed, and I conveniently left out the news of my impending motherhood.
But when I showed up three days before Christmas, bone-weary and tear-stained, the truth spilled from me like a burst dam. I cried when I told them they finally had what they wanted: me, home to stay. The parents I had grown up trying to please, while also carving out ways to save myself from their control, were surprisingly accepting. They didn’t bombard me with questions like I expected. They sat quietly as I explained that my relationship with Wilder wasn’t going to work while he was buried in his grief. I had left the man I loved to protect his unborn childfromhimself. It was the hardest choice I had ever made.
Then, they hugged me, and Mom whispered in my ear that I was the bravest person she had ever known, while Dad wiped my tears from my cheeks.
Since that day, we’ve built a new dynamic. One in which I’m a contributor to the ranch, rather than an employee. A daughter who is supported and loved instead of an investment that will pay dividends later. None of it was easy, and there are still days that I struggle with the loss of my old life, but having their love changewithme as my life veered off my carefully crafted plan has helped. They are also the best grandparents to Winona.
