Page 60 of Resisting Isaac
It’s small, just a twitch of his shoulder. But I catch it.
“I tried,” he mutters. “We did everything we could. They said it’d be easier this way. Just keep her comfortable ‘til the good Lord takes her home. No more pokin’ and proddin’.”
“You got a Hospice nurse or someone helping out?” I set the cobbler and jam on the kitchen counter, wondering if Ishould go ahead and loosen the lids but knowing that’d be a grave insult to a proud man.
His jaw flexes. “Don’t need no help. Been taking care of my wife most of my adult life.”
Stubborn old goat.
His eyes dart toward the hallway like he’s worried she’ll hear us. The man looks wrecked, sure—but there’s a thread of something else running under the surface. Not sorrow. Not fear.
Guilt?
Maybe I’m imagining it.
I’ve seen what dying does to people—how it hollows out a house and turns love into pain and anger. The main house at the ranch was like a tomb after Dad died. For months. Until Ivy arrived.
Jimmy’s never been much for talking. But the jumpy vibe is new.
“Someone else here, Jimmy?” I glance down the hall, but he directs me back toward the front door.
“No. No one’s here. Just me and Ida like always,” his response is quick. Too quick.
I shove my hands into my pockets. I consider asking if he wants to play cards or watch some SportsCenter, but he seems eager for me to leave.
“Mom said she’d been meaning to stop by last week but hadn’t had the chance. She’ll probably check in next week.”
His head jerks up. “She don’t need to do that.”
“She’s been bringing you pie for as long as I can remember. I don’t think you get a say anymore.”
He grunts, but it doesn’t sound like amusement. He herds me toward the door and I take the hint.
“I’ll let myself out,” I say. “Holler at us if you need anything, Jimmy. I mean it.”
He only jerks his chin upward, gray stubbled jowls wagging with the movement.
I walk back out to the truck, rubbing the back of my neck because it’s prickling like I’m being watched.
Jimmy came to all my high school football games, and Ida used to knit each of us a blanket or scarf every Christmas since we were kids. I’d always been welcome in their house and so had my siblings as far as I knew. One of the last things my father said to me was,“Make sure you check on the Petersons every chance you get. Us aging ranchers have to stick together.”
The memory of Jimmy looking so broken at Dad’s funeral hadn’t left me, now I suspected he was planning one for his wife. I look a lot like my dad. Maybe the reminder is too much. Maybe there is only so much loss and pain a person can take.
But I’ve never been shooed out of that old house like an unwanted intruder before. I don’t know what to make of it, but I’m hoping Wyatt has a clue.
I’d been planning to tell Jimmy about the Sheriff coming by Wyatt’s wedding. About the news that Dad hadn’t died of natural causes. Mostly to warn him in case someone came lurking around the property line. But everything about that interaction had been off.
One thing was certain, more bad news was the last thing Jimmy Peterson needed.
I don’t typically callWyatt in the middle of the day, especially on a weekend when it’s not work-related. So, I’m not surprised when he answers on the first ring.
“Whatever you did, undo it,” he says in lieu of a greeting.
“I haven’t done anything wrong…lately.” Except that whole breaking-that-legally-binding-contract-I-signed thing, but that was unintentional.
The first time at least.
“What’s up?”
