The Other Soldier. Kathy Altman
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soldier.”
“What if he dies like Daddy?” Her eyes filled again. “And he doesn’t think anybody cares?”
It was a conspiracy, that’s what it was. Nat didn’t even know the whole story but just like Harris, she was determined to make Parker out to be the bad guy. Her fingers started to ache, and she frowned down at the dishrag in her hand. She’d squeezed all the water out onto the floor.
“Mom?”
Parker squatted and scrubbed at the linoleum a lot harder than she had to. Then she jerked to her feet and carefully laid the dishrag over the rim of the sink. “I’ll give it some thought. All right? No promises. Now if you don’t want your drink you need to get to bed.”
Nat heaved a put-upon sigh and carried her mug to the sink. She eyed the ruined muffins. “You making another batch?”
Parker nodded. Might as well. No way she’d get any sleep. Not now.
“Could you add some chocolate chips this time?”
That was how Harris preferred them. “You planning to share?”
“We should do something nice for Harris. He works hard.”
Parker’s breath snagged. “Yes, he does. Have you—” she swallowed “—noticed he looks more tired than usual lately?”
Nat nodded slowly. “I didn’t want to ask him about it ’cause I figured he’d just yell.”
Parker gripped the back of the nearest chair. Had she been that blind? She straightened and motioned Nat toward the stairs. “Time for bed, kiddo. And on the way you can tell me all about it.”
* * *
HARRIS OPENED THE DOOR the following morning and Parker thrust the plate of muffins at him. “You’re sick, aren’t you?”
He backed away from the doorway, rubbing his stomach where she’d shoved the plate. “A moment ago I felt fine. But that was before the bruised rib.”
“Stop it. Talk to me. What’s going on?”
“You tell me.”
She pushed past him into the living room. “I thought you were scamming me. When you said you were tired. I thought you were trying to play on my sympathies so I’d let Macfarland stay. Then Nat said something and—” She shoved her hands deep into the pockets of her overalls. “It’s true, isn’t it? You’re sick.”
“You make it sound like I have TB or cancer or schizophrenia. Something that’ll put me in slippers and a hospital gown, eating baby food and watching game shows for the rest of my life.”
“You don’t have cancer.” Thank God. Her knees went weak and she sank down onto the seen-better-days sofa. It went so well with the battered pine coffee table and the over-the-hill leather recliner. “How long will that be?”
“What’s that?”
“The rest of your life.”
She watched him struggle with a smart-aleck response. Finally he shrugged. “Ten years. Ten days. Same could be said for us all.” He set the plate on a side table. Denim shushed against leather as he settled into the recliner.
“What is it?”
“Viral cardiomyopathy. Affects the heart muscle.”
Parker curled her toes inside her work boots, fighting tears he didn’t need to see. First they’d lost Tim and now— “What can they do for it?”
“They got me on some medications. Beta-blockers, they call ’em. And the usual no-sodium bull—uh, crap. Maybe someday a pacemaker.”
“Is that where you were last Tuesday? At the doctor’s?” He gave her a sheepish nod. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
“You have enough on your plate, my girl.”
“My God, Harris, how do you think I would have felt if something had happened to you? You’ve been loading the truck and hauling compost and dragging around hoses. And all this time, any one of those things could have killed you.”
“Now don’t go mixin’ pickles with your peppers. Workin’ won’t kill me. It’s not workin’ that would take me out. I just have to know my limits.”
“And when were you going to let me know about these ‘limits’?”
“I’m lettin’ you know now.”
“Harris Briggs,” she whispered, and swiped a palm across her cheek. “How long have you known?”
He slapped his hands to his knees and pushed himself upright. “Coffee?”
“Is this why you’re so determined about Macfarland?”
“Partly.”
A lengthy pause. “How long is his leave?”
“Thirty days. Give or take.”
One month. How would she manage, even for one day, to be civil to the man who’d brought the worst kind of tragedy into her life?
She moved to the front window of Harris’s small brick house and shifted the drapes aside. But she couldn’t see anything other than Tim’s face.
She had a right to her anger. Just as she had a right to her grief. No one was going to tell her how she should feel.
But Nat had come downstairs that morning looking more rested than she had in months. Before sitting down to her cereal she’d handed Parker a list of strategies to keep the corporal from feeling lonely. At the top of the list she’d written “spend time with him.” Which Parker took to mean that Nat herself was feeling lonely. And no wonder, since Parker spent most of her time in the greenhouses or tending to greenhouse affairs.
But there was no money for extra help. And now Harris had admitted to a heart condition. They should both be spending more time with him.
Slowly she turned from the window. “After thirty days, then what? He’ll be gone and we’ll still be short-staffed.”
“Let me tell you somethin’, Parker Anne.” Harris stood behind his recliner, his hands gripping the padded back. “I love you like a daughter. Best thing that happened to me in a good long time was the day you moved up here. I realize it was all arranged before your husband died, but you could’ve changed your mind. And I thank God every day that you didn’t. You’re my family now, you and Nat. Don’t make me spend the time I have left doin’ nothing else but worryin’ about you.”
Her chest went tight. She smiled, but had a hard time keeping it in place. “You’d worry no matter what.”
“I know, I know, and there ain’t no use puttin’ up an umbrella till it rains.” He pushed away from the chair. “How about this. How about we take it one day at a time. With an extra pair of hands around you might actually make payroll.”
“Low blow, Briggs.” But an accurate one. She rubbed her forehead. She wanted to kick and scream and cry and pack up Nat and spend the next month camping out in the mountains.
Harris had been right to scold her for being selfish. Natalie had suffered enough. Did Parker really want to teach her daughter to be unforgiving?
Still. Thinking about forgiving someone wasn’t the same thing as actually forgiving them. That bit of wisdom might get Parker through the next thirty days.
She scrubbed her hands over her face, then followed Harris into the kitchen. Enough about her. “Does your heart condition have anything to do with why you’re not seeing Eugenia anymore?”
He stiffened but didn’t turn away from the coffeepot. “We were finished before then. And it ain’t none of your business why.”
“Fine.” She inhaled. “I don’t want you to come in today.”
He