Dry Creek Daddy. Janet Tronstad
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the first few hours. I can’t do that if I can’t see you.”
Hannah could tell her words were not convincing him.
“She’s right. You have to cooperate,” Mark said firmly.
Her father stood there, blocking their view of the inside of the house.
“My place is a mess,” he finally mumbled as he went inside.
“That’s not a problem.” Hannah stepped into the doorway after him. She was glad to understand his hesitation. He was embarrassed. That could be fixed.
It was dark inside and it took a moment for Hannah to see everything.
“Oh.” She looked around in dismay. The living room was not just cluttered; it had been dismantled. Ragged shades covered the windows and the curtains had been ripped off their rods.
“Mom and I made those drapes,” Hannah exclaimed as she surveyed the empty rods. Her mother had carefully selected the deep-blue-and-gold floral brocade. She thought it made the house look happy. Hannah had run the sewing machine because her mother was so weak by then. Hannah looked over at her father. “She wanted to give you a place of comfort. An oasis.”
Mark was standing behind her father and, when her father didn’t look up at her, she raised her questioning eyes to him instead.
Mark shrugged. “Maybe he was too busy out in the fields to do much housework. It happens.”
It didn’t happen in this house, Hannah thought. Her father had been as meticulous about things as her mother had been.
For the first time since Hannah had come back, she was glad her father didn’t want her and Jeremy to stay in this house. Her son needed sunshine and cheer if he was going to beat his illness. The house by the barn, even with the boarded-up window in the one bedroom, would be better than this.
Her father still wasn’t meeting her eyes and Hannah felt sorry for him. “When we get the crops in, I might be able to sew up some new curtains for you.”
Her father looked at her then before he shook his head.
“I’m fine,” he said.
“How could—” Hannah started but then saw Mark give a slight shake of his head. She swallowed. “No matter. Let’s see about getting a cup of tea made for you.” She looked at her father. “I’m assuming you still like hot tea.”
He nodded.
“No cream, extra sugar?” she asked. “English Breakfast?”
“Yes,” he said. “I’ll take it in the kitchen at the table.”
Her father walked into the kitchen and closed the door.
Hannah looked over at Mark, wondering if he’d understood how hard it had been for her to find some common ground with her father. But Mark wasn’t focused on her. Instead, he was staring at the wall behind the sofa.
She turned around.
“Oh,” she gasped. What had gone on in this room after she left here four years ago? “My pictures are gone.”
Her mother had set up the photo wall to display the annual school pictures that Hannah received. There’d been seven large photos displayed in gold metal frames. She had gapped teeth in the first when she was ten years old and smooth curls in the last photo when she was seventeen. Those photos made her feel she belonged here. The only things left on the wall now were the nails from which they’d hung.
“He had no right to do this,” Mark said fiercely as he walked over to stand beside Hannah.
He knew what those pictures meant to her. Her mother had been so proud when she’d hung each one.
“I need to forgive him,” Hannah said as she looked up at Mark. She blinked back her tears. “The Bible says so.”
“But you’re his daughter,” Mark protested. “This is your home.”
“Mrs. Hargrove told me he’s stopped going to church,” Hannah whispered. She’d not thought much about that revelation, assuming her father was just catching up on ranch work. Now she wondered.
“He has no one to blame but himself if he’s lonely,” Mark said as he took a step closer to her. She longed to lean into him like she would have when she was much younger. But she needed to stand strong herself these days and she might as well start now. She couldn’t trust anyone to prop her up.
She shook her head. “My dad just misses Mom.”
“We all do,” Mark said and then paused. “Do you forgive everyone?”
“I try.” Hannah remembered how Mark always seemed to know her heart. She looked up as he stood there. In a moment, the hard years rolled away and she felt a rush of emotions. Maybe it was nothing but nostalgia. She didn’t know, but she had been in love with Mark a long time ago. She saw the same kind of emotion flit through his eyes before he turned thoughtful.
“Then why did you send back my letters?” he asked.
“What?” Hannah wondered if his mind was playing tricks on him. She’d never gotten any letters. Nor had she expected any since he was in a coma for so long. She’d taken Jeremy to visit him once in the hospital nursing home over a year ago, but Mark had not been conscious for that. Still, he was looking at her like he expected a response. “I—”
She was interrupted by the sound of a dish breaking in the kitchen.
“I better go,” she said as she headed for the doorway. She heard Mark’s footsteps following behind her. She wished he wasn’t here to witness the problems with her father, but she had no choice. She only hoped he would leave before her whole world crashed down upon her.
Mark stood in the doorway, relieved to see the kitchen hadn’t been as trashed as the living room. Yellow striped cotton curtains hung from rods on these windows. The beige countertop was worn, but empty of clutter. Mark was only beginning to understand the ripple effect of that night when he’d been injured. It hadn’t been only his and Hannah’s lives that had been thrown into chaos. His family had been hurt. Her father wounded. And Jeremy—what price had his son paid?
“You’ve kept the teakettle up nicely,” Hannah said from where she stood at the sink. “It’s polished.” Her father nodded from his place by the refrigerator. She seemed determined to be cheerful as she turned the water on and began to fill the copper kettle. Mark remembered she had often done that when they were children. Most children would complain at least a little about their parents. Not Hannah. She just put on a positive face and pretended everything was all fine.
“I kept everything up,” her father said as he walked over to the table. “That is, until—”
Mr. Stelling stood there mute before finally pulling out a chair.
Hannah’s jaw tightened, but she was silent.
“Until what?” Mark demanded. He might not have much to offer Hannah any longer, but he could at least stand as her champion in this house. He didn’t like that she felt the need to pretend to a satisfaction that couldn’t possibly be there.
The older man winced as he sat down. “I thought she—” he nodded toward Hannah “—and the boy might want to come for Christmas. I decided I needed to paint the living room before I asked—”
Mark heard the kettle fall and hit the bottom of the sink. He looked over at Hannah. Her mask was crumbling. Wide-eyed, she was staring at her father in genuine gratitude. Her father might be cranky, but he was not her enemy.
“But you never even wrote to me,” she said.
“I didn’t have your address,” her father mumbled. “I was going to get it