I found some old photos of them once in the drawer of their living room coffee table. Ambrose and Renata on their honeymoon in Canada, hiking and posing in front of some waterfall. Renata cradling a baby bump in front of a crib Ambrose built by hand. Ambrose posing in front of a saddled palomino, his dark hair wisping over his forehead beneath his Stetson hat.
He was always harder on Wyatt than the other boys, which I never quite understood given the fact that Wyatt literally saved his life. But I’d always catch him making little digs, prodding him to get a reaction, or grinding his self-esteem beneath his steel-toed boot every chance he got.
Wyatt tended to ignore it, mostly. And when Renata was around to witness it, she’d get after Ambrose. But I never heard him talk to any of the other boys that way, not even close. Hart was the firstborn golden child who could do no wrong. Tripp knew how to stay out of the way. And Cash was the baby of the family, always making people laugh and providing free entertainment.
“Your mom seems to be doing okay though,” I say. Last night when I couldn’t sleep, I googled his father’s obituary, but given that the funeral home at the time didn’t have a website, I could only find it in some archived newspaper system from the library a few towns over. I paid the ten dollars to access it online, and I sat straight up in bed when I realized Ambrose died around the same time Wyatt went radio silent on me.
He must’ve been beyond overwhelmed helping around the farm, picking up all the slack, keeping his family together, comforting his Mama. Maybe that’s why he backed off? Perhaps he was so busy being the Buchanan glue that he didn’t have the time and energy to listen to me lament on the phone every other night about how much I wanted to come home when he was dealing with real problems.
Still, as my best friend and my “person,” I’d have expected him to at least tell me his father passed.
Wyatt turns into a field entrance, climbs out of his truck, and gets the barbed wire gate before returning and driving us into an empty pasture. He takes it slow along the ruts, messing with the radio until we get to the farthest fence line. I used to help him look for downed fence posts and broken fence lines all the time. It wasn’t the most exciting chore we did together, but I was always happy just to be with him.
“Right there.” I point ahead to a section of slacking barbed wire.
He crawls to a stop, shifts into park, and hops out to grab a fence stretcher and work gloves from the back of his truck.
I watch him work his magic, the morning sun beating down overhead and his muscles pressing against his plaid button down as his jean-covered knees dig into the earth. For a man who prefers the simple life, he’s never been afraid to get dirty.
By the time the morning is through, Wyatt has repaired a total of four fence sections, two posts, and a gate. We head back to the house for lunch, where Renata is nothing shy of pleased as punch about my presence. Wyatt eats in silence as she and I do a little more catching up and reminiscing, and when it’s all over, I realize he hasn’t said more than maybe five or ten words since I brought up his daddy’s death.
“Would you two mind taking some lunch out to the boys? They’re putting up hay out west today,” Renata says when we’re through. Popping up from the table, she heads to the fridge and pulls out three coolers and a gallon of iced tea.
“I was actually just about to take off.” I give her an apologetic frown. “My father and I have a walking date every afternoon—doctor’s orders.”
Wyatt’s observant gaze flicks to me and as per usual, he doesn’t say a word.
“Wyatt, I’ll be back same time tomorrow morning.” I squeeze his tight shoulder as I pass his side of the table. “We can pick up where we left off …”
His lips press firm and he nods, but only because his mama’s watching.
“Oh, don’t let me forget to give you your pie pan.” Renata grabs the blue ceramic pie dish from the drying rack. “This thing didn’t last but three whole seconds after you left last night.”
I’m not surprised. The recipe was hers—one she taught me a lifetime ago and one that I never forgot.
“Here, I’ll walk you out.” Renata places her hand on the small of my back, almost ushering me out the front door.
We stop outside my car, and she glances back at the house as if to make sure we’re alone.