Walter stared at the bright noon sky out the window of his bedroom and contemplated the long walk to the bathroom. Hard on a good day, impossible with this cast on his foot.
He rolled as best he could to the side of his bed looking for an empty bottle. Or a coffee cup. Anything. But Sandra’s presence in this house was all too obvious these days.
Clutter didn’t stand a chance against Sandra.
He pressed fists to his eyes.
And neither do I.
A month ago he’d been excited to have Sandra back in his house. Like righting a terrible wrong in the world, bringing Sandra back to the Rocky M had been his best effort at repairing the mess he’d made years ago when A.J., his best friend, foreman and Sandra’s husband, died.
All with the benefit of being able to see her every day. Being near her again. Sandra of the warm heart and the joyful laugh.
Sandra, whom he’d always loved. Deeply. Secretly.
Yeah, and how did that work out for you?
You are a sorry man, Walter. I thought I could come back here and feel nothing, but I had twenty-five years of living in these walls and if I’d had my way I would have died here and been buried right beside my husband, and you robbed me of that.
That’s what she’d said two weeks ago, shattering all those delusions that he was doing Sandra a favor, bringing her back here.
Her fury with him, rooted in disappointment, went deep. And he had no idea what it would take to change it. If he even could.
Good Christ, where was a bottle when he needed one? For being the room of a degenerate alcoholic, his room sure was devoid of the evidence.
No choice but to do this on his own.
Taking a deep breath he swung his body up over the side of the mattress and reached out to grab the cane beside the bedside table. Carefully, holding his breath against the pain, he pushed himself up on his good leg and hopped slightly, getting his balance.
Moving slowly, he made his way to the bathroom and feeling pretty damn good, kicked the door shut behind him.
Once done, he washed his hands and stepped back out to the bedroom. Only to stumble at the sight of Sandra standing at the foot of his bed.
She wore black slacks and a bright red shirt, her long dark hair back in a ponytail that made her look like a girl. So bright, so lovely, he couldn’t look directly at her.
He fell against the doorjamb and winced when his foot hit the door. Sandra started toward him, as if to help, as if to touch him, and he waved her off. Breathing through the pain he made his way past her to the chair in the small window alcove. A chair he’d never in his life sat in. Why in the world did you need a chair in a bedroom? But now he was grateful for it.
Sitting on his bed—the bed he’d shared with his wife—in front of Sandra seemed so utterly wrong.
“You haven’t touched your eggs.” She pointed to the plate of eggs long gone cold, sitting on the bedside table.
“I’m not hungry,” he panted, rubbing his knee, wishing it was his ankle.
“You want some painkillers?”
He looked at her for a long time and realized he was at a crossroads of his own making. He’d been responsible for planting the idea in his son’s mind. But now it was time for her to go. And Lucy had been right last night—Sandra wasn’t going to leave him when he was in need like this. Not unless he forced the issue.
“I want some whiskey.”
“It’s noon.”
“I’m an alcoholic, Sandra. It doesn’t much matter to me.”
“I won’t bring you booze.”
“Well, then stop bringing me eggs.”
She narrowed her eyes, an expression he’d seen on her stubborn, beautiful face more times than he could count.
“You should just leave, Sandra. There’s nothing here for you anymore. Your husband is dead. Your girls are grown—”
“I’m not leaving you when you need so much help.”
“I don’t want your help.”
“That doesn’t much matter to me.”
“A.J.—”
“Do not bring my husband into this,” she said, bristling.
“He wouldn’t like you being my nursemaid.”
“He was your best friend, Walter.” It was an accusation, a plea. The reason behind so much of their heartache. Walter had cared too much for his best friend’s wife and his own wife had seen his secret shame. His favorite torture these days was wondering if Sandra knew. He would, without a shred of exaggeration, rather die than have Sandra know how he felt about her.
“Please,” he whispered. “Just leave.”
“If you want me to go then get better. Stop drinking.”
“Fine,” he laughed, shaky and sick because he hadn’t had a drink in fourteen hours. “I’ve stopped.”
“Until the cast comes off. You stop drinking that long, I’ll leave.”