“You okay?” he asked, and she stopped in her fancy boots, her feather earrings lifting in the breeze she’d created.
“No, Walter. I cannot believe I’m about to say this—” She shook her head like she just couldn’t believe what was happening. “I need you.”
“Me?”
The big breath she sucked down shook at the bottom and he realized she was far more upset than she appeared. “It’s Ben.”
“He in the barn again?” He leaned sideways to look out the glass surrounding the front door.
“He says…he says you talk to him?”
“Well, I’d hardly call it talking.”
“Then what do you call it?”
“I didn’t kick him out of the barn. He told me he gets in trouble and I could relate. That’s about it.”
“Whatever it is you’re doing…” She was getting shrill. Accusatory. “…it’s certainly better than whatever I’m doing. I’m totally failing—” She stopped herself, swallowing her wild emotions, and Walter, without the cushion of being drunk, felt scraped raw just being near her. He wasn’t sure what to say, what she needed him to say.
It was Sandra all over again.
For a wild moment he thought about saying nothing and walking away. Surely there had to be a bottle around this house somewhere. That’s what he would have done two weeks ago. And, hell, maybe two weeks from now he’d do the same thing, but right now he was stuck.
Lucy hung her head. “I need your help, Walter,” she whispered.
It had been a very long time since he’d been needed for anything, and for a moment it was uncomfortable. Resentment reared its head.
Sober and needed.
Never thought he’d see the day. Again.
But then purpose shored him up, stayed his childish tongue. Once upon a time he’d been a man people could count on. A man other men pointed to and said Walter McKibbon can get the job done.
And he’d been proud of that. And how long had it been since he’d been proud of himself?
More days than he could count.
“It’s all right, Lucy. I can handle it.”
Her unhappiness with the situation was no vote of confidence. Obviously reluctant, she nodded. “Thank you.”
Walter headed out to the barn and he didn’t let himself doubt. He didn’t even give himself a chance to wonder if his instinct was right or not. He’d been stuck in mud for so damn long, doubting himself, that if he gave himself a second he’d get stuck again.
Work was what was needed. Some good, honest labor.
He found the bucket in the tack room and filled it up with two parts water, one part vinegar. He threw in some sponges and rags. Water sloshing down his leg, he carried them over to his chair.
Back in the whitewashed tack room he pulled his saddle and bridle out from behind Jack’s and Mia’s gear.
Mildew and mold had turned the brittle leather white. Behind the tack that got used more often were two other saddles—his ex-wife’s and the small one he’d used with Jack when he was little.
They were white and brittle, too.
What the hell, he thought, and tried to pull them out. He strained, dropping his cane, stumbling slightly with the awkward weight. He swore, loudly enough that anyone in the barn could hear.
“Do you need help?” a voice asked and Walter turned to find Ben.
That had worked, at least, he thought.
“I would, son. Thank you.”
The nine-year-old wasn’t all that strong, but at least his ankle worked. It took them a few turns to get all the stuff, but soon they had all the old gear spread out in the grass in front of his chair.
“What are you going to do?” the boy asked.
“Grab a cloth,” Walter said as he sat and pointed to the ripped tee-shirts hanging over the edge of the bucket.
The boy hesitated and Walter squinted up at him, the end-of-day sun resting just over Ben’s head. A halo. Unlikely, but Walter wasn’t one to judge.
He bent back over his work, pushing the cloth into the cleaning mixture until it was saturated and then working it over the brittle leather, trying to get rid of the mildew.
“It stinks,” Ben said.
“Vinegar.”
“What’s it do?”
“Gets rid of the mold.”
“Why is it moldy?”
“I haven’t used it in a while.”
“You’re sick, right?”
Jesus Christ, what the hell was this? Was he asking about the Parkinson’s or the drinking?
“I guess.”
“You gonna die?”
Walter paused, his heart taking a hard, heavy chug in his throat. He’d been killing himself with drink. Not taking his medicine. It was all part of his plan to ease right on out of this life.
He thought about Sandra, the bruise on her wrist, the fire in her eyes. Why did she tell him about A.J.? Him? What did she want? What could she possibly be looking to him for? A month ago he’d been a dead man walking and now…now he didn’t know what he was.
But maybe he’d earned himself a few years to figure it out.