6. Skyler

Terry is mid-sentence, talking to the team in France, when the front door bangs open.

I glance over the top of my laptop, watching my dad stomp through the living room.

I have got to remember to lock the front door.

Silver Bend doesn’t have an abundance of realty available, but right now, a hollowed-out tree by the creek is looking preferrable to living across the road to that bundle of stress and caffeine.

Dad grinds to a stop in front of me. Holding up two fingers out of view of the webcam, I finish giving my side of the report.

He bristles, crossing his arms, but waits. The one thing dad values over punctuality is doing the job the right way. I rattle off numbers, talking on auto pilot, because I’m distracted.

Not by my dad’s presence alone, this isn’t the first time he’s barged in on a meeting. I’m distracted by how much he looks like Uncle Don.

Uncle Chad and my dad don’t really look much alike. They have the same big frame, salt and pepper hair. But Uncle Chad has blue eyes and lighter coloring, where my dad is dark. Like Uncle Don.

I finish up, snapping the laptop closed.

Dad gives me a level look. “If you don’t have time to help out around here, I’ll just hire a farm hand.”

He’s made the threat before. And just like the last time, and the time before, the comment draws my gaze to his actual hand. The right one.

It looks perfectly normal, just like his left. But looks can be deceiving and that hand is more or less decoration at this point. He can’t grasp with it, steer a tractor with it. It’s no good. Damaged.

You’d think the guilt would ease after a while. That I’d stop thinking about it, that it wouldn’t feel so fucking fresh.

I stand, pushing my chair in. “I’m coming. That meeting was just running over.”

“Yeah, well, the grain truck is probably running over now, too.”

“You left the auger running?”

He tips his head. “No. But I can’t run the grain cart and the truck at the same time. We got to get that east bin transferred before harvest gets going in earnest or we’ll have nowhere to go with the grain.”

“I know, I know.”

This is a different version of the same argument I heard over breakfast. The issue here, is that helping my dad out is a full-time gig. But so is the job with Wheaton. I’d pay good money for a cloning machine, but until the technology comes along, I’m stuck doing both jobs.

It’s running me ragged.

But duty and easy don’t usually go in the same sentence.

I gesture ahead of me. With a frown and a huff, he turns and leads the way outside. I’ve cultivated a wardrobe that works on a webcam and in the tractor. Quarter zip athletic pullover. Sturdy glasses. And dark wash jeans.

Zipper waits for us on the front porch, one coppery ear flipped up over her head. I flick it back in place and she licks my hand in thanks. She’s technically my brother Mitch’s dog. He got her while he was still in college but couldn’t take her with him when he moved to downtown Denver. He made the right call. Zipper’s a Vizsla. A slippery little hound with rust-red fur, a brown nose, and spooky, gold eyes.

She’s as fast as greased lightning. She should be free to run. A city loft would have clipped her little wings.

And as a bonus to Zipper giving up her big city dreams, she lives out here with me. We’re both exiles. Leftovers.

She speeds ahead, doing crazy zigzags before stopping by my truck. I open the truck door and she hops inside, sitting in the middle with her chest puffed up. Such a pretty girl.

I hesitate, turning back to squint at my dad. He’s frowning, but when isn’t he? I clear my throat. “Saw Uncle Don the other day.”

His head whips around and he stops in his tracks. Uh-oh. I know that look. It’s a special kind of pissed reserved for extreme moments. Like the time he had to pick Bo, Dusty, and me up from the precinct after we nearly all get nailed with minor in possession charges.

“You saw Donald? Where?”

“Denver.”

I put a hand on the back of my truck, feigning a casual stance that’s only skin deep. “At the Glacial Frost Brewery. He was there with his partner.”

I say the last part, watching dad’s reaction closely. No response to that. He either already knew, or isn’t bothered by that part of the story.

He stretches his neck, peering across the road, to his house and the farm stead. “What’d he want?”

“Nothing.”

I shrug. “We just talked for a bit.”

Dad’s dark eyes connect with mine. “And what’d he say?”

I don’t like confrontation. Not with my dad, anyway. But a silly kind of courage bolsters me on. “He told me the real reason grandpa cut him out of the will. Tell me he’s full of shit, dad. That really can’t be the reason.”

Dad tips his head. “Your grandpa was from a different generation. Old-fashioned.”

“So, he abandoned his son because of who he chooses to love?”

Dad’s expression hardens. “No, he abandoned his son, because his son wasn’t following the scriptures. It’s all there in the good book, Skyler, if you’d ever bother to read it.”

“I’ve read the part where Jesus talked about loving your neighbor.”

“I don’t think he meant in that way, kid.”

He starts to walk away; confident he had the last word.

“What if it had been me?”

I call out after him.

He stops and looks back.

I shove my hands in my pockets. “If Mitch or I were gay, would you throw us away, too?”

He takes a few steps closer. “But you aren’t gay.”

There’s a question in his voice. I can’t blame him for that doubt, I haven’t dated very much. Not to his knowledge anyway. It’s a fair assumption.

“No, but what if we’d committed some other sin in your eyes? Would you abandon us too? Whatever happened to this family loyalty you’re always going on about?”

His eyes spark with anger. “There was more to that split than just a rainbow parade, kid. Your Uncle Don was downright nasty in court. He threw the first stone.”

“I think it sounds like grandpa cast the first stone with his will…”

Dad holds up a hand, his damaged hand. “I’m done talking about this. Get in your truck or don’t.”

He spins away, his hand hanging uselessly at his side.

He’s got me there. Right there at his side.

That’s the hand that binds me.