Mitch sat on the edge of the mattress and cupped his hand around Dylan’s ankle through the covers. “Emmy’s having trouble with her memory. And with recognizing the difference between the past and the present.” He swallowed hard. “Sometimes she mixes up the two.”
Dylan looked down and picked at the blanket, his forehead creasing. “Will she get better?”
“I . . .” Mitch shook his head. “I don’t think so. I think it’ll only get worse from here on out.”
“How much worse?”
“A lot. Eventually to the point that she won’t be able to take care of herself.”
Dylan raised his head, those blue eyes—so like Mitch’s own—locked on his uncle’s with piercing intensity. “Or me and Sadie?”
Mitch sat back, his hand tightening around Dylan’s ankle. “Yes.”
“What will happen then?”
God help him. He’d known the question would come, but he’d hoped it wouldn’t arise until later. When he’d had time to rest. To think. Lord . . . to at least figure out what step to take next and prepare for how to break the news to the kids.
“We’ll cross that bridge when we get to it.” He held Dylan’s gaze, hoping like hell he sounded more confident than he felt. “You have nothing to worry about, Dylan. I’m not going to let anything bad happen to you, Sadie, or Emmy.” His throat tightened. Dipping his head, he added, “I am going to ask something of you, though. I need you to trust me. I need you to understand that whatever decisions I’ll end up having to make, I’ll be making them in your, Sadie’s, and Emmy’s best interests. And I’ll need your help running this place until it’s time to make those decisions.”
Dylan remained silent for a minute, his guarded eyes peering into Mitch’s; then he settled back against his pillow and tugged the sheet up to his chin. “Okay.”
Mitch patted his ankle, stood, and walked to the door.
“Uncle Mitch?”
Mitch stopped, his hand tensing around the doorknob. “Yeah?”
“I know I told Emmy I didn’t like it here—and sometimes I still don’t—but . . .” Dylan’s voice trailed away, its tone hesitant. “But sometimes I do, you know?”
Mitch closed his eyes, the weight of the day washing over him. The enormity of the pain, loss, and uncertainty Dylan and Sadie had already suffered in their young lives and were facing now hit him in the chest, stealing his breath. “I know.” He glanced over his shoulder and forced a smile. “Now get some rest.”
He flipped off the light, moved into the hallway, then shut the door behind him. The house was still, quiet, and dark in the midst of the storm’s onslaught save for a muted slant of light slipping beneath the closed door of Emmy’s room. Kristen was still in there, probably sitting at Emmy’s bedside, watching her chest lift and lower on deep breaths as she drifted off, and wondering just what the hell she’d gotten herself into by coming here.
Wincing, Mitch rubbed his temples with his thumb and forefinger, then moved to the next bedroom. He nudged the door open a bit farther and eased his head around the doorframe to look inside.
Sadie was peaceful and still beneath the pink sheet, her long brown hair lying over her shoulder and covering her smooth cheek. Her gentle breaths moved an errant strand against her lips.
He walked to her bedside and brushed the lock of hair back, tucking it behind her ear. A small whimper escaped her before she settled back to sleep.
How would Sadie take the news? Unlike Dylan, she had always had a close relationship with Emmy and had embraced the farm right away. Even through the worst months here with Carrie, she’d always seemed at home when he’d come to check on her.
This is your home, too, Mitch.
Eyes burning at the memory of Emmy’s words, he balled his shaking hand into a fist, then left the room. He forced his weak legs to carry him to the front door and out onto the porch.
A thick swath of moist, humid air enveloped him, and rain poured off the eaves in dense waves, the relentless pounding of the storm stretching for miles. A tangy mix of rainwater and clay misted the breeze and clogged his nostrils with its pungent smell.
You don’t just throw someone away.
Gripping the rotten porch rail, he ducked his head and shoved it into the heavy stream of rain. The cool water rushed down the back of his neck, around his jaw, then dripped from his chin.
Why hadn’t he returned to help Emmy years ago? Why hadn’t he fixed this dilapidated porch so she could enjoy it while she still owned the place? Offered to help with the crops as soon as he arrived, instead of waiting for guilt to push him into it?
You suits are all the same. Selfish. Hateful. Useless.
Shoulders heaving, he clamped his lips together and choked back the guttural roar shoving its way up his throat.
Can’t you see I’m trying to make things right?