“Let go of her!” Tripp crossed the kitchen in three seconds flat. Jericho dropped the light hold he had of Ali as Tripp sidled up beside her. “I don’t think you’re welcome here anymore, Jericho.”
“That true, Ali? If you want me to leave, I will.” His lips formed a grim line.
Tripp slid his arm around her waist.
She nodded. “I can’t deal with you right now. I need to take care of all the people here.”
Jericho narrowed his eyes, almost like he wanted to say something more, but then he put on his hat and dipped his chin. “Be talking to you later, then.”
When he left, Tripp took hold of her hands. “Alison, tell me what’s going on.”
“You saved me. I almost told him about Chance.”
The pressure of his hands increased a bit. Besides Kate, Tripp was the only other person in town who knew for sure that Chance was Jericho’s son. “You can’t ever do that. You tell him about Chance, and he’ll probably sue you for parental rights, or at least want shared custody.”
She broke away from him and rubbed her temples. “What am I going to do?”
“You need to divorce him. Make the separation legal. Divorce is your only option.” Tripp said it so easily. Divorce. The word tasted sour on her tongue. But the lawyer made it sound like going for coffee. His tanned arms showed from the rolled-up sleeves of his oxford, and his blue eyes seemed to take her in, while his wavy brown hair stayed perfectly in place.
She brushed at crumbs on the counter. “I don’t see the point.”
“I don’t see the point of not divorcing him.”
“I know him. He won’t sign any papers.”
Tripp shrugged. “It doesn’t matter. He abandoned you. Didn’t send word for eight years. No court will deny your petition.”
An uproar in the front room drew her attention. She glanced at the door separating the kitchen from the rest of the party. “Doesn’t a divorce cost a lot of money? You know about our financial situation.”
He waved his hand. “I have a friend at the firm who can do the paperwork for you. I’ll take care of everything. I’ll need your signature, that’s all.”
She wrung her hands. “I don’t know.”
Tripp took her shoulders so she faced him. “But what if...what if another man wants to marry you?”
Her gaze snapped to meet his, and she didn’t see a trace of mocking in his blues. Like a spooked horse, panic bolted down her spine. Another man? Did that mean...?
The door banged. “Mom! Look at what Jericho gave me. Where is he? I want to show him how I’ve been practicing.” Chance thrust a lasso into her hands.
She slipped away from Tripp and took the thick bound rope, running her thumb over the rough surface. “He had to go home.”
“Aw, man. I wanted him to show everyone. He’s so cool.” Chance started walking back toward his party, then stopped. “He’ll be here tomorrow, right?”
“I think so, honey.”
“Good. I like him the best out of all your friends.”
She hugged her middle as she watched Chance leave the room. What was she going to do about his growing attachment to Jericho? It couldn’t continue. For Chance to be safe, and her life to continue without any bumps, Jericho needed to leave town. Soon. Because if he didn’t, Jericho was bound to figure out that Chance was his son.
* * *
Adrenaline tingled through Jericho’s muscles as he walked the short length of the Silvers’ hay field toward his father’s expansive land—the Bar F Ranch. The pain in his knees throbbed, almost blinding him with intensity, but he limped without stopping to rest. He’d ice them at home.
He’d like to rub that smug look off Tripp’s face. How dare the man touch his wife?
Scooping up a rock, he tossed the stone into the deep gully separating their properties and waited, listening for the ping of it hitting bottom. His heart felt about as jagged and bottomless.
No wonder she didn’t like the sight of him. Ali hadn’t cheated on him. Chance had to be his son. Not only had he left his teenage wife, he’d left her pregnant and alone.
Why didn’t she tell him? He would have stayed. No. That was worse. To stay for the sake of the child when he hadn’t been willing to stay for the sake of his wife? Cow manure ranked better than him right about now.
The army chaplain’s voice drifted through his mind. You are not your past errors. You are redeemed. Jericho had rejoiced in that. He had learned to live in victory, but he wanted his wife’s forgiveness, too. What would he have to do to prove to Ali that he could be trusted? Would he ever get through to her?
Husbands, love your wives, just as Christ loved the church and gave himself up for her.
The scripture whizzed through his head and stopped him cold in his tracks. He looked up at the sky as a burning Montana sun began to wrap purple capes over the mountains.
Love her. Keep on loving her.
That much he could do.
Chapter Six
Jericho stared at the clock on the dashboard.
Twenty minutes.
He ran a hand over his beard. He needed a shave. Maybe he should do that first. No. He refocused his eyes on the front doors of the nursing home. It was now or never.
Never sounds good. But he pushed open the Jeep’s door and climbed out onto the sun-warmed pavement.
The over-bleached smell of the nursing home assaulted his senses. The hollow clip of his boots on the laminate floor echoed along with the one word ramrodding itself into his head. Failure. Failure. Reaching the door bearing a nameplate reading Abram Freed, Jericho froze. He pulled off his battered Stetson and crunched it between his hands. Then he took a step over the threshold.
The sight of Pop tore the breath right out of Jericho’s lungs.
Once the poster of an intimidating, weathered cowboy, Abram now just looked...weak. His hair, brushed to the side in a way that Jericho had never seen, had aged to mountain-snowcap-white, but his bushy eyebrows were still charcoal. Like sun-baked, cracked mud, cavernous lines etched the man’s face. The once rippled muscles ebbed into sunken patches covered by slack skin.
Jericho waited for his dad to turn and acknowledge him. Or yell at him. Curse him. But he didn’t move. What had the doctor told him about Pop? The call came months ago. Stroke. He’d lost the use of his right side. None of it meant anything at the time. But now he saw the effects, and his heart ached with grief for the father he hardly loved. Abram Freed looked like a ship without mooring—lost.
“Hey there, Pops.” He hated the vulnerability his voice took on. Like he was ten again, chin to his chest, asking his dad’s permission to watch cartoons.
Pop’s body tensed, and his head trembled slightly. With a sigh, he raised his left hand off the white sheet by a couple inches. His dad couldn’t turn his head. A stabbing, gritty feeling filled Jericho’s eyes as he skirted the hospital bed and pulled out the plastic chair near his father’s good side. His dad’s eyes moved back and forth over Jericho’s frame, and the left side of his dad’s face pulled up a bit, while the right side remained down in a frown.
A nurse bustled into the room. “Well, now, look at this, Mr. Freed, how nice to have some company. Saw you had a visitor on the log—thought it was that pretty little lady always popping by.”