Total pages in book: 90
Estimated words: 83933 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 420(@200wpm)___ 336(@250wpm)___ 280(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 83933 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 420(@200wpm)___ 336(@250wpm)___ 280(@300wpm)
“Jeanette. But she isn’t my friend. She was an assigned study partner.” We’d gotten along about as well as witches and water.
“You’ve got to face facts, sweetheart. People need people, and I’m not getting out of this life alive. Every time I see a doctor, the prognosis is worse. You’re wasting your future here.”
“No. No!” I reiterated with more force. “I love you. Not one second with you is wasted.” He’d always been there for me, providing everything I needed. More than shelter and sustenance, he’d given me unending support. Despite being a wreck himself, he’d comforted me after Mom’s disappearance. How could I do any less for him now?
He shook his head, exasperated. “Stubborn as a mule. That’s what you are.”
I humphed at him. “Guess I’m not just my mother’s daughter.”
His echoing humph reminded me of pre-cancer Dad.
“Take your meds and eat your breakfast,” I said, “and I’ll go on a date with the next guy who asks.” A moot point since no one ever asked. For a while I’d thought Theo, a frequent customer at the diner, might do so, but he’d stopped coming in weeks ago, ending our mild flirtation.
No big deal. People left me. That’s what they did.
Well, hello there, abandonment issues.
Inner shake. I handed my dad a tiny paper cup with pills piled on top of each other, then bent over to kiss his brow. “Gotta run. I’ve got ravenous animals to feed.” And yeah, a host of other responsibilities to complete. “I love you,” I repeated. “Remember that.”
His shoulders rolled in. “I love you, too, Rye.”
Before he could say anything else, I strode from the room. Only after I closed the door with a soft snick did I let my smile fall. How much time did he have left? How much, how much?
Whatever the answer, I wasn’t going to wallow. I’d meant what I’d said. Responsibilities called.
Raising my chin, I kicked into high gear and readied the candles, as promised. After donning a hat, gloves, and an old coat, I made my way outside, abandoning the warmth of the farmhouse to enter the chill of winter.
One hour bled into another as I restocked feed loaders, fed the pigs and chickens, gathered eggs, filled water troughs, set out hay bales, checked the herds for problems, tended the greenhouse vegetables, and mucked stalls. All the while, the empty heated pool where I had adored swimming throughout my childhood mocked me. So did three hundred acres of neglected soil.
Planting season was only four months away. But how was I supposed to complete a task that required machinery I couldn’t afford to fix?
Bit by bit, the sky darkened, bringing with it a cold breeze. Guess my father’s prediction had legs. I inhaled deep and detected the crisp scent of coming rain. Oh, yeah. There’d be a storm.
Mist formed in front of my face as I exhaled, momentarily shielding my vision. Wait. A pig had escaped the pen. Argh! I took off in a sprint.
As I wrangled the little darling, the first smattering of raindrops fell. I checked the clock on my cell and groaned. I’d worked too long and now had less than half an hour to shower, change, and drive to Emerald City Clucks, where I served “the Wickedest Chicken Sandwich in the Midwest” while sporting two dark braids, a blue and white gingham pinafore dress, requisite white undershirt, and a pair of silver slippers, reminiscent of the book rather than the movie. When you lived in Ozworld, Kansas, there was no escaping The Wonderful Wizard of Oz.
According to local history, a housewife in the fifties claimed to be transported by tornado to and from a fantastical land. No one had believed her, but everyone had hoped to cash in. A vote to change the town name passed. For a while, the gambit had paid off, bringing in a flood of tourists. If only the tale continued to draw the masses.
Once inside the house, I checked on my father. He slept, but not restfully. At least he’d taken a few bites of the toast. An improvement from yesterday when he’d eaten nothing.
A barbed lump grew in my throat. I hated to leave him, but I couldn’t afford to stay. We’d taken out a second mortgage on the farm to pay for medication and treatments. Either I paid the bill or we lost our home. I just, I needed Daddy to keep fighting long enough to reach remission.
With a heavy heart, I quickly dolled up and hit the road. Maybe I would receive a large tip tonight. Considering the number of punches I’d taken lately, something was bound to go right for me. Please.
I set a tub of dirty dishes on a cluttered table and rubbed my aching back. At twenty years old, I felt ancient. Tending the farm and working at the diner seven days a week were taking a toll. Not that I was complaining (more than a little.) To help my dad, I’d do this and more. Even accept a third job, if necessary. And it just might be.