Home for Good. Jessica Keller

picture of Chance. The photographer had captured the boy’s impish smile, crooked on one side and showing more gums than teeth as his blue eyes sparkled. He was holding up a horseshoe in a victorious manner.

      Ali?

      The nurse poured out a cup of water and set it on the bedside table. “And who are you?”

      “I’m his son.”

      “Mercy me.” The nurse leaned down near Pop, speaking loudly. “I bet you’re glad to see this young man, ain’t you?”

      “Ith...Ith.”

      Unwanted tears gathered at the edge of Jericho’s eyes as he watched his father struggling to speak.

      Abram smacked his left hand on the bed and closed his eyes. “I dondt know. I dondt know.”

      Jericho searched the nurse’s face. She offered him a sad smile. “That’s the only understandable phrase we get. It don’t mean anything. He says it no matter what’s being talked about. But he can hear just fine. He likes when people come and talk to him. Don’t you, Mr. Freed?”

      Pop’s drooping eyes slid partially open, and his head nodded infinitesimally.

      Everything inside Jericho seized up. He clenched his jaw, blinking his eyes a couple times. His last meeting with his father whirled in his head—him screaming at Pop, blaming his father for all that had gone wrong in his life.

      Over the last eight years, Jericho had pieced back together his world. He’d returned to Bitterroot Valley for two reasons—to repair his devastated marriage, and to restore his relationship with his father. But how could he do that with a man who couldn’t speak? He wanted his father to tell him that he was sorry for the abuse and neglect after Mom died. But that apology would never come. And like it or not, he had to be okay with that.

      “Since you’re here, will you help me move your pa?”

      “What?” Jericho scratched the top of his head. “I guess whatever you want me to do, just say.”

      “We try to move him every hour or so. Prevent sores. It helps to fight the chance of pneumonia, which is always a possibility.” She leaned back to Pop. “But we’d never let that happen, sweet man like you. We take good care of you.”

      She motioned for Jericho to move his father, and after a moment of hesitation, he lifted Pop’s frail body in his arms. The old man fit against his chest. Tiny. Breakable. His father’s right side hung limp, whereas the muscles on the left side of his body pulled, straining for dignity. A flood of compassion barreled through Jericho’s heart, burying all the anger he’d felt for the man who’d caused him such suffering. Abram Freed could never hurt him again. His dad deserved to be treated with respect, no matter their past.

      The nurse indicated a beige wingback chair. Jericho recognized it from his childhood home. With extra care, he set Pop down. As he began to move away, his father touched his hand. Jericho turned, and Abram pointed to a nearby chair.

      He looked back toward the nurse as she inched toward the door and raised his eyebrows. She smiled. “It’s okay. Just go on and talk to him.”

      Clearing his throat, Jericho rubbed his hands together, eyes on the floor. He looked back at his father, and the despair swimming in the old man’s eyes unglued Jericho’s tongue.

      So he began to ramble. Told Pop about the past eight years, and went on about still loving Ali. Told stories about the war, and in the midst of it an emotion filtered across his father’s face that Jericho had never seen before. Pride.

      Swallowing the giant lump in his throat, Jericho leaned forward, and in a voice barely above a whisper said words he hadn’t planned. “Pop. I’m sorry I left that night. I didn’t just walk out on my wife. I walked out on you, too. We had our bad times between us, but it was never like that when Mom was alive. I understand now why you drank. Losing the woman you love...I get it. I forgive you.”

      Jericho waited, bracing himself for the backhand to his face or the kick to his side that didn’t come. Instead a soft, weathered hand covered his and squeezed. He looked up and his breath caught at the sight of tears slipping from his father’s eyes.

      “Forgive me?” Jericho whispered.

      With his good hand, Pop patted Jericho’s cheek, trailing fingers down his chin as if memorizing every inch of his face. His father sighed. He pointed, shaking his finger at the top drawer of the nightstand.

      Jericho shifted his chair and set his hand over the handle of the drawer. “Want me to open this?”

      “Yeth, yeth.” Pop nodded. He opened the drawer and found a single envelope with “Jericho” written on the inside. Could Pop still write? Or had this always been waiting for him?

      “You want me to have this?”

      His father waved his arm, motioning toward the framed picture of Chance. Jericho scooped the photo up and handed it to him. Pop stroked the picture, tapped the glass then pointed at the envelope bearing Jericho’s name.

      Jericho gulped. “Should I open this now, or you want me to wait until later?”

      Pop tapped his finger on the envelope and then pressed the packet into his son’s hands. Jericho nodded and slipped his finger under the lip. Into his hand tumbled a gold watch and a very thin copper-colored key. The tag on the key ring bore the number 139.

      “This is Grandpa’s watch. You sure you want me to have it?”

      “Yeth.”

      Eyes burning, Jericho slipped the watch onto his wrist. His dad had worn it every day that Jericho could remember. “And what’s the story with this key?”

      Pop jabbed his finger at the photo of Chance.

      “It has to do with Chance?”

      “Yeth. Itha. Tha. I dondt know.”

      Jericho covered his dad’s hand and gave it a squeeze. “Don’t worry about it, Pop. I’ll figure it out.”

      * * *

      Denny’s rhythmic pounds worked the knots out of Ali’s muscles as he galloped across the wide field near the grove of cottonwoods. The trees stood like a gaggle of old women with their heads bent together sharing gossip. Hunching, she avoided the low-growing branches as her buckskin horse carried her.

      She sighed. If Ali could have her way, she’d stay on Denny’s back and ride off into the horizon like the heroes did in those Old West movies. No stress. No responsibilities.

      “You’re better than any therapist money can buy. Know that, Denny?” His giant fuzz-covered ears swiveled like a radar to hear her better.

      “What are we going to do, huh, bud?” Swinging out of the saddle, she stood beside him, tracing her fingers against the yellow-gold hair covering his withers. He nudged his forehead into her shoulder, and she laughed. “You know I have a carrot in my pocket, don’t you?” She pulled out the offering, giggling as his big lips grabbed the food. The warmth of his breath on her fingertips was as comforting as a loving mother’s arms.

      What would she do about Tripp Phillips’s attention toward her? Ali rubbed her temples. She didn’t want that. Not with Tripp. Not with any man. Marriage? No, thank you. But she didn’t want to lose his friendship, either.

      She walked away a few paces, then leaned against the trunk of the largest cottonwood. She slowly let her body slump to the ground. Cocking her knees, she looped her arms on them and looked out across the river as it rippled past. The scene felt familiar, and she instinctively turned and glanced up at the initials Jericho had carved there so many years ago. Funny, the things that could fill her heart with peace. The crudely chipped JF loves AS shouldn’t cause anything to stir in her, but it did nonetheless.

      What was she going to do about that man?

      Denny nickered, as if reminding her of her real purpose. “Thanks, bud.” She pulled the now crumpled