Chapter 12: The harsh fluorescent lights of the hospital corridor reveal Wade's raw grief as Cass walks in - his choked 'You came' breaks the dam, and for the first time, she sees the vulnerable boy beneath the cowboy's scars.
The two days stretched into five. Then a week.
Wade called once, from a payphone in the hospital lobby. His voice was frayed wire. “He’s not good, Cass. They’re talking about moving him to hospice. I can’t leave him here alone.”
“I know,” she said, the kitchen cord wrapped tight around her finger. “It’s okay.” She could hear the hollow echo of the institution behind him, the distant page for a doctor. “I miss you.”
A long pause. “I miss you so damn much it’s a physical ache. I’ll be back the second I can.”
The call ended. She hung up the phone, the click final. The house felt heavier.
By the end of the second week, an emptiness had taken root in her, a cold companion that followed her from room to room. She tried to write. She forced herself to type a clumsy, overly sentimental piece about the old Majestic theater on her mother’s old electric typewriter, the keys clacking like angry teeth. She mailed it to the County Clarion in an envelope that felt foolishly light. Nothing came back.
The weather turned mean. A hard, dry cold settled over the plains, scouring the land. The wind didn’t whistle anymore; it screamed through every crack in the farmhouse’s siding. The stack of firewood by the porch, the one they’d built together, shrank daily.
She woke on the seventeenth morning with a thickness in her head. Her throat was raw. When she sat up, the room tilted slightly. She dressed slowly, her fingers clumsy. Downstairs, her mother was scrubbing the stovetop with a ferocity that seemed personal.
“You’re late,” Martha said, not turning around. “Your father’s already out. The water trough in the north pasture is frozen solid. He needs the propane torch from the machine shed.”
“I don’t feel good,” Cass said, her voice a gravelly whisper.
Martha finally looked at her. Her eyes scanned Cass’s face, her flushed cheeks. “You look fine. It’s just the chill. Move around, you’ll warm up. The torch is on the west wall. Don’t dawdle.”
The dismissal was a slap. Cass wanted to lie down on the linoleum and sleep for a year. Instead, she pulled on Wade’s coat—she’d taken to wearing it when she was alone outside, the weight a poor substitute—and trudged out into the glare.
The cold was a shock. It stole her breath, needling through the flannel. She found the torch, a heavy, rusty thing, and carried it back to the house, her muscles protesting. Robert took it from her wordlessly, his expression grim.
“Wood’s low,” he grunted, nodding to the pile. “After lunch, you split what’s left in the north yard. I need that stack full by the back door.”
“Dad, I really think I’m—”
“Now’s not the time for laziness, Cassidy.” He cut her off, his eyes cold. “Weather’s not asking how you feel.”
Lunch was broth. She couldn’t taste it. Her head pounded in time with her pulse. Martha chattered about a church bake sale, her words buzzing around Cass like flies.
Afterwards, Cass stood before the remaining unsplit logs. They were big, gnarled rounds of oak, leftovers too tough for the machine. Wade’s splitting maul leaned against the chopping block, its handle smooth from his grip. She hefted it. The world swayed.
She set a round on the block. Lifted the maul. The arc was wrong, weak. The blade bit into the wood and stuck, vibrating. She had to wrestle it free. A hot, sick sweat broke out under her layers, immediately chilled by the wind. Her breath came in ragged gasps that tore at her throat.
She tried again. And again. Each impact sent a jarring shock up her arms, into her throbbing skull. The log wouldn’t cleave. Black spots danced at the edges of her vision. The world shrank to the block, the maul, the relentless, shrieking wind.
“For God’s sake, girl, put your back into it!”
Her father’s voice, from the machine shed doorway. He was watching, a dark silhouette. Shame, hot and sour, rose in her throat. She blinked away the spots, summoned a final reservoir of anger, and swung.
The maul hit true. The oak split with a sound like a gunshot. The two halves fell to the ground.
And she fell with them.
Her knees buckled. She caught herself on the chopping block, the rough wood scraping her palm. She vomited into the dirt, a pathetic spatter of broth and bile. The world greyed out, sounds becoming muffled and distant. She was aware of the freezing ground under her knees, the acid taste in her mouth, and then nothing but a profound, welcoming stillness.
She came to being hauled upright. Her father had her under one arm, dragging her toward the house. Her boots scuffed the ground. “Martha!” he bellowed. “Get out here!”
Her mother appeared on the porch, her hand flying to her mouth. “Robert, what—”
“She’s sick,” he said, his voice tight with disgust, as if illness were a moral failing. He half-carried, half-shoved Cass up the steps and into the kitchen, depositing her in a chair. “Clean her up. I don’t have time for this.”
He left, the door slamming. Cass slumped over the table, her forehead on the cool Formica. She was shivering violently now, deep, uncontrollable tremors that made her teeth chatter.
Martha’s hands were on her, pulling off the filthy coat, feeling her forehead. “You’re burning up.” The anger was gone, replaced by a frantic, practical fear. “Why didn’t you say something?”
“I did,” Cass whispered, the words cracking.
Her mother’s hands stilled for a second. Then she was moving again, getting a wet cloth. “Well, you should have said it louder.” But the edge was gone from her voice. She helped Cass upstairs, into bed, piling on extra quilts. She brought aspirin and water, her face pinched.
Cass drifted in a fever haze. The room melted and reformed. Sometimes it was her childhood room. Sometimes it was the attic, and she’d start, thinking she heard the creak of the stairs. Once, she was sure Wade was there, his cool hand on her brow, but when she opened her eyes it was only her mother, replacing the cloth.
On the third day, the fever broke, leaving her hollowed out and weak as a newborn. The house was silent. She could hear the wind, a constant presence. She made her way downstairs, clinging to the banister. The kitchen was empty. Through the window, she saw her father’s truck was gone.
On the table, next to the salt shaker, was a folded piece of newsprint.
She picked it up with trembling hands. It was the County Clarion. Below a headline about a school board meeting, in a small box, was her piece. “Memories in the Dust: The Majestic’s Final Reel.” By Cassidy McAllister. They’d edited it, cut the flowery bits. It was short. But it was there. Her name. In print.
A check fluttered out from between the pages. Twenty-five dollars. Made out to her.
She sat down hard on a kitchen chair, the paper clutched in her hand. It wasn’t the New Yorker. It was barely a paragraph. But it was a thread, pulling her from the drowning depths of the sickbed, back to the surface.
The back door opened, bringing in a gust of cold and her mother. Martha stopped when she saw Cass, saw the paper in her hand. Her expression was unreadable.
“Old Man Higgins dropped that by yesterday,” she said, hanging her coat. “Said it was ‘readable.’ Said you should stop by.”
Cass looked from the check to her mother. “You didn’t tell me.”
“You were delirious.” Martha busied herself filling the kettle. “I didn’t think it was important.”
But she’d left it on the table. Right where Cass would find it.
“Thank you,” Cass said quietly.
Martha didn’t acknowledge it. “There was a phone call,” she said, her back still turned. “For you. This morning.”
Cass’s heart stuttered. “Wade?”
“No.” Martha turned, leaning against the counter. Her face was weary. “Luke Barrett. From the feed store. He said to tell you…” She hesitated, as if the words had a bad taste. “He said he heard from a buddy who works the oil fields near Lubbock. Said he saw Wade Collins three days ago, not at any hospital. Said he was loading tools into a truck. A work truck. For a company called Panhandle Drilling.”
The words landed, one by one, like stones.
I’ll be back the second I can.
He was loading tools into a truck.
The thread of the byline, the tiny victory, snapped. The cold in the room seeped past her skin, into her marrow. She stared at her mother, who looked back with a pity that was worse than any judgment.
“Luke’s a gossip,” Cass finally said, her voice barely audible.
“Maybe,” Martha conceded. But her eyes said she believed it. “Men leave, Cassidy. It’s what they do when things get hard. They find easier work. Or easier women. Or just… an easier silence.”
Cass looked down at the newsprint in her hands. Her name. A lie of a future. The check for twenty-five dollars. Outside, the wind screamed, and it sounded like laughter.the ne
Outside, the wind screamed, and it sounded like laughter. Cass folded the newsprint around the check, the action precise. She slid it into her pocket. The twenty-five dollars felt like evidence of a different person, one who believed in threads and futures.
She stood up. The room tilted, a slow, nauseating swing. She made it to the sink and vomited clear, bitter fluid. Her body shook with the effort, empty and furious.
“Damn it,” she whispered, spitting into the drain.
Her little sister Alex appeared in the doorway, holding a textbook. She was all sharp angles and nervous eyes, a younger reflection of what Cass used to be. “Mom said you were sick. You want some 7-Up or something?”
“It just comes back up.” Cass ran cold water, splashing her face. The chill felt good on her fever-flushed skin. She leaned against the counter, spent.
Alex hovered. “Maybe it’s food poisoning? Dad made that weird chili last night.” She offered a weak smile, trying to connect. “I could make you toast. Dry toast is okay, right?”
“Nothing is okay, Alex.” The words came out harsher than she intended. She saw her sister flinch, the helpful light in her eyes dim. “Just… don’t. Please.”
Alex’s shoulders slumped. She retreated, the textbook clutched to her chest like a shield. Cass listened to her footsteps fade upstairs. The house resumed its silence, a vacuum filled only by her own ragged breathing and the relentless wind.
Three more days passed in a watery blur. The nausea was a low, constant hum. She managed dry crackers, sips of flat ginger ale. Her body felt both heavy and insubstantial. She slept fitfully, haunted by images of Wade tossing tools into a flatbed, his back forever turned.
On the fourth day, a different sound cut through the wind. The growl of an unfamiliar engine, tires on gravel. Cass was on the couch, wrapped in a blanket, listlessly watching dust motes dance in a weak sunbeam. She didn’t move.
The kitchen door opened. A blast of cold air. Then his voice, deeper, rougher than she remembered. “Martha. Robert.”
Her father’s chair scraped in the den. “Collins. You got a lot of nerve showing your face.”
“My uncle died.” Wade’s words were flat, final. “Took two days to get through the arrangements. The hospital, the funeral home, all of it. I called.”
“You called once.” That was her mother’s voice, tight and accusatory from the kitchen.
“It was the only time I could get to a phone that wasn’t in a hallway where everyone was crying.” A beat of strained silence. “I’m here now. I’ll work through the weekend to catch up.”
Her father grunted. “Catch up? The north fence line is a disgrace. The McCormack cattle got through twice. Start there. Take the post driver.”
No welcome back. No condolence. Just a list of failures. Cass heard the heavy tread of Wade’s boots as he crossed the kitchen toward the back door. They paused.
“Cassidy here?” he asked, his voice dropping.
“She’s sick,” Martha said, a warning in her tone.
The boots changed direction, coming into the living room. He stood in the doorway, filling it. He looked older. Weathered in a new way, shadows like bruises under his eyes. His clothes were clean but worn thin. He saw her on the couch, pale and diminished, and his stoic expression fractured.
“Hey,” he said softly.
“Hey,” she managed. Her heart was a frantic, trapped thing in her chest. Loading tools into a truck. Panhandle Drilling.
“You look… pale,” he said, taking a step into the room. His eyes scanned her face, her blanket-swaddled form, with an intensity that felt like a physical touch.
“Flu. Or a bug.” She pulled the blanket tighter. “Still can’t keep much down. You look tired.”
“Yeah.” He ran a hand over his jaw. The stubble was longer than usual. “It was a long few weeks.” He seemed to want to say more, his gaze dropping to her hands, then back to her eyes. The space between them crackled with everything unsaid.
“Collins!” Her father’s bark shattered the moment. “Daylight’s burning. Fence won’t fix itself.”
Wade’s jaw tightened. He gave her one last, lingering look, a look that held apologies and questions and exhaustion. “I’ll see you tonight,” he murmured, a promise.
Then he turned and left. She heard the back door close. Through the window, she watched him stride toward the machine shed, his shoulders set against the cold. He didn’t look back.
Her mother walked into the living room, wiping her hands on a dish towel. She stared out the same window, her mouth a thin line. “Lucky bastard,” she mumbled, almost to herself. “Showing up three weeks late. Your father must be feeling charitable. Or he’s just too cheap to hire someone else who’d actually show up.”
Cass said nothing. She watched Wade grow smaller in the distance, headed for the broken fence line. The cold from the window seeped into her. The nausea twisted, fresh and sharp. It wasn’t from the flu anymore.It was from the fear, solid and chilling, that her mother was right about everything.
The fear didn't leave. It just hardened into a cold, sharp stone lodged behind her ribs. She slept fitfully that night, listening for the creak on the attic stairs that never came. The house was too full of waking anger for any secret meeting.
Morning was a grey slap. Her body felt used up, a wrung-out rag. The nausea lingered, a queasy echo. She forced down two plain scrambled eggs at the kitchen table, each bite a chore. Her father watched her over his coffee cup, his eyes assessing like a man judging a lame horse.
“You’re moving slow,” he grunted. “Max’ll help you with the milking and eggs. He’s on break. Don’t dawdle.”
Her younger brother was already in the barn, whistling tunelessly. The air inside was thick with the smell of hay, manure, and warm animal. Max looked up from where he was setting out clean buckets. At eighteen, he was all lanky limbs and a easy smile she hardly recognized.
“Heard you got your ass kicked by the flu,” he said, not unkindly. “Sucks.”
“Pretty much.” She settled on a tin bucket beside Bessie, her forehead resting against the cow’s warm flank. The rhythmic pulling was soothing, mechanical. Sweat beaded on her upper lip despite the chill.
“So, you gonna stick around this time?” Max asked after a while, his own stream of milk ringing against his pail.
“Plan’s not exactly concrete.” The lie came easy.
“Yeah. Well. I’m gonna stick. Ag program at the community college starts spring. Dad’s pissed—thinks it’s a waste—but Mom’s on my side.” He talked about soil composition, about new irrigation grants. He mentioned a girl named Jenny who worked at the library. “Alex, though,” he chuckled, “she’s got it bad for Tim Shepard. Follows him with her eyes at church like a lost puppy. Won’t admit it, though.”
Cass listened, this ordinary catalogue of dreams and crushes feeling like dispatches from another planet. She’d forgotten her siblings had futures unfolding here, futures that didn’t require escape. A strange, hollow envy mingled with her nausea.
The barn door slid open with a rumble, cutting off Max’s story. Wade stood silhouetted in the grey light, a bale hook dangling from his hand. His gaze found Cass immediately, lingering on the pallor of her skin.
“Max,” he nodded. “Mind if I borrow your sister for a bit? Need a second pair of hands to haul some hay down to the goats.”
Max shrugged. “Sure. Just bring her back in one piece. Mom’ll have my hide if she keels over again.”
“I’ll do my best.” Wade’s attempt at lightness fell flat. His eyes never left Cass as she stood up, the world tilting slightly before righting itself.
He led her out behind the barn to the flatbed trailer already loaded with square bales. “Just need you to steady them while I drive the tractor down. Slope’s rough.”
“I can drive,” she said, the old defiance flaring.
“Not today you can’t.” His voice left no room for argument. He helped her onto the trailer, his hand firm on her elbow. The contact sent a jolt through her, a confusing mix of comfort and anger. He climbed onto the old Deere and the engine coughed to life.
The ride was jolting. She braced against the bales, the rough twine scratching her palms. The cold wind stole her breath. They bounced down into the lower back field where a shaggy trio of goats watched their approach with disdain. Wade cut the engine. The silence felt heavy, charged.
“Alright, just toss them off. I’ll stack.” He moved to the first bale.
“I can stack,” she insisted, grabbing the opposite twine. They lifted together. The bale was heavier than she remembered, a dense, sixty-pound rectangle of stubborn grass. She took a step, her boots sliding on the frosty stubble. The weight pulled at her, stealing the air from her lungs in a sudden, sharp gasp.
She dropped her end, the bale thudding to the earth. She stumbled back, hand pressed to her chest, fighting for a breath that wouldn’t come. Stars prickled at the edge of her vision. She sank onto the fallen bale, head between her knees.
Wade was there in an instant, crouching before her, his hands on her shoulders. “Cass. Look at me. Breathe.”
“I’m… fine,” she wheezed, the words thin. “Just… winded.”
“You’re not fine. You’re white as a sheet.” His thumb brushed a bead of sweat from her temple. The concern in his eyes was raw, undisguised. It felt more intimate than anything in the attic. “You shouldn’t be out here. You’re still sick.”
“I’m better than I was,” she managed, finally drawing a full, shuddering breath. The world solidified. She pushed his hands away gently. “Really. It just got heavy.”
He studied her face, looking for the lie. He must have seen the stubborn set of her jaw. With a reluctant sigh, he stood and offered a hand. “Then we go slow. You point. I’ll throw.”
They finished the job in a strained, functional silence. The unspoken things—Lubbock, the phone call, the three-week absence—hung between them like the frozen breath in the air. He drove them back to the barnyard. As she climbed down, her legs still shaky, he caught her wrist.
“Tonight,” he said, his voice low. “We need to talk.”
Before she could answer, her mother’s voice called from the porch. “Supper! And wash up!”
The table was crowded. Alex and Max were full of chatter about their cousins arriving next week. Martha passed a platter of pork chops and gravy. Robert ate methodically, his eyes on his plate. Cass pushed her food around, the earlier nausea returning.
“Ran into Ellen Shepard at the post office,” Martha said brightly, too brightly. “We got to talking. Her boy, Jeremy, is back from tech school in Amarillo. Got a good job with the electric co-op.”
Cass felt a warning chill. She kept her eyes on her plate.
“Seems like a nice, steady young man,” Martha continued, darting a glance at Robert. “I was thinking, Cassidy, you two might have things in common. Ellen said he’d love to get coffee sometime.”
The air left the room. Max stopped chewing. Alex stared.
“No,” Cass said, the word flat and final.
“Now, honey, don’t be like that. It’s just coffee. It would be good for you to get out, meet people your age who are… settled.”
“I said no.” Cass looked up, meeting her mother’s gaze. “I’m not going on a blind date with Jeremy Shepard so you can tick a box.”
Robert’s fork clattered against his plate. The sound was like a shot. All chatter died. He wiped his mouth slowly, his eyes like chips of flint as they landed on Cass.
“You will,” he said, his voice dangerously quiet. “You will be a good girl and you will go. You will be polite. You will thank Ellen for raising such a fine son.” He leaned forward, the weight of his stare pinning her to her chair. “You have brought nothing but disruption into this house since you slithered back. You will do this one thing to repay the roof over your head. You will go on the date.”
The ultimatum hung in the steam from the mashed potatoes. Martha looked down, her hands folded tightly in her lap. Max studied a green bean as if it held the secrets of the universe. Alex looked terrified.
Cass felt the stone of fear dissolve, replaced by a clear, cold fury. She looked from her father’s implacable face to her mother’s silent complicity, then to the window where the dusk was swallowing the barn. Somewhere out there, Wade was finishing his work.
“Fine,” she said, her voice miraculously steady. She pushed her chair back. “If that’s the price of the roof. I’ll go.”
She took her plate to the sink and began washing the dishes, the hot water scalding her skin. She scrubbed each dish with a focused, silent intensity. The twenty-five dollar check from the Clarion, folded small, was a secret square of paper in her pocket. It felt like a different kind of currency now. Not a thread to a future, but a tool for a rebellion.