Page 74 of The Bitterroot Inn (Jamison Valley 5)
His mouth turned down and he started to cry.
Shit. Could I cry too? Now I felt guilty for ruining my son’s night.
I stopped walking to kneel at his side. “I’m sorry, Coby. I really am, but we need to leave. I’ll make it up to you. How about we get a cookie at Nana’s before we go?”
He nodded and fell into my chest.
I wrapped him up for a tight hug before standing and taking his hand as we walked to Mom’s concession stand.
“Hi!” Mom’s smile fell when she saw my face and Coby’s tears. “What’s the matter?”
“We’re leaving. Can I get a couple of cookies to go?”
“Sure.” She went right for Coby’s favorite M&M monster cookies. “Where’s Hunter?”
“At the hospital with that rider.”
She froze and looked back to me with guilty eyes.
“You knew,” I guessed. “You knew he was a doctor.”
She nodded and her face paled.
“Mom, why didn’t you tell me?”
“I knew you wouldn’t give him a chance.”
I scoffed. “Yeah. You were right about that.”
“I’m sorry, sweetheart. I didn’t tell you at first because I wanted him to have a shot at winning you over. Then it went on so long, I thought maybe you knew and were okay with it.”
“No, I didn’t know.” I took the cookies from her hand and shoved them in my purse. “How could you not tell me? You of all people? You saw how hard it was for me to deal with everything after you-know-who. I would have expected you to understand if no one else did.”
She hung her head. “You’re right. I should have told you.”
I opened my mouth to keep on scolding but chose to shut up instead. Fighting with Mom always gave me a stomachache and I had enough to deal with already.
I was confused and angry.
I was scared.
Present emotions were mixing with those from the past and I didn’t know how to sort them through.
“We can talk later,” I muttered. “Come on, bud.”
I led Coby to the parking lot, and by some miracle, I didn’t have to walk up and down every aisle to find where Hunter had parked my car. I hit my key fob and its taillights flashed at the end of a row. We loaded up, and with Coby buckled and inhaling his hot dog, I pulled through the fairground gates and drove.
I drove home.
“Dad?” I called as I pushed inside my parents’ house.
“In here!”
Coby ran past me to the living room. “Gramps!”
I found Dad in his recliner, wearing plaid pajamas and a threadbare T-shirt. A bottle of Budweiser was on his side table. It sat next to the TV remote and the empty plate of dinner Mom had likely made before she’d left for the fairgrounds.
Coby climbed up on Dad’s lap, immediately thrusting him the remote. “Can we watch my shows?”
