Chapter Seven
"Do you truly believe that adding caramel is the best ingredient?" Liberty inquired, gazing over the abundance of orchard apples that Wyler had picked. "Shouldn't we consider reaching out to Dolly for assistance?"
"I'm in the competition with you, not Dolly. Trust in our ability," he responded, beginning to peel an apple. "Have you ever peeled an apple yourself?"
“Of course.” She placed the knife against the apple, but nothing happened.
“Obviously.” He chuckled and reached over and turned the knife so that the blade was against the peel.
“How hard can it be?” She watched him deftly peel the apple, then went about peeling one on her own, but much slower.
“What does this make? My three to your one?” he teased as he placed another apple into the bowl.
“Just worry about your own apples, cowboy.” She finally finished one.
“How about we divide and conquer? You slice and I’ll peel. Otherwise, we won’t have any fruit left.”
Glancing at the tossed aside peel, she noticed she had left a lot of fruit still attached. "That seems sensible," she remarked. She collected the peeled apples onto the chopping board and proceeded to slice them.
“Here. This’ll work better.” He handed her a larger knife. “Just don’t cut a finger off.” He chuckled, but he was serious. “It’s a shame you have this remarkable kitchen and it’s rarely used.”
She paused the knife mid-air. “Growing up, Dolly always prepared the meals. I guess us girls could have helped and learned a few things, but we were outside learning things that interested us. Like birthing animals. Mending fences. And as we started racing, we spent a lot of time wrapped up in training.”
"You've certainly lived a life of hardship."
She lifted her head slightly. "It has had its own unique set of challenges."
"Really?" He placed an apple in the bowl.
"With what you know of my father, do you doubt what I say?"
With each slice she made her tongue came out to curl around her bottom lip as if all her focus was on the task.
“Was he hard on you?”
"Indeed. It’s not that I'm questioning his abilities as a good father, but he had aspirations for us to fulfill."
"Your frustration is in his intention to curtail the mischief you and your sisters are involved in."
“That proves you’ve been hanging out with Daddy way too much.” She laid the knife aside and stretched her fingers as if they were already aching. “It’s chauvinistic and outdated for him to force us to marry.”
"Had he ever told you and your sisters to maintain professional boundaries with the workers, to avoid becoming locker room gossip?"
She raised her gaze to his, her bottom lip protruding a bit. "Yes, he's warned us. Are we a topic of discussion at the bunkhouse?"
He wondered if she truly didn’t realize how men tended to talk. “Think about it.”
With a sigh, she picked the knife up and went back to her task. “Are you saying that Daddy’s demands are justified? Would you force our child to marry?”
He mulled the question over. “Okay. Point taken.”
“Let’s go in a different direction. Why didn’t you continue the dream of becoming a chef?”
He shrugged and smoothed his hands along the purple apron she had given him from the pantry. "It wasn't so much a dream but rather a necessity. I loathed dishwashing and seized an opportunity when it presented itself. Cooking was better than having soft hands. Working land is the dream.”
“It’s an addiction,” she said thoughtfully. “Once you get a taste of it you can’t get enough. Growing up with a father who thought his daughters should be as tough as men, I guess it backfired on him. He wanted sons and got girls, wanted us to be self-reliant and tough, and here we are. Tough princesses. I don’t think that was quite what he wanted.”
"Nah, I don’t believe he would exchange any of you for a son. I think he simply did the best he could as a single dad."
“My sisters and I always saw Daddy as invincible. Superhuman almost. As kids we’d watch him lift two fifty-pound hay bales onto trailers in the fields. Wrestle wild horses and come out on top. He was once wounded while working farm equipment. Dolly about passed out when she saw him walk into the house, blood flowing from the deep gash on his leg. She wanted to take him to Doc to have him patched up, but Daddy wouldn’t hear of it. He sat down at the kitchen table and stitched himself up, and I didn’t see him flinch once.”
“You watched?” Wyler asked.
"Each one of us girls did. It captured our interest. As I mentioned, our upbringing on the ranch was rooted in resilience. When injuries occurred, as they tend to do on a ranch, we were instructed to remain with the injured party until assistance came. There was an instance when a hand was impaled by a bull. At ten years old, I was freaked out, but I stayed by his side, applying pressure to his wound until help arrived. Strength, for us, developed over time."
“You admire your father. It shows in how you speak about him.” He laid the last apple on the cutting board.
"I love him, yet he struggled to allow his daughters to have much input in their life choices. Daddy has always been overly steadfast."
"Given that he's both protective and a single parent, he's likely passed on his stubbornness.”
She gave a resigned shrug. "My hope was that he'd realize his mistake in pressuring us to marry, but it seems he's achieved his aim. His insistence has definitely created a significant hurdle within the family."
"You're all just too stubborn for your own good."
As she threw away the apple core, her thoughts turned to her father’s heart attack that had altered him in some ways, making him contemplate his life's fragility. Emotion swelled within her as she pictured the man she and so many others idolized, particularly his daughters, so vulnerable after his fall, laying in the grass until he was found hours later. He was fortunate that he was found, otherwise, he might not have survived. The close call quickened her pace of slicing the apple, the fear of losing him pressed heavily on her mind. Despite their frequent clashes, he was her world.
"When will you tell him about the baby?" Wyler asked as he helped her slice.
"After the Harvest Picnic. He’s usually in a bad mood around then. He loathes that event," she replied, placing sliced apples into a glass bowl.
"Why does he hold it, then?"
“I know this will come as a shocker, but Daddy has a talent of pissing people off. He’s all about business and doesn’t have compassion in a lot of his decisions. Years back he bought up some neighboring property, a foreclosure, for pennies on the dollar. The property belonged to Cecil Bennet, a long standing, respected member of the community who fell on hard times. It seems that Cecil, along with many residents, presumed my father would acquire the ranch and allow Cecil to maintain its operations and control.”
"Sam forced Cecil to leave his ranch?"
"He didn't directly force him out, but by stripping Cecil of any power, it's almost the same as losing it all. The men in Sagebrush Pine are prideful. They don’t want handouts, but they also don’t want to be kicked in the teeth when they’re down. Eventually, it led to a dispute between Daddy and Cecil, resulting in Cecil leaving—Daddy claims it was by choice, while Cecil said otherwise. A year after, Cecil died, leaving a lot of bad vibes and resentment behind."
"Is the annual Harvest Picnic organized to earn people's confidence and goodwill?"
“He began to contribute to the community. Constructed after-school facilities for kids, established a library, offered low-cost housing to families with limited income. It took years, but the people in town changed their perception. If he stopped holding the Harvest Picnic, he worries some might dwell on Cecil's unfortunate incident again."
"Perhaps Sam is dealing with guilt and wants to alleviate his own conscience."
"Hard to believe, but Daddy does possess some compassion."
"He may be stubborn, but at his core, he's decent. He's earned my respect, as well as that of many others."
Lost in her thoughts, she gazed at a bird perched outside the window. “I had a wonderful childhood and I want my child to enjoy life here too. I remember the excitement of Friday night football games, how Daddy has loyally followed the local team for twenty years. I cherish memories of Fourth of July celebrations and Christmas mornings. We'd eagerly wake up then go pester Daddy until he got up. I realize now he was probably awake long before us. Then we’d open gifts and later, wrapped up in new winter clothes and gloves, take a hayride around the ranch with friends. The snow always seemed to add a touch of magic to those times. Coming home to Dolly's hot chocolate and warmth was the best part.” Noticing his puzzled look, she asked, “What’s wrong?”
“As a kid, we never had Christmas trees, until one year. One Christmas I woke up to a sad looking tree with a clumsily wrapped gift under it—the fishing rod I'd always wanted. I held it all day, even fell asleep with it in my hands, dreaming of warmer days so I could fish. The next day, the rod, and the dreams, were gone. My dad was on the couch, hungover. Turns out, he'd sold my present for alcohol.”
"Wyler, that’s terrible."
He shrugged. “Everything I endured has only made me stronger, but what if I'm unable to be a good father? What if I have my father's traits?"
She felt a flutter in her chest—needing to protect him. "You will be an excellent father. It’s normal for soon-to-be parents to worry about failing. While I'm unsure of my abilities, I am certain I'll give it my all."
“Okay, how about I show you how to make a crust?”
Obviously, he wanted to curb the conversation he wasn’t comfortable talking about.