Chapter 4 Beckett
BECKETT
It’s really fucking raining out there.
Clover and Lennon are setting up the damn cat’s litter box and food. I need to get the kiddo to bed, but she’s so excited. I’ll let her stay up just a bit longer.
Clover and I both jump when our phones start blaring the emergency weather system alert.
SEVERE THUNDERSTORM PRODUCING HEAVY RAINFALL. FLOODING POSSIBLE. AVOID LOW WATER CROSSINGS. EFFECTIVE IN YOUR AREA IMMEDIATELY.
I groan and look out the window again. The wind is whipping across the way, branches waving in the trees, and a gate is clanking metal on metal somewhere.
“Damn,” I sigh. I really do have to go put the stock up.
“Fifty cents, bucko!” Lennon is smiling widely at me, two of her front teeth missing. In the blink of an eye, she’s gotten her raincoat and rain boots on, and she’s clutching her froggy flashlight.
“Yeah, yeah,” I mumble, sliding my raincoat on, too.
“Are you all going out there? Are you crazy?” Clover asks, watching us gear up.
“We have to put the animals up,” Lennon explains calmly, like she’s teaching someone younger than her. “Don’t think you got out of the swear jar either, Clover,” she says in a somber tone. “I heard your f-word in the truck. I’ll let the full dollar slide— for now.”
Clover stands there, awestruck. “I’m getting extorted by a six-year-old,” she states, looking at me for help.
“She’s an entrepreneur,” I offer with a shrug, trying not to laugh.
“Daddy says I’ll be able to buy the ranch from him by the time I’m sixteen,” Lennon adds proudly.
I open the front door and have to grip it pretty tightly to keep the wind from throwing it open.
“I have to get the kids in the barn before the storm gets worse.”
I watch Clover’s face pale and I realize she’s not putting together what the term ‘kids’ means on a ranch.
“Goats, Clover Jane.”
I can see the relief wash over her.
“We have to get the horses, too!” Lennon pipes in. I clap her on the shoulder.
“Sure do! Let’s go, Beetlebug.”
I shut the door behind me, and Lennon and I run over to the goat pen, not far from the house.
She pulls her little bucket hat down on her head and gets to work, her sweet little voice urging the goats to safety. I’m trying to throw more hay down in the barn for the babies while she’s ushering them in.
Sometimes I wonder if I’m failing as a dad. When Hannah left us, I was terrified. I had my savings account I had been holding onto for dear life, I had a six-month-old daughter and dreams of being a vet still. I wanted to specialize in livestock.
Fate had other plans for me.
My dad and I went out and spoke with Mr. Denton. Dad had heard he was contemplating selling the place and retiring to Florida, so I gave him an offer and a promise. A month and a half later, I was repairing the gate at the entrance of my new property.
I’ve been doing the best I can with her.
Mom shows up almost every day to watch her while I go do the morning chores.
I’ve told her multiple times over the years that I don’t mind hiring a nanny for a few hours a day, but she gives me a look that tells me she would either kill me if I did that or be eaten up by sadness that she couldn’t hang out with her only grandkid.
I’ve also got a few ranch hands with wives who have offered, and I take them up on it on days that Mom is going to be busy.
If Lennon has to come out with me when I don’t have someone to watch her, or on the weekends, she doesn’t complain. She’s a great little farmhand and genuinely loves the animals and the chores, which is rare for a kid.
I laugh, thinking about how Brynn and Clover would throw tantrums if they were asked to simply put dishes away; that’s how often Clover was at our house. She had chores just like the rest of us, and I’m pretty sure Brynn had chores at her house, too.
Thunder claps and a scream pierces the air.
“Lennon!” I yell over the loud rain. “Lennon!”
I took my eyes off of her just long enough to throw some hay, and now I can’t find her. God, I hope that scream wasn’t her.
“I’m okay, Daddy!” She hollers back. “It was Clover!”
“What the fuck?” I storm out of the barn and around the corner, where Lennon has her arms full holding a baby goat, and Clover is stuck between the barn, a hay bale, a fence, and one of the goats.
“What are you doing, Clover?” I yell, thunder crashing again.
“Trying to help!” She calls back. “Can you call off your guard goat?!”
“Damnit, woman,” I mutter. “Len, take the baby in. I’ll get this one. Good job getting them, kiddo,” I praise. Thunder claps again and Lennon hustles inside.
I pet the remaining goat’s head and push her gently, breaking her focus on Clover, and she bolts into the barn.
Clover comes out of her corner. “Go,” I demand, pointing to the house. “Take Lennon, and y’all go inside. I have to ride out and get the horses in. I don’t need any broken legs if the mud gets thick.”
She looks a bit disappointed, like I’m reprimanding her, but it’s far from it.
“Thank you for wanting to help, Clover. I appreciate it.” I level her with a stare, making sure she knows I’m being genuine.
I see a bit of light come back to her eyes, and she nods, hurrying into the barn. I see her squat down and talk to Lennon for a minute. They both laugh, and she helps her close the babies in the stall before holding hands and running back to the house, giggling the whole way.
* * *
When I get the horses up and finally get back to the house, the girls are in the living room near the fireplace.
Lennon is in pajamas, looking exhausted, and she should be.
It’s near midnight. She usually doesn’t stay up this late unless she’s had a nightmare or we’ve been out doing something.
Clover is brushing Lennon’s wet hair gently, careful not to tug on any of the tangles.
I lean against the door frame and watch her fingers move through my daughter’s hair, braiding it easily.
“You do that way better than me,” I say. Both of them look over.
“You do your best, Daddy,” Lennon says, yawning big, consoling me.
“I hope you don’t mind, I had her hop in the shower. She had dirt caked in her hair from falling in the goat pen. Mud hole about ate her up,” Clover says, her voice a bit over the top. Lennon nods dramatically, and I immediately know it’s her version of a ‘the fish was thiiis big’ story.
“I bet that was pretty scary, huh, Beetlebug?” I ask her gently. Lennon is a witty kid and sometimes wise beyond her years, but she’s still just a six-year-old. She nods.
“I’m glad you’re alright, kiddo. You ready for bed?” I hold my hand out for her and she takes it easily. She’s too tired to fight me about sleep tonight, and I don’t blame her. I am too. She waves shyly to Clover, who returns the wave with a warm, familiar smile.
The girl may have annoyed the shit out of me my entire life, but deep down, she really is a decent person.
“Goodnight, Lenny,” Clover says quietly.
Lennon giggles. “Night night, Clo,” she responds.
Nicknames.
On our way past the couch, Lennon stops to scoop Purrlock up and tote him to her bedroom with us. He seems to take no issue with it. I watch as she places him down on the little nest that she and Clover must have made for him.
When she gets him settled, she climbs into bed too, her arms held up for me to pull the blankets to her armpits.
We go through our routine. Every night, she can choose for me to read her a book, we can listen to music, or I can make up a story.
After that, we tell each other one really good thing that happened to us that day.
Tonight, she chose a book about llamas in pajamas. After I finished it, we both sat quietly for a minute, trying to choose the best part of the day.
“I think my best part of the day was when we had lunch on the porch earlier. The lemonade your Gran made us was pretty darn good,” I say, choosing mine.
She nods, agreeing. She scrunches her tiny nose in thought. I can tell she wants to say something.
“What’s up, kiddo?” I prod gently, knowing something is bouncing around in her noggin.
“I think my best part of the day,” she starts nervously, “was when we got our Clover.”
I’m a bit stunned at the admission, to be honest. We went by today to check on the foal born a few days ago, and she’s choosing Clover over that? Huh.
Also, our Clover?
“Yeah? She’s been around Aunt Brynn and me for a long time. Since Aunt Brynn was your age!”
Lennon seems to calculate that.
“That’s like . . . a hundred zillion years.”
I laugh loudly, the sound booming from my chest. This little shit.
“Don’t let Aunt Brynn or Clover hear you say that. They’ll swear they are only in their thirties.”
I lean over and kiss her forehead.
“I love you, Lennon,” I say earnestly.
“Love you too, Daddy,” she echoes.
I get to her door and turn her light out, and I’m about to shut it when I hear her say something.
“What was that?” I ask, popping my head back in the door.
“I saaaid,” she stretches out dramatically. “You forgot to tell Purrlock goodnight, too.”
“Night, cat,” I say, sighing.
“Dad, that’s not how you do it.”
I would do anything for this little girl, so I go back into her bedroom, scratch the damn cat between his ears, and tell him goodnight. He purrs in response.
It feels like he’s being snarky, and I won’t be trying to explain that.
When I get back out to the living room, Clover is still sitting in front of the fireplace, lost in her phone.