One Last Frog (Small Town Southern Boys #4)

Chapter 1

It was quiet in the kitchen until a small voice asked, “Daddy, does fifteen minus eight make nine?”

Kyle turned and smiled at six-year-old Myla. “No, baby. Try again.”

She huffed. “Math is hard!”

“But it’s important.” The sound of the back door opening forced his head up and his attention away from the dishes he was rinsing and stowing in the dishwasher.

“Anybody home?”

“Yay!” Myla yelled. “Come help me, Aunt Connie! Daddy won’t tell me the answers!”

Kyle’s sister Constance came into view. “You mean he won’t just tell you? He’s making you work for them?”

“Uh-huh,” the little girl told her, pouting.

“Good job, bro,” Constance said and punched Kyle’s shoulder while Myla whined. “Hey, I had a lot of leftover chili and I thought maybe you’d like to have some.”

Kyle laughed and shook his head. “You still think I can’t cook?”

“I know you can’t cook!” Constance told him, laughing back.

“Shhhh,” he whispered loudly toward her. “She thinks I can, and she hasn’t starved so far. Say nothing, hear me?”

“I won’t rat you out.” Constance stashed a large storage container with dark brownish-red contents in the refrigerator and then turned back toward Kyle. “You okay?”

Kyle glanced furtively at Myla, then back to Constance before he said, “Myla, honey, I need Aunt Connie to help me with something. We’ll be right back.”

“Okay. But I still don’t know what fifteen minus eight is.”

“Get the penny jar. Count out fifteen pennies and then take away eight,” Kyle told her, pointing at a big gallon jar full of change on the other side of the kitchen. “That’ll give you the answer.” With that, he took Constance’s hand and led her out into the living room.

When he turned to look at her, a startled Constance asked, “What’s going on?”

“Nothing. Yet.” Kyle listened for a second, but Myla was still talking out loud to herself, counting coins. “I’ve been thinking about something.”

“Yeah?”

“I’m thinking maybe I should start looking around.”

Constance’s brows dipped inward. “For a car? Or a house? What are you—”

“I mean for someone to date.” The minute the words were out, Kyle was sorry; Constance’s chin dropped. “I know you think it’s too soon but—”

Constance was almost shrieking when she asked, “Too soon?”

“Shhhh! Keep it down! I don’t want Myla to know what we’re talking about,” Kyle warned.

“It’s seven!” a little voice yelled from the kitchen.

“Very good! Keep going!” Kyle yelled back to his daughter, then turned to his sister again. “Yeah, too soon. I’m sure you all will think that.”

Constance shook her head, her eyes wide. “No. We won’t think that at all, Kyle. It’s been five and a half years. You should’ve started this a long time ago.”

“Whaaa … you’re not serious?”

Constance nodded again. “I’m very serious. I can’t tell you how many times we’ve all talked about it and wondered why you didn’t try to find someone to have a relationship with. I know you loved Becky, but—”

“I know. She’s gone. But watching …” Kyle trailed off, unable to say the words. After all those years, it was still almost impossible to talk about.

“Watching someone you love die. Yes, I know it was hard. I was right here with you.”

“I know you were. All of you were, and I’m thankful every day for my family and hers. I couldn’t have made it through without all of you.” Kyle wasn’t kidding. It had taken everything he’d had even with them all there. Trying to do it alone would’ve been too hard.

Becky’s cancer had been found when she was about five months pregnant with Myla.

Since she was expecting, they’d told her they could do radiation, but it would reduce or maybe even stop any production of breastmilk, and Becky wouldn’t have that.

It was her job, she reasoned, to give her baby the best chance she could, and she felt strongly about breastfeeding.

Her decision: To forego treatment until Myla was born.

And that had been a huge mistake. By the time Myla had arrived, the cancer had metastasized from her breast into her lungs, liver, and brain.

At that point, radical treatments had seemed futile.

She’d spent every day holding her daughter, playing with her and nursing her, until she’d become too weak to hold the baby.

When that happened, she’d insisted Kyle climb up into the bed behind her and hold Myla so she could nurse.

Just two weeks shy of Myla’s six month mark, Becky had slipped into a coma.

She never woke, just drifted off on Myla’s six month birthday.

The afternoon of the funeral, Kyle had returned home only to realize that he was suddenly the sole caregiver for an infant barely six months old.

His mom and Constance had helped all they could, as well as his brother’s wife, Monica, and Becky’s sister, Gwen.

They were in and out, making sure someone was there so he could work and taking turns giving him a little time to himself.

Still, it hadn’t been the same as raising his child with the love of his life.

He was certain he was doing a craptastic job of fatherhood, but Myla had done quite well in spite of his obvious shortcomings.

“Kyle?” Constance’s voice pulled him back into the present. “I know what you were doing. Don’t go there.”

“I’m okay.” He sighed loudly and looked up at her. “But you know, I’m going to start getting questions about periods and bras and boys and all that stuff, and I’m poorly prepared for that.”

Constance took his hand and patted it. “You’ve got us. Me and Mom and Monica and Gwen. We’re always here. And don’t forget Keith. He’ll do anything you ask.”

“It’s not your job. It’s mine. This is her home. I’m her father. If Becky—”

“Stop.” Constance dropped his hand and glared up into his face. “She’s not here, so don’t even go there. When was the last time you slept with somebody?”

Kyle’s eyebrows skyrocketed. “Um, with Becky.”

“Lord.” Constance sighed and headed toward the kitchen. Kyle followed as she brushed by Myla and ruffled the child’s dark hair. “Bye, Mylanta,” she said teasingly.

“Bye, Aunt Cornie,” Myla laughed.

“See ya.” Constance turned back to Kyle. “Do it. You’ve waited too long.”

“Okay, okay,” Kyle said, waving her off as she opened the storm door. It closed behind her with a click and the kitchen was quiet again except for the sound of Myla counting softly.

His little girl. The light of his life. Wonder how she’d feel about sharing him with someone else?

“Here ya go,” Bud Kressler said, handing Kyle a small box. “I think that’s what you were looking for.”

Kyle opened the box and examined the metal do-dad.

“Yep. That’s it. Thanks, Bud,” he called back as he strolled to the cash register, where he tossed his standard greeting toward the cashier.

“Hey, Monique.” Monique Barlow had worked at the farm store for as long as Kyle could remember, even when they were in high school.

Her parents owned it and had always run a profitable, respectable business.

And he’d also heard rumors that Monique had a crush on him.

“Hey, Kyle. How ya doin’?” she asked, batting her eyelashes at him.

“I’m good. How’s your … family?” He’d almost asked about her husband, but he wasn’t sure which one this one was. Was he Darryl or Sam? Or Hank? She’d been married about five times and Kyle couldn’t keep up.

“Oh, good, good. They’re all fine.” She rang up the part and looked up at him. “Boy, that’s a lot of money for such a little thing,” she said, staring into his eyes.

“Yeah, but without it, my tractor won’t run. And I’ve got work to do,” Kyle explained.

“I bet you do! By the way,” she asked, “did you know I’m divorced?”

Kyle almost asked, Again? but stopped himself short. “No, I didn’t know that, Monique. I’m so sorry.”

“Aw, it’s okay. He didn’t know how to treat a lady.” Monique continued to stare at him and the awkwardness just grew.

“Well, gotta get to work,” Kyle mumbled, trying like hell to get out of there.

That was not going to happen, and the sooner she understood that, the better.

He practically ran to his truck and jumped in, terrified she’d follow him, but the door of the store never opened, and he sent up a silent prayer of thanks as he drove away.

While he worked on the tractor later, he thought about the farm.

God, he loved it there! It was all he’d ever wanted to do.

His dad had told him to be sure he took plenty of math, biology, and chemistry in school, and to teach himself mechanics, because he’d need all four to run a farm successfully in the twenty-first century.

Wise words, those, from a very wise man.

Kenton Miller had farmed over two thousand acres all of Kyle’s life, and Kyle had wanted to be exactly like his dad while he was growing up.

Farming those two thousand acres was a dream come true.

His dad’s insistence that he take over the entire farm had been everything he’d ever hoped for.

It was hard to run a farm that size while raising a child alone, but he loved every minute of it, all the struggles and all the victories.

The sound of the air brakes on a school bus caught his attention and he headed to the house, wiping his hands on a shop rag. “Daddy!” Myla shrieked and ran toward him. When they reached each other, she threw her arms around his legs and hugged him.

“I’d pick you up, princess, but I’ve got grease on my hands. Want a snack before you start your homework?”

“Yes!”

“So, tell me about school. How was it?” he asked her as they ambled toward the house. It was his favorite part of the day.

“Night, sweetheart,” Kyle told Myla as he turned off the light and closed her door. His footfalls up the hallway were quiet in his sock feet, and he grabbed a soft drink from the refrigerator on his way by.

In his little home office at the back of the house, he entered receipts from the past week into his accounting program, then checked his email. As soon as he was finished with all those tasks, he took a deep breath, typed in an internet address, and waited.