Chapter 5
I help Guy carry his and Emma’s things to his truck and wait while he checks out early.
They must move around a lot, because it barely took him twenty minutes to get all their possessions packed up and us back on the road, headed toward the ranch. The pair seem like old pros at this.
I keep checking in my rearview mirror to make sure they’re behind me as I follow the winding river out of town. Yep, it’s them, including the little Christmas tree Guy had put on the front passenger seat, properly seat-belted in per Emma’s insistence. A string of tinsel catches the morning sunlight and reflects back at me, sparkling with the holiday spirit. Mentally, I add it to the list of unexpected things in my life as of the last twenty-four hours. Scraggly new Christmas tree? Check.
I keep my hands tightly at ten and two, making sure to stay perfectly within the lines and never more than a single mile over the speed limit. As if my brain—stuffed full of undeniable logic—has decided of all the things happening right now, not driving perfectly is the one that will bring judgment my way.
“Text Jess,” I tell my phone as I drive. “Hey, I did something today. You know the man from the coffee shop? The one you wanted me to hire? I sort of married him, and he and his daughter are moving in right now. Call me back when you can.”
A moment later, my phone chirps with a text message. I tell the car to read the message as I slow down for a particularly tight switchback. “WHAT? In a meeting, can’t leave. ARE YOU KIDDING ME?”
The voice dryly dictates Jess’s message to me, failing to express their reaction to a sufficient degree. I definitely need a distraction right now, and since Jess is busy, I turn my satellite radio to the news. There’s a promising new medication to treat Alzheimer’s, but I change the station to some holiday music instead. Four years ago, I would have been hanging on to every word, desperate for something that could have made a difference in my father’s health. These medications have come too late for the man sitting in a recliner at the long-term care facility back in town. Dad is too far progressed in his disease for new treatments to do more than slow his mental decline. Nothing will bring him back to who he once was.
Today I turn the music up a little louder to drown out my thoughts.
We’re almost to the turnoff for the ranch when Jess’s number pops up on my dashboard. “Talk to me, Goose,” I say in lieu of a greeting.
Jess doesn’t even say hello before launching in. “Okay, on the off chance you are not pulling a retribution prank on me, I called my contact at the police department, and they ran a background check on him. Guy Maple, no priors, no speeding tickets in the last five years. Only listed family is a sister and his daughter. If he’s murdering people and hiding them in the woods, he’s really good at it.”
“That’s wonderful,” I say, aware my sarcasm is barely covering my panic. “Because we’re pulling up to my wooded ranch as we speak.”
“Seriously?”
“Yep. The cutie-pie in the llamacorn hoodie is in the back seat of the truck behind me.”
There’s a long pause, followed by a low whistle. “That must have been one seriously good coffee date. I can’t believe I actually tried to cancel your meeting with him. Wait, why were you at the extended stay? Sanai just texted me that you were spotted over there. Oh, well of course you were at the extended stay.”
I can practically hear their eyebrows waggling.
“It’s not what you think.” I roll my eyes. “I didn’t hop out of his bed and run straight to the courthouse.”
“Such a shame.” Jess sighs with playful dramatics. “Here I was living vicariously through you, and you refuse to be tawdry for Christmas.”
“Sadly, I’m still myself. And I was helping them move out of the extended stay.”
There’s another silence as Jess processes the new information. “Maybe not tawdry, but you’re definitely not acting like yourself. You’ve absolutely lost your marbles, Naples.”
There’s a pause, then I mumble, “It’s technically Maple now.”
“You changed your name? Oh man, Micah is going to flip. This is getting better and better.” Jess eagerly continues on, their mind going a mile a minute. “Aren’t you at least going to have a reception? A honeymoon?”
“No? I mean, it’s weird, right?” I wonder if between the two of us, we’re only capable of bad ideas. I can’t imagine anything more awkward than admitting to the people we know, the people who have been gossiping about me for the last year, that I just hired a husband.
This time, Jess’s sigh is genuine, and they sound disappointed. “Was there at least a cake?”
“There were flowers,” I say. “And a prenup saying upon the event of a divorce, Guy gets what he brought into the marriage.”
“Which is a big fat question mark. What if he has massive debts? Or a horrible credit score? Or what if he’s secretly a CIA agent and he’s using you as cover for a covert operation?”
“Then he’d probably have access to better healthcare,” I quip.
“Sienna, let’s be real here. Why did you actually marry this man?”
I don’t tell them why, because…well…the real reason isn’t right. That a good man would have to go to these kinds of lengths to take care of his daughter is all kinds of wrong, and if I tell them, Jess will look at him with pity.
I don’t know Guy from Adam, but I know one thing: the man I married deserves better than pity.
“It’s complicated,” I hedge.
“We’re rain checking this conversation because my editor is walking in, and I have to go. Don’t get murdered.”
“Trust me, I’m trying my best.” I end the call as I turn off the main road and cross over the river on a rickety steel bridge, reaching the property line of my family’s ranch.
Two heavy cedar logs rest upright on either side of the drive, with a header spanning the width of the gravel. A raw-edge cedar placard dangles from two pieces of chain link below the header, the words NAPLES RANCH burned into the sign in large, clear letters. Even in my distraction this morning, I still remembered to close the gate behind me, so I pause and get out to open it, grabbing the mail from the mailbox and pulling my truck forward. I wave Guy and Emma through, then I close the gate behind me.
There are too many animals on the property to leave it open, even if the nagging voice in the back of my mind reminds me I’m closing myself in with strangers.
It’s a good thing Guy drives a truck, because I’m not sure a car could reach the ranch in the winter. Unlike some of the properties deeper in the Frank Church Wilderness, my place is accessible all year long, assuming I spend plenty of time with a snowplow extension on my tractor and keep my truck in four-wheel drive. The layer of heavy gravel gets washed away easily, so it’s not a great trek on the best of days. Not a lot of people need chains for their tires to get out of their driveways to a main road, but it’s a small, if inconvenient, price to pay for living somewhere this beautiful, this remote, and this free. Ever since I was a child, I’ve always felt like the ranch was a safe place from the eyes of the world, where I could just be me.
I’m hoping, for a little while, it gets to be a safe place for Emma too.
Two miles is a long driveway for most people. Out here, it’s not so abnormal. I go slow, keeping an eye on the truck behind me to make sure they don’t slide off the ice pack. Then the drive turns a curve, and the ranch comes into view.
I slow down even more, giving them a chance to take it in. With the snow-covered rocky-faced mountains rising in the background, the dark firs against a blanket of white, and the wisp of smoke coming from the chimney of the two-story log cabin resting in front of the wilderness backdrop, it’s a beautiful sight. I pull up to the cabin, parking my truck nose into the split-rail fencing that separates the cabin’s front yard and the drive. Lulu and Legs are nibbling at the remains of their breakfast hay by the pen’s fence, and behind them, my cattle mill around in the larger cattle pen. Guy parks next to me, so I get out and walk around the front of my truck to meet him. Cattle lowing fills the air, and the earthy scent of livestock mingles with the fresh, crisp mountain air coming down through the river valley.
Guy’s gazing around the property, his daughter in his arms. I can’t tell what he thinks; his expression is oddly blank. Emma’s eyes are wide, and she tugs on his shirtsleeve.
“Daddy, see the horses?”
“Yeah, baby, I see them.” He gives her a smile, then turns the look my way, albeit a shyer version. “When you said you had a ranch, I guess I was thinking more work and less—”
Guy gestures to the property, and I have to admit, I can understand.
“Trust me, there’s plenty of work,” I promise ruefully, but I pause and look around, soaking in the view.
It’s even better in summer, because I love being able to see the grass on the ground, but there’s something special about the Frank Church Wilderness in winter. Locals spend a lot of time thinking about the logistics of living here, the mud and the snow and the washouts and mudslides. The fires in the summer and the rough river rapids that make transportation upriver so tricky. When was the last time I stood in my driveway and simply inhaled the brisk scent of snow mixing with evergreens?
For a moment, I wish I’d put more effort into decorating for the holidays like I used to before my dad got sick. I haven’t bothered to pull the five-foot-wide wreath out of storage and hang it over the entrance of the horse barn. I haven’t strung Christmas lights on the porch or hung my mother’s favorite reindeer-and-sleigh wind chimes.
From the front porch, Barley manages to rouse himself from his normal ennui and gives a halfhearted woof.
“Daddy, a doggie!”
“He’s really good with kids,” I promise when Guy glances at me before setting her down. “It’s me he’s ambivalent toward.”
When I whistle for Barley, he comes over, wagging his bushy gray-red tail as he heads straight for Emma, putting his nose in her stomach. She dissolves into giggles, wrapping her arms around his neck. He politely lets Guy pet him, then turns his attention back to Emma, ignoring me completely.
“I see what you mean,” he murmurs.
“You’d think I hadn’t fed him the last ten years. And I should have asked if either of you have allergies,” I say, adding one more thing to the list of what never occurred to me until too late.
“Emma has an allergy to peaches. Not bad, but it leaves her lips red.”
“What about you?” I ask.
This time, the smile he passes my way is stronger. “I’m allergic to the bad vending machine food back at the motel.”
“Are you hungry?”
Of course he is. One look at this man and I’m hungry. Well…not like that. Mostly not like that. A little like that, but I’m not supposed to be thinking thoughts like this.
“Emma had her lunch on the drive over.” Which isn’t quite the same thing as “yes, we both ate.”
We grab the first of their bags out of his truck, then Guy follows me up the steps of the cabin.
A low whistle escapes him as we enter, and I pause, trying to see what he sees. I’ve lived here my whole life, so I’m used to the place. What started as a one-room homestead has been added on to over the years with hard work and attention to detail, with my parents’ and grandparents’ personal touches. The end result is a two-story log cabin with age-marred but gleaming hardwood floors, hand-hewn log walls, and a river rock fireplace that was my mother’s pride and joy.
“This is beautiful craftsmanship,” Guy says, looking at the fireplace with appreciation.
“Yeah, it almost ended my parent’s marriage. Mom insisted on hand picking every stone and each being placed just right. Dad disappeared into the high country for a month after it was done.” I smile fondly at the memory, patting a hand on the six-foot-wide live-edge cedar mantle.
Emma starts to take off, but Guy is fast, catching her in a muscled arm. “Gotta take your shoes off first, baby,” he says to his daughter.
“It’s fine,” I tell Emma. “I don’t always take my shoes off, so I might be a bad example.”
“Your house, your rules,” Guy says, standing there looking a little lost.
“Sen-na, why is your Christmas tree empty?” Emma suddenly asks, pointing a finger at the tree I stuck in the corner of the living room last week with nothing but a string of lights and a lopsided star. She’s right. It’s empty, even though I never thought of it that way.
“I just haven’t finished decorating it yet,” I say, because it’s easier than explaining the full truth. Opening a box of decorations by myself was too much, wine didn’t help, and it was easier to have the lights and the star than it was to have a long, one-sided conversation with myself about loneliness during the holidays.
Guy doesn’t seem to know what to do with himself. I’m not much help because I have no idea what to do with him either. Emma’s easier, the child happily exploring as I give them both a tour.
A nice large kitchen is the newest addition, open to the much more modest original living space, with a large kitchen island and picture windows overlooking the mountainous landscape. The cabin has two bedrooms upstairs, a master with its own small bathroom and a guest room across the hall next to a second bathroom.
There’s a third tiny room on the main floor just off the living room that was part of the original cabin and is now my office. Between the desk, the filing cabinets, and too many boxes of my parents’ things I haven’t had the heart to deal with yet, it’s stuffed to the brim. I’m barely able to squeeze in there to work, and turning it into a makeshift third bedroom isn’t going to happen anytime soon. So I take them up to the second bedroom, showing them where the second bath is.
“I was thinking Emma could have this guest room across from my room?” I phrase it as a question. “When the second story was added, we put a wood-burning stove in the master bedroom to help heat the upstairs. Most of our power is from the solar panels outside, so it helps to have the extra warmth in winter.”
Guy gives the room an appreciative look. It’s not huge, but there’s enough room for the full-size guest bed, a dresser, and plenty of floor space to play on.
“This will be great,” he says. “It’s been a long time since Em’s had a room of her own.”
Our eyes meet, and I’m pretty sure we’re both thinking the same uncomfortable thing. Where’s Guy going to sleep?
“Umm, the office downstairs could fit a sofa bed eventually,” I tell him. “But I need to bulldoze my way through a few things first. Are you okay with the couch for now?”
I mean, we are married and there’s a perfectly big queen-size bed across the hall in the master bedroom, but my brain is blanking out at the mere thought. Nope. No beautiful strangers in my bed the second day I know them, married to them or not.
“Anywhere is fine,” Guy promises, and he sounds like he means it.
I get the feeling I could ask him to sleep in the barn and he’d probably accept. Emma seems delighted to have her own room, and Barley pushes in between us all, his fluffy tail wagging as he jumps up on Emma’s bed. I shoo him off, but he ignores me, which makes Emma giggle. She’s got a graying red nose on her leg and massive puppy dog eyes gazing up at her imploringly.
“He likes you, Emma. Barley doesn’t bother to come upstairs for me,” I tell them, because it’s nice to see her smiling. Then I frown at the light layer of dust in the room. “This room hasn’t been used in years, and I didn’t even consider freshening the bedding. I kind of didn’t think any of this through.”
“You and me both,” Guy murmurs. “I can take care of it if you show me where the laundry is.”
His hands keep flexing as he helps me strip the guest bedding, and I show him how to use the laundry in the mudroom off the porch. We load all their food into my fridge, and even though Emma wants to go outside and see the horses, it’s nap time. I guess nap time is nonnegotiable, even when horses and new homes are involved. Guy gets Emma settled down on the couch while I switch the sheets over to the dryer.
He joins me, looking like he doesn’t know where to stand or if it’s crowding me if he tries to help. The awkwardness level is cranked up to a thousand, and I’m not sure whether to laugh or cry, but here we are: two absolute strangers now married and doing laundry.
“Are you okay, Sienna?” Guy asks quietly. “You’re pale again.”
“And you’re shaky again.”
We share a quick smile, and he leans back against the wall, stuffing his hands into his pockets, shoulders relaxing in a little slump. “It’s been an interesting day. A really good one, but…interesting.”
He’s not wrong. I look up at Guy, and I wonder if all Montana boys are this tall or if I’ve just found the tallest one and stuffed him into my laundry room. He’s watching me as if I’m the only one in the room, which technically I am. It’s enough to make me want to take a step back and reevaluate. But a Naples doesn’t back down, especially when the stakes are high. I lift my chin a little higher and meet Guy’s eyes, ignoring the fact that they really are the prettiest color of blue.
“Okay, first things first,” I say. “What do I need to know about Emma?”
***
Apparently, there’s a lot to know about Emma.
The sheer amount of information in front of me is overwhelming. At least Guy has it all organized neatly in a lavender binder with glittery tabs, puffy paint rainbows, and smiley-face flower stickers all over it. The label reads “Emma’s Awesome Binder,” and I wonder if that’s for Guy as much as it is for Emma.
We’re sitting at the dining room table, speaking quietly so we don’t disturb Emma’s nap.
“I’ve got this arranged by her daily routine in the front,” Guy tells me. “I keep track of when she wakes up, how she slept, and how she feels. We do a blood pressure check first thing in the morning and before bedtime when she’s feeling good, sometimes at noon if she’s feeling bad. I track everything she eats and drinks, down to the last ounce. If there’s anything that helps, anything I can do, it’s worth doing.” He hesitates, then adds, “She’s only allowed a very limited amount of water. Don’t be surprised if she doesn’t go to the bathroom more than once a day. Sometimes even less. Her kidneys don’t work, so she can’t flush out liquids and filter waste.”
“That makes sense,” I say, trying to keep my face impassive so I don’t show any emotion that might upset him. I can’t help my dad get better, I couldn’t help my marriage, but I can pay attention and help Guy and Emma any way they ask. I’ve already decided to get checked if I’m a donor match for her.
It never occurred to me the little girl was too sick to even pee.
Guy flips a few pages to the “Dietary” tab. “These are what she’s allowed to eat, how much, and how often. And here’s the medication she has to take every time she eats.” He indicates one of several pill bottles on the table in front of us. “Emma needs binders so her body doesn’t hold too much phosphorus. I prep her food in color-coded plastic containers, so she knows to have the yellow containers for breakfast, the blue for lunch, and she can have two of the little pink ones for snacks.”
“This is a pretty strict diet,” I murmur, running a finger down the page of allowed foods. “Does she ever have a hard time with it?”
“The no-dairy one is rough,” he admits. “The no chocolate too. She’s had ice cream a few times, and she loves it, so it can be a fight when she sees other kids with ice cream. I make fruit-and-ice smoothies she likes, but they have to be milk- and yogurt-free, and no melons or bananas. Most of the time, Emma understands she’s special, and it means some treats aren’t for her.”
“But sometimes she struggles with it?” I glance over my shoulder at the little girl snoozing on the couch.
“Don’t we all?” Guy’s voice sounds different, and I glance at him, and his jaw is tensed as he looks at Emma, blinking hard. Without thinking, I rest my hand on his, and those blue eyes shift to my fingers. After a brief moment, he rolls his hand just a little so his thumb lightly brushes mine, a silent acceptance of my offer of comfort.
A part of me desperately wants to shove a whole pot roast down this man’s throat. But that part has been running roughshod over the rest of me today, so I clear my throat awkwardly and pull back my hand. Instead, I thumb through the book. “So, umm, diet, check. Routine, check. This is the list of Emma’s doctors?”
“Yeah. The most important one is her nephrologist, Dr. Sanghvi, and her pediatrician in Idaho Falls. She also has a hematologist and a dietician. She sometimes sees a physical therapist and an occupational therapist to help with some of her pain and her development issues. Not having functional kidneys is brutal on the body, especially when you’re supposed to be growing.”
It’s so much, I can barely retain everything he’s saying. The child taking a nap on the couch has more doctor appointments in a month than I’ve had for years.
Guy’s voice drops to nearly a whisper. “I know she’s frail, but she’s been through so much. Emma’s strong. I know she can beat this. She just needs more time.”
Unable to stop myself, I reach over and squeeze his hand again. Guy closes his eyes, takes a deep breath, then seems to refocus.
“Umm, that’s pretty much it. We have a social worker who tries to help make some of the financial difficulties easier, but she’s done as much as she can. Then there’s the pediatric dialysis center in Caney Falls. The rest of this is for the transplant list.” This time, Guy clears his throat, sounding apologetic. “I hate to ask, but I already emailed my contact with the donation center, and they sent the paperwork for us to fill out.”
“The paperwork proving we can afford Emma’s anti-rejection medicine?”
“There’s no we in this, Sienna,” Guy promises. “You won’t have to pay any of it. I’ll sign whatever you want me to sign so you have legal reassurances, but I won’t stick you with the bill.”
I nod and say, “Let’s look at those forms. No reason why we can’t send them in today.”
To Guy’s credit, he doesn’t make any comments about the assets I list on the paperwork. Between the two of us, our liquid cash is meager at best, but adding in the property value of the ranch more than makes up for it. Then he makes a call to whoever has been handling Emma’s case. Clearly someone in the office is looking out for Emma, because the approval comes through within an hour.
It’s like a physical weight has been lifted off Guy’s broad shoulders. He excuses himself and steps out on the porch, and I know I need to give him some privacy. Still, when he returns with red-rimmed eyes and whispers a choked “Thank you, Sienna,” I almost tear up too.
A Naples doesn’t cry, but for once, I’m tempted to make an exception.