58. Whispers in the Breeze Ruffling Windrunner’s Mane
WHISPERS IN THE brEEZE RUFFLING WINDRUNNER’S MANE
EMBERLEIGH
Two weeks before Thanksgiving, four weeks after the second worst day of my life, I get a call from my father. I send it to voicemail. I have each time he’s tried to reach me. His texts go unanswered.
I find peace in my morning runs, my days with Colt, and my nights with Braxton. It’s a simple life, but it’s a beautiful one.
I miss Em every single day. The other half of me may always be a shadow and a void. But more and more, my brain latches on to funny, quirky, real life and less on the dreamlike trance of her perfection.
Early in her absence, I could only think of how I’d wronged her or all the things she did that were ideal.
The textbook mom, the backbone against my mother, the perfect daughter, great sister.
Every now and again, I remember her flaws.
Now, it’s her humanness I’m recognizing.
Like all of us, she bumbled through life, coasting from moment to moment, trying to avoid pitfalls, and masking weaknesses. She was real.
Wainwright: I want to have a small, private service for your mom. Would love to have you if you want to be a part.
Wainwright: She caused you and your sister pain. I’d understand if you don’t want to be here. Just didn’t want to make the decision for you.
Wainwright: I miss you.
I let his text hang there as I go about my day.
The screaming agony of that day—of having her orchestrate something so heinous, of watching her lift a gun on me, one that she’d used on Pop—has subsided into a dull roar. The nightmares have receded and are coming less frequently.
That one moment is highlighted above all the others. But there are years of memories that compete in my mind. None carry that weight. None will come to the fore and ever surpass that second when the metal glinted off the sun at me.
I won’t celebrate her life. But laying her to rest and leaving her in the past may do me some good.
Me: I’ll consider it.
Wainwright: Thank you, Em.
Me: Let me know the arrangements, and I’ll see what I can do.
I can make anything happen, but I’m not ready to commit to him, nor do I want to get his hopes up.
Wainwright: Thinking next Friday. But don’t want to make it difficult for you if you have a conflict. 2:00 p.m. Her family mausoleum. Does that work for you?
Me: I’ll keep you posted.
This placating man is no one I know. He’s tiptoeing on eggshells trying to avoid a land mine.
I can’t say I mind it, but also can’t say I trust it.
Wainwright Carrington owns the room. He fills up all the space and leaves a vacuum in his wake.
This timid, conciliatory version is… confusing and hard to witness.
A knock on the door pulls me from my melancholy. I open it to four ranch hands, who tip their hats with gloved hands. “Ma’am.” They head to the back weight room and begin shuffling equipment through the house and into the truck parked outside.
They finish the weight room in no time flat and head to my old bedroom.
“What can we take in here?” one hollers down the hall.
“Everything but what’s on the far wall—the mattress and the two plastic bins.”
“Gotcha.”
And just like when I made myself at home in Braxton’s guest room, two quick trips and the furniture is moved. Only this time, it’s into an old work truck and off toward the barn.
I walk down the hall, alone in the house, and see the barrenness of the two rooms. The future awaits. And it’s time to get to work.
I contact the same concierge service I did so many months ago and place an order. Painters arrive tomorrow. Furniture the day after.
I vacuum both rooms, clean what needs it, but there’s not much left so my job is easy.
Since Pop came home, I’ve met him for lunch every day. It was obvious Brighton stepped in as caregiver after Emilia passed, but the ranch is bustling, and I want time with him. I also have the most flexible schedule.
“Darling girl,” he says, as I push open the door.
I swiped Colt from Braxton on the way and plop him on Kimpton’s lap as I head to the kitchen. “Say hi to Pop-Pop.”
Everyone knows better than to expect magic from me in the kitchen, but I’m getting better. I whip up sandwiches, coleslaw, and chips. It’s nothing gourmet and definitely not the best diet for either of us, but it doesn’t set off the fire alarm, and cleanup is easy.
I grab our drinks on the first trip to the living room and our plates, along with Colt’s, on the second.
“Want me to take him?”
“You wouldn’t dare.” He feigns outrage, but a huge smile pulls across his face. “Colt, she’s threatening me. You going to stand for that?”
He moves a thumb to Colt’s chin and mimics Colt speaking. “Heck no, Pop-Pop. She’s crazy.”
I laugh. “Pretty soon, he’ll repeat everything you say.
“Say Pop-Pop. Pop-Pop.”
Colt already says his first word, Dada, on repeat, much to my annoyance.
“Of course he’ll say that before…” I let it dangle.
“Emberleigh? Not my place, but you know I’m going to say it anyway. You won’t dishonor your sister if he calls you Mama.”
My mouth goes dry, and the bite of the sandwich I took becomes sand.
“But that’s not… She’s his…”
“If it were reversed, and she needed to raise your son, would you begrudge her that joy?”
“Of course not!”
“Would you think she dishonored you by loving your daughter as her own?”
The lump in my throat doesn’t allow for a response, so I just shake my head.
“You worried what your dad will think?”
I whip my head up to meet his gaze. I hadn’t considered it, but it would’ve been my mother I was more concerned about. I lift one shoulder.
“So, you love Colt with your whole heart and you want to raise him?”
I nod.
“And you plan to do that with my son?”
I agree again.
“And all the Rangers love you and want you in our lives and consider you Colt’s mom.”
I gasp. “What?”
“Emberleigh, had you adopted him, we would never expect you to be called Miss Emberleigh or some other name to your own child. How is Colt not yours?”
“Because Em… He’s Emerson’s.”
“Emerson needs to be remembered. And we’ll find a way to do that. Windrunner is one way. But there will be others. We’ll make sure she lives on in Colt. But you need to live on too.”
He takes a bite of his sandwich and offers it to Colt, who gums the corner and leaves a trail of spit between himself and the bread. He lifts a goldfish cracker to Colt who greedily accepts it with a spit-covered hand and shoves it fully into his mouth, crunching it between his little teeth.
He’s looking at Colt, but talking to me. “You going to have more kids with my boy?”
My sandwich is aloft when he asks. Good thing I didn’t have food in my mouth because I’d have choked.
“We haven’t talked about it.”
“Here’s a statement then, instead of a question.
And it’s the last I’ll say on it. If you and Brax have kids together, I’d hate for Colt to be excluded by the fact that they call you Mama.
He’d be relegated to step status and always be the outsider, just because.
And you don’t strike me as someone who would want him to feel less than, just because you didn’t birth him. ”
And with that emotional blow, he offers Colt another goldfish and plows through his lunch.
We sit in companionable silence until I clear our plates and glasses.
“Want to take a walk?” I ask.
His body needs it, and he rarely denies me, but it still causes some pain. It should recede soon, but he’ll heal faster the quicker he returns to normal activity.
“For you, Emberleigh, I’d walk to the moon.”
He lifts Colt to my arms, grimacing a bit at the movement and then kicks the recliner footrest down and stands.
“While you’re being my guru, I need some advice, or more advice.”
We walk under the cloudless November day, the warm sun fighting with the cool breeze for dominance. I tell him about my mother’s service and ask his take on it.
“Can’t say I’m a fan,” he starts, and unintentionally gestures to his side.
“I can’t argue that.”
“And I won’t make the decision for you. But here are two things to consider. First, ten years from now, will you regret going or not going more? That’s a good gauge for lots of things in life.”
We walk for a while and find ourselves in the barn.
“Hey, girl,” he says to Marron, while I wander to Windrunner’s stall. She whinnies when she smells Colt and comes over to nuzzle his diaper and then up to his neck. He giggles at the contact. The filly nickers back.
“Hello, gorgeous!” I beam at the horse. I rub her snout, laugh at her energy, and revel in her relationship with Colt. It’s as if she were born to be with him. I’d never have dreamed Colt would have this life when he was born. Now I can’t imagine him anywhere else.
“Pop?” I call. “What’s the second thing?”
“What would you advise Brax to do? If he lost his family, all but me… And I was going to bury the last of my family? What would your advice be?”
He hurries by, clapping me on the shoulder, as if he didn’t just level me with a bomb.
“Where are you going?” I call after his retreating form.
“Going to hug my daughter.”
Kill me now.
These Ranger men will be the death of me.
A week later, I stand next to Braxton, squeezing his hand.
He’s in a suit. It’s the first time I’ve seen him this way.
I told him I’d show my appreciation later for how handsome he cleans up.
He holds Colt, who is sound asleep, to his chest on the other side.
It was Braxton’s suggestion we bring him.
I see my father silhouetted against the noonday sun. He stands alone. A handful of other people stand opposite him, waiting for the Episcopalian priest to begin.
Steeling my courage, I lead my family to his side.
His face crumbles when he sees me, and his hug is so tight, so desperate, I feel it in my gut. “Oh my God. Thank you. I couldn’t… Thank you, Emberleigh.”
He squeezes my free hand while extending a nod and mouthing thank you to Braxton. His fingers are cold, and his grip is tight, as if he releases it, I’ll slip through his fingers forever.
He nods to the priest. “We may begin any time.”