Chapter 4
Tessa checked her father’s vitals for the third time that morning. His blood pressure had stabilized, and his color looked better than it had the previous day. She scribbled the numbers in the small notebook she’d started keeping on the kitchen counter.
“You don’t need to hover,” Stan muttered, not looking up from his newspaper. “I’m not one of your patients.”
“Actually, you are. That’s why I’m here, remember?”
Stan folded his newspaper with a sharp crinkle. “I remember Fran overreacting and dragging you back here unnecessarily. I had a mild episode. The doctor already cleared me.”
“With instructions to rest and modify your diet. And the medication schedule needs to be followed exactly.”
Her father waved a dismissive hand. “Beckett’s been helping with all that.”
Of course, he had. Beckett, the stranger who somehow knew more about her father’s medical routine than she did. Beckett, who seemed to have earned her father’s trust in mere months when she’d spent decades trying.
She busied herself washing the breakfast dishes, scrubbing harder than necessary. The past few days had fallen into an uncomfortable pattern. She’d wake early, check on her father, make breakfast that he barely touched, and then spend the day trying to be useful while feeling entirely superfluous.
The sound of boots stomping snow from the porch caught her attention. A moment later, Beckett came through the door, his cheeks reddened from the cold. He carried a small stack of mail and a paper bag.
“Morning. Mail came early. And Miss Judy sent over some of those biscuits you like, Stan.”
Her father’s face brightened. “The cheddar ones?”
Beckett nodded, setting the bag on the table. She watched her father reach eagerly for the food, when he’d barely touched the eggs she’d made an hour ago.
Beckett hung his coat on the hook by the door. “There’s a message from Annie. Something about a delivery problem at the cafe. She asked if I could stop by to help.”
“The Christmas baskets,” Stan said, nodding knowingly. “Every year Annie organizes food baskets for families that need extra help during the holidays. The whole town pitches in.”
She vaguely remembered her mother participating in something similar years ago. Before she got sick. Before everything changed.
“I told her I’d come after lunch. Sounds like they’re short on supplies and volunteers.”
Stan turned to Tessa. “You should go too.”
She nearly dropped the plate she was drying. “Me?”
“You’ve been cooped up in this house for days, and they need the help.”
“I’m here to take care of you,” she reminded him.
Stan snorted. “I don’t need a babysitter. Go make yourself useful somewhere else for a few hours.”
The familiar sting of her father’s dismissal stung. Some things never changed. “Fine,” she said, setting the dish towel down with forced casualness. “I’ll go.”
Beckett looked between them, his expression unreadable. “I’ll be heading over around one if you want a ride.”
“I can drive myself,” she replied automatically.
“Save the gas,” her father cut in. “No sense taking two vehicles to the same place.”
She pressed her lips together to keep from arguing. “One o’clock, then.”
Beckett nodded once and headed toward the basement stairs, where he’d been working on some project. The door closed behind him with a soft click.
Left alone with her father again, she felt the unspoken words hanging between them. Had he always been this difficult, or had she simply forgotten? Or maybe she was the difficult one, still nursing old wounds that everyone else had moved past.
“I’m going to take a shower.” She needed to escape the suffocating silence. Her father merely grunted in acknowledgment, already reabsorbed in his newspaper.
Under the hot spray of water, she tried to quiet her thoughts. She’d come here with one clear purpose. She needed to tend to her father’s medical needs, ensure his recovery was on track, and then return to Denver.
Simple. Clinical. Manageable.
Except nothing about being back in Sweet River Falls felt manageable. Every interaction with her father reopened old hurts. Every glimpse of Beckett’s easy rapport with him was salt in those wounds. And now she was being volunteered for community service she hadn’t planned for.
The water began to cool, forcing her to finish her shower.
As she toweled off, she caught her reflection in the mirror.
There were dark circles under her eyes, and her skin looked pale.
She hadn’t been sleeping well, torn between hypervigilance over her father’s condition and unsettling dreams about the hospital.
The memory of her hands shaking as she tried to place an IV made her stomach clench. She’d hidden in the supply closet, gasping for air, convinced she was having a heart attack until Dr. Foster had found her and recognized the panic attack for what it was.
“Take some time,” he’d told her. “Get help. This job will eat you alive if you let it.”
She hadn’t told anyone here about her leave of absence. Not even her father knew she was on highly suggested medical leave rather than vacation. It was easier that way. Simpler to be the competent caregiver than admit she was barely holding herself together.
By the time one o’clock rolled around, she had changed clothes twice, unsure what to wear for community service in a town she barely recognized anymore. She settled on jeans and a flannel shirt, practical enough for whatever tasks awaited.
Beckett was already waiting by his truck when she stepped onto the porch. The vehicle was older but well-maintained, much like the man himself.
“Your chariot,” he said with the barest hint of a smile, opening the passenger door.
The ride to town was quiet but not entirely uncomfortable.
He seemed content with silence, focusing on navigating the snowy roads with careful attention.
She found herself studying his profile when he wasn’t looking.
There was a steadiness to him that she hadn’t noticed before, a calm centeredness that contrasted sharply with her own internal chaos.
“Your father’s doing better,” he said eventually, breaking the silence. “His speech is clearer every day.”
She nodded. “The medication is helping. But he needs to be more careful with his diet.”
“He’s stubborn.”
A surprised laugh escaped her. “That’s putting it mildly.”
“He reminds me of my grandfather. The man would argue with a fence post if he thought it was in his way.”
The small moment of shared understanding faded as they pulled up behind Bookish Cafe. The back door stood propped open despite the cold, and people were carrying boxes in and out.
Annie spotted them immediately, waving them over with visible relief. Her hair was pulled back in a messy braid, and she wore a Christmas sweater adorned with tiny bells that jingled as she moved.
“Thank goodness,” she said. “We’ve got a situation.”
Beckett stepped forward. “What happened?”
“The delivery truck that was supposed to bring most of our canned goods got diverted to Grand Junction. We’re short about half of what we need, and the baskets go out tomorrow morning.”
The back room of the cafe had been transformed into a makeshift assembly line. Tables were covered with food items, empty baskets waited to be filled, and volunteers moved between stations helping where they could.
“Nora’s at the lodge gathering whatever they can spare from their pantry. And I’ve called everyone I can think of for donations, but we’re still going to be short.”
“What do you need us to do?” Tessa surprised herself with her eagerness to help.
Annie looked relieved. “Beckett, can you take over the assembly station? And Tessa, I could use help sorting what we do have and figuring out how to stretch it.”
They separated to their assigned tasks, and Tessa found herself at a table covered with canned vegetables, pasta, and various dry goods. A woman with silver-streaked hair was already there, making notes on a clipboard.
“You must be Stan’s daughter,” the woman said, extending her hand. “I’m Lucy. My husband and I run Pine View B&B.”
“Nice to meet you.” She shook Lucy’s hand.
“We’ve heard a lot about you from your father. He’s very proud of your nursing career.”
She blinked in surprise. Her father, proud? That didn’t align with anything she knew about Stan Grant.
“We need to count everything and divide it evenly among forty baskets,” Lucy explained, seemingly unaware of Tessa’s confusion. “Each basket should have enough for several meals.”
She nodded, grateful for the task. Numbers and inventory were straightforward, uncomplicated by emotional undercurrents. She began counting and sorting, quickly falling into a rhythm.
From her position, she could see Beckett directing volunteers at the assembly station. He worked with quiet efficiency, his instructions clear and his movements purposeful. People responded to him without hesitation, following his lead as if he’d been organizing this event for years.
“He’s been such a blessing to this town,” Lucy commented, following Tessa’s gaze. “Fixed the library roof, built new shelves for the school, and teaches those woodworking classes at the community center.”
“I heard.” She turned back to her counting.
Lucy smiled. “Your father speaks very highly of him. Says he’s never met anyone who works harder or complains less.”
The comment stung more than it should have. When had her father ever spoken highly of her to others? Even her decision to become a nurse had been met with practical approval rather than pride.
“We’re short on protein,” she noted, changing the subject. “Not enough canned meat or beans.”
Lucy sighed. “That’s what I was afraid of. The protein items were on the missing delivery.”
“What about peanut butter? It’s shelf-stable and high in protein,” she suggested.
“Good thinking. I’ll check with Annie.”