Just set it on the table.” He continues to shake the man. “Come on, man. Wake up.”
“Maybe get him into a sitting position,” I suggest.
“Yeah. Good idea. Help me.”
Together we move him so he’s sitting upright. His head moves from side to side, and finally, one eye opens.
“Come on,” Dad says. “Wake up.”
He looks at Dad. Then at me. Then at Dad again. “Where am I?”
“Home, I assume,” Dad replies.
“Then who am I?”
“You tell us.”
“I mean, who are you?” He moves one hand to his head. “Fuck. Head hurts.”
“You gave yourself a hematoma,” Dad says.
“What’s that?”
I roll my eyes. “A bump on the head.” You moron.
“How much did you drink?” Dad asks.
“Don’t know.”
“Judging from the cans in the kitchen,” I say, “at least a twelve pack.”
“You’re lucky to be alive,” Dad says. “What’s the last thing you remember?”
“I don’t know.”
“Do you remember your name?” I ask impatiently.
“Floyd. Now who the hell are you two?”
“Your fucking guardian angels,” I say sarcastically.
“Wha…?”
“I don’t think you have a concussion,” Dad says. “You passed out from drinking and hit your head. You’re lucky. The swelling seems to be going down.”
“Yeah. Whatever.”
The cat jumps on his lap.
“Hey, Poozles.”
“Poozles?” I say.
“Her name. Poozles.”
Whatever. What do I care what the guy names his cat? But Poozles? Sheesh.
Dad picks up the cup of coffee. “Here. Drink this.”
Floyd takes a sip. “Hot!”
“Sorry,” I say, though I’m not sorry at all.
If this is indeed the man who fathered me—and I already know he is—then he’s not only a loser drunk, he also abandoned two children. Not that I ever believed my biological father would turn out to be some paragon of society. But this?
“When’s the last time you cleaned this place?” I say, acid lacing my tone.
“I don’t know. What does that matter?”
“You’re living in a pigsty,” I say. “You’re probably not taking care of the cat either. You can be arrested for that.”
“Poozles is fine.”
Indeed, Poozles appears content in Floyd’s lap. Another thing that irks me. My father is a cat person. God.
“What’s your last name, Floyd?” Dad asks.
“Jolly. Now who the hell are you?”
“Talon Steel, and this is my son Dale.”
“What are you doing here?”
I’m done playing games. I just want to get this shit over with.
“We came to talk to you,” I say.
“What for?”
“Don’t play stupid.” I clear my throat. “You know exactly who I am. I’m your biological son.”
Chapter Thirty-Five
Ashley
After a shower, I feel better. My eyes are still red and swollen from crying, which means I cannot, under any circumstances, see Dale today.
No problem. He and Talon are apparently still in Grand Junction. Who knows when they’ll be home?
Tomorrow, I begin my internship.
If Dale knew what I’d been up to only hours ago, he’d refuse to work with me. And for good reason.
Diana is gone, and I don’t know anyone else, despite having met every member of the family last night.
After a light lunch with Jade, I decide to sit on the deck with a book. After perusing the large library in the house, I decide on Pride and Prejudice, an old favorite I haven’t read since high school.
I open the book—
I jerk when the French doors open.
“Ashley,” Jade says, “you have a visitor.”
Who would be coming to see me?
Then Brock steps onto the deck. “Hey.”
“Oh, hi.”
“Some greeting,” he teases.
“You want some iced tea?” Jade asks. “Lemonade?”
“Lemonade would be great,” he says. “Thanks, Aunt Jade.”
She walks back through the door and into the kitchen.
“What are you reading?”
Ever aware of my red and swollen eyelids—should I make some excuse about allergies?—I hold up the book. “Jane Austen.”
“Ah. Romance.” He doesn’t mention my eyes.
“Hardly. It’s a classic.” Though it’s also kind of a romance.
“Interesting choice,” he says. “About a man who thinks everyone else is beneath him.”
“You’ve read it?”
“In college. English lit class.”
“But you studied agriculture. At least I assume you did.”
“Doesn’t mean I didn’t have a few general requirements.”
“Oh.”
“You didn’t have gen ed requirements for your degree?”
“Yeah, of course I did, in undergrad. But I just figured agriculture—”
“You figured why would I need to read Austen in order to raise beef?”
“Kind of. Yeah.”
“Why do you need to read Austen to make good wine?”
He has a point. “In all fairness, I’m not interested in winemaking so much as wine tasting.”
He smiles. “Right. I can see how Austen applies, then.”
“Smartass.”
“Can I talk you out of reading and coming with me instead?”
“Where are you going?”
“Riding.”
“Riding…what?”
“My horse, of course. Mom says you can ride hers if you want. She’s real gentle.”
“Your mom rides?”
“Yeah. It’s not really her thing, but she