I smile at this. Not because Tyson doesn’t know his way around the ranch—he’s helped with calving almost every year and isn’t afraid to get his hands dirty. But he doesn’t enjoy ranch work, and he’s more willing than he is skilled. Beyond that, if I bring my husband home with me, Dad will think we’re getting back together. I don’t know how I can keep the details of my limitations a secret and pretend that Tyson and I are making progress in our relationship at the same time. “That won’t work either,” I say. “You’re supposed to be back in London by Thursday, right?”

  “I could probably get a few more days if I need to. I think every day you set aside for recovery will make a world of difference.”

  “It was hard enough on everyone for me to leave when I did.”

  “You’re going to overdo it, Sienna.” He’s getting angry. “You won’t be able to help it. What if you pull out your stitches or get an infection or something?”

  “I won’t.” I pick up my phone, more to give me something else to focus on than for any other reason. “I promise to take care of myself, okay?”

  Tyson growls and goes back to his laptop. I try to play Words with Friends but give up after a couple of games because a thought that has been chasing through my brain the last several days is no longer so far below the other things taking precedence. Tyson has gone back to work on his computer, his eyebrows pulled together as he types.

  “Why haven’t you told me to just tell Dad?”

  He looks up at me over his computer, and the anxious look on his face causes something to flash through me, like when sun glints off metal in a place where it shouldn’t. I sit up a little straighter, using my feet to push me up in bed and grimacing at the ache that starts up again. “You’re coming up with all these solutions but haven’t said even once this whole weekend that I should just tell Dad.” Come to think of it, he didn’t suggest telling Dad when we talked on the phone, either. In the parking lot of the attorney’s office on Thursday he’d said something about waiting for the divorce until I’d worked out my stuff with Dad. “Tyson,” I say in a serious tone.

  He takes a breath and continues to stare at me, but I sense an internal battle taking place in that handsome head of his. “Telling your dad is the obvious choice,” he says with such diplomacy that I’m even more suspect.

  “But you don’t think I should.”

  He leans back in the chair. “You said on the phone that you had a bunch of questions about your mom and that you felt weird toward your dad because of them.”

  “I don’t think I said I felt weird toward Dad.” I can’t remember for sure whether I said it or not. And I do feel weird toward him but that’s not the point. “I said I didn’t want to worry him and that he’d want to leave the ranch to support me through the surgery, which isn’t possible since one of us has to be there.” I pause a moment, thinking back to my initial phone conversation with Tyson a week ago. “And then you offered to fly to London instead of telling me to just tell him what I’m going to have to tell him eventually. That makes no sense.” The irony of my spelling this out so clearly is not lost on me.

  He holds my eyes, looking caught, but also maybe a little . . . relieved? Resigned?

  “I’ve been meaning to ask if you got a Mom Letter for your birthday—the big two-five.”

  A Mom Letter? It takes a moment for my brain to shift to what feels like a new and unrelated topic. What does a letter from Mom have to do with any of this? Tyson’s looking at me intently. “I didn’t get a letter. I think they’re done.” I never asked Dad about not getting one. “It was a relief, really. I was waiting for the biopsy results at the time and wasn’t up to a letter.” Tyson knows the letters have sometimes been more negative than positive for me.

  “Can you tell me again what had you upset about your mom when we talked last week?”

  I feel like I’m being interviewed, but I tell him, again. Dad evading my questions about Mom’s cancer. Nothing in his files. The short-form birth certificate. Sixteen photos taken over a few months’ time. “What does that have to do with the letters?”

  He shifts in his chair and crosses his arms over his chest again. “I’m going to tell you something, and I don’t want you to get mad, okay?”

  “O-kay,” I say, but I’m already mad because whatever it is he is about to tell me is probably something he should have told me before now.

  “I don’t think your mom wrote those letters.”

  15

  Sienna

  Oddly, I am not infuriated by his suggestion that my mother didn’t write these letters but I feel I’m floating above it all, somehow, waiting to see how I’ll feel when I better understand what he means. Maybe it’s my meds. Why would he make something like this up and tell me now, a day after breast cancer surgery?

  From my place of emotional suspension, I replay all the letter giving—mostly birthdays but also significant events. Dad knocking on my door, handing me a letter, saying that he would give Mom and me some time to ourselves, as though she might pop out of the envelope and sit on the edge of the bed for a visit.

  Tyson is the only person I’ve ever let read the letters. They are the most private and personal things I own, and I’d shared them a few months before we got married because I had wanted him to feel my mother the way I felt my mother. He’s also the only person who knows that sometimes they make me feel guilty for not being the person she’d expected me to be. Tyson had held me after that confession—we’d been married about a year—kissed my forehead, and made no judgment. Had he already believed Mom didn’t write them when he’d comforted me? I imagine shadows moving behind a curtain, watching my life, fabricating my reality. And Tyson watching the shadows, sharing a quick nod of conspiracy while I was trying to be gracious about such a gift.

  He holds my eyes, then lets out a breath I suspect he’s been holding as he’s watched my thoughts play out on my face. “I started to suspect after the wedding letter.”

  It wasn’t hard to recall the wedding day letter. I had been curling my hair the morning of the wedding—no one was helping me—and my stomach was in knots because of time lines and rain during the night and the fear of sweating through my dress. I was thinking that maybe I should wear my Levi’s jacket over the dress. It would go with the cowboy boots, and only Tyson’s family would think it weird for the bride to have denim over her knee-length dress, but I hated covering up the pretty lace. Dad had knocked on my bedroom door and come in before I told him he could. What if I’d still been getting dressed? I had bitten back the impulse to take my frustrations out on him and instead met his eyes in the bathroom mirror with a forced smile.

  “Wow, sweetie. You look amazing.”

  I softened a bit—I’m such a girl sometimes. “Thanks, Dad.” I had to move my attention back to the curling iron, which was why I didn’t see the letter until he put it on the counter, between my Cover Girl mascara—waterproof just in case I cried, though I didn’t think I would—and my Wet n Wild blush. Thank goodness I’d put the K-Y Jelly in my bag a few minutes ago. I stared at the letter, hating the way my stomach dropped at the sight and wishing I could ask Dad to take it back. I glanced from the letter to Dad’s face to the strip of mahogany-colored hair—Clairol 113—wrapped around the curling iron and smoking as the hair spray burned.

  Once I read the letter half an hour later, I felt bad for being so hesitant. It was sweet and encouraging and made me feel that I was on track to meet my mom’s expectations of me. That it made me cry a little because my mom wasn’t there to share the day was overshadowed by all the good things. I told myself that a lot of brides cry on their wedding day; my tears were just for a different reason than most, and I very well might have cried about Mom not being there without the letter reminding me. I slipped it into my purse so that it would go with me to my new life in Chicago.

  In the present, I swallow, still looking at Tyson and hovering over this scene. “The wedding day letter?”

  Tyson nods. “During one of our hotel stays, while you were getting ready.” He smiled like that nervous groom he’d been—the reminder makes me blush, but I refuse the temptation to indulge in memories of that night. “Anyway, a bunch of wedding cards and things fell out of your purse, and I was straightening up and saw the letter. You’d already told me about it, and I didn’t think you would mind my reading it, so I read it and . . . it just sounded weird.”

  “Weird, how?”

  “Well, it said something about you being the prettiest bride in the state of Wyoming.”

  I nod. It hadn’t stood out to me. “So?”

  “Well, how would your mom know you would get married in Wyoming?”

  “My dad is from here and he’s always known he’d inherit the ranch. It wasn’t rocket science for her to assume we’d come back.” Because Mom had written the letters when she was dying. As a final gift to the daughter she would never know at any of the crossroads ahead. Surely, Mom and Dad had talked about Dad bringing me back to the ranch, right? Dad has told me that they all would have come back if Mom hadn’t gotten sick. I’ve never wondered why they hadn’t come back sooner. I’m coming down from where I’ve been apart from this conversation. Defensiveness is prickling through my extremities.

  “It was just so certain, that’s all.” Tyson shrugged. “I mean, what if you’d been married on a beach in Hawaii or what if your Dad had stayed in Canada? And then all the letters had things that just sounded so old-fashioned. One of the letters talked about her looking at you in a cradle while she wrote the letter, and the advice about being subservient to your husband. It assumed you wouldn’t want a career, assumed you wanted a big family, and put all this pressure on you living out some legacy for your mom and dad, even Grandma Dee.” He pauses, and his eyes tighten as though he’s afraid he’s said too much. “And it’s not like I knew she hadn’t written it because of that, I just thought it was weird. So I flipped over the stationery and read the date, and then you came out of the bathroom and I flung it to the side and threw my arms open.” He throws his arms open to demonstrate, and I’m taken back to that exact moment—I had opened the bathroom door of the Holiday Inn wearing a pink lace nightie one of my high school friends had given me at my bridal shower. Tyson was in bed with the covers pulled up to his chest as if he were in an episode of I Love Lucy. As soon as he saw me, he threw his arms open. In that moment, I had been his whole world and nothing existed but us. I blush again to remember it, embarrassed to have been that girl with so many stars in her eyes. Now he is watching my reaction, and I am embarrassed by that, too.

  The memory hangs in the air like a fly strip in August. Do I remember a flash of green stationery flying to the side? He’d known almost five years ago that the letters weren’t what I thought they were and he’d never told me? Never even hinted. Not even when I’d told him how the sixteenth birthday letter sounded like it could have been written by . . . Grandma Dee. I finish the fall and am back in my body, looking at Tyson and trying to make sense of this. He has proof.

  “What was the date on the back of the stationery?”

  “2000.”

  I was six years old in 2000. My mother had been dead for four years. The letters had always parroted Grandma, but I’d assumed it was because she and Mom wanted the same things for me. A slow, hot burn starts in my belly, and I cross my arms over my chest as best I can with the bandages. My breathing is coming faster. I can’t swallow.

  “You never told me you suspected anything.” My voice is low, showing the hurt. “All these years.”

  “I should have, and I’m sorry. I just . . . I just didn’t want to ruin it for you. Didn’t want to cast a shadow on your dad.”

  Dad had facilitated the deception even if it hadn’t been his idea. I am such an idiot. I hadn’t liked the letters and yet I’d not once thought to check for a date on the stationery. I should have looked into every detail of the paper, envelopes, looping Ls, and slanted Ys. Why hadn’t I figured this out before Tyson did?

  The room spins slightly, and I feel as if I’m going to slide off the bed. Thoughts poke at me like pins.

  “Sienna?”

  I open my eyes. When had I closed them? Tyson has stood up from the cheap little table he’s been using as a desk and is now waiting next to my bed.

  “Are you okay? You’re looking pale.” The look of sympathy on his face disgusts me.

  I glare at him, and suddenly it’s so easy to be mad at him for this. “Oh, am I looking pale? My apologies.”

  He stays where he is and pulls his eyebrows together. “Uh, I wasn’t being critical.”

  He reaches out and touches my shoulder. I wrench it away from him, sending a jolt of pain all the way through my right side. I put a hand to my head, which is suddenly throbbing, and wish I could stand up and stomp out of this motel room. It occurs to me that every time I feel overwhelmed by something, I want to run away. My eyes are stinging, and I don’t want him to see me fall apart. “I need you to go.” My voice is shaky.

  “It’s almost time for your pain pill.”

  “I don’t need a pain pill, and I don’t need you!” I scream. I feel a splitting off again as though the tired, hurting, and scared part of me takes a giant step to the left and the angry, defensive, confused part stays here in this bed and tries to make herself big and loud like a grizzly bear. “Can you just go?”

  His jaw tightens, and he looks as if he’s going to say something but thinks better of it.

  He puts up both hands in surrender. “Okay, I’ll go grab us something to eat. I just—”

  “Go!” I scream louder than either of us expects. He startles, then turns toward the door. I imagine him going through it and then me throwing all the furniture in front of the door the way they do in cartoons, so he can’t come back in. He shouldn’t have told me this. Not now. But then he should have told me a long time ago. And Dad . . . Dad. As one truth after another has crumbled, I’ve tried to put off judgment and remind myself of all the good he’s done for me. But this? How can I justify this? My chin starts to quiver, and I cover my face with my left hand. The door closes behind Tyson.

  Who has seen the wind?

  In the solitude I completely fall apart.

  Dad lied to me?

  Lied.

  To me.

  My whole life.

  Mom didn’t write the letters.

  Dad pretended that she did.

  Tyson knew it.

  He didn’t tell me either.

  Someone else wrote the letters.

  Tricked me.

  Who?

  16

  Sienna

  By the time Tyson comes back with sushi—how long has it been since I’ve had sushi?—I’ve finished crying and taken a pain pill that further mellows my mood. I apologize for being angry—it was the easiest feeling to feel. He nods his understanding and takes the plastic top off the takeout container. We’re quiet while we eat. The meds make the sushi taste tinny, so I eat only three pieces before letting him have the rest. He helps me change into a clean set of pajamas and then makes me take another walk around the parking lot even though it’s only fifty degrees outside. I’m shivering by the time we return. Neither of us talks about the letters or Dad or the fact that Tyson knew about the letters. He’s known since our honeymoon that Dad was lying to me about something. I’m the only person who is surprised.

  The pills make me sleepy and apathetic. Who cares about the stupid letters? I’m probably going to die like my mother did anyway. Tyson helps tuck me in, then turns off the lights so I can sleep even though I suspect he’ll be up for another couple of hours, working by the light of his computer. I’ve always been a side sleeper, but lying on my right side is out of the question, and when I try to lie on my left side, gravity pulls on the right. So I lie on my back and stare at the ceiling, reviewing the day and trying to plan ahead even though it’s hard to think.

  “Will you come back to the ranch with me?” I ask before I let myself fall asleep. I’d made the decision once I was on the tail end of the freak-out.

  “If you want me to,” he says.

  “I was thinking maybe we could tell Dad that we went hiking or rented some mountain bikes or something. The weather’s been nice enough. I fell and hurt my shoulder.” The bandaging doesn’t include my shoulder—it’s tight around my chest and under my arm—but a shoulder injury seems like the best fit.

  “If that’s what you want.”

  It’s a very neutral acceptance.

  “Do you think I should tell him?”

  Tyson is quiet for a minute. “I think between what you didn’t find in your dad’s files, the letters, and his not answering questions about your mom’s cancer, there’s a lot to deal with.” He pauses as though letting that sink in. “And you may not be in the best place to deal with it. You just had a tumor removed, things have been hard for you and me for a really long time, and you’re in pain. I mean, if you feel like you should tell him, I’ll support you, but there’s no real downside to waiting a bit longer, ya know?”

  “That makes sense,” I say, and I’m relieved to hear someone else support the hesitation I’ve felt to confront Dad. A hesitation that’s only increased as one thing after another has risen up to block my way. It’s going to be even harder for me to be around Dad now, knowing all this stuff and wanting answers but not being ready to ask the questions, or trust what he might say if I do. I remind myself how much I love him and how much he loves me. That helps some, but it also intensifies the betrayal.

  It’s getting harder for me to keep my eyes open, and my thoughts are getting fuzzy around the edges, so I hurry to finish what I need to say. “You’re right that I can’t work the ranch yet, but I’ll be more active if I’m home, and that will help me heal. And my bed is better, so maybe I’ll recover faster. If you can help, then I won’t feel so bad. . . .”