On the way home from the doctor’s appointment, she’d bought her first pack of cigarettes in almost thirteen years. That was two weeks ago, and though the first pack had made her dizzy, she was nothing if not determined. She’d quit smoking all those years ago for Mark. After Gregg had left, he was down to one parent and she’d felt responsible for keeping that parent out of harm’s way as much as possible. What did that matter now that Mark had up and left her too?

  “Canada?” Rachel, Dee’s best friend since Girl Scouts, had said when Dee told her about the study-abroad thing that Mark had wanted to do almost two years ago now. “What’s abroad about Canada?”

  It was the only international study program Dee would agree to. And for only two semesters. How was she to know that his study abroad would turn into his studying a broad?

  “Damn fool,” Dee muttered as she exhaled the smoke into the wintery night. The herd was in the winter pastures now, heifers and yearlings close to the house. It had been a good year as far as sales went. Now she’d focus on a hundred other things she couldn’t get to during the summer months. Mark had come home between his semesters in Canada and helped for the summer, but she could tell he was eager to get back to the preppy life he lived up there. It had made her sad, which of course came out in snappy orders and nitpicking. The day after he’d left to go back she’d actually cried, mad at herself for being so damn hard about everything and worried that he’d never come home again. Had the study-abroad program just been an excuse for him to get away from her? Was she that miserable a person to be around? Probably. People thought she was hard, but she was beginning to think it was just the opposite—she felt things so deeply that it terrified her. A rough exterior at least made it look as if she wasn’t hurting.

  So why not take up smoking again? Who cared if she got lung cancer and died? Who cared if her voice lowered and her clothes smelled? Not the ranch hands. Not the cows. Rachel would mind, but Rachel was her friend, not her mother.

  The phone rang from inside the house, and Dee cursed even as she pushed herself up from the plastic lawn chair on the front porch. She dropped the almost-finished cigarette into the coffee can now serving as an ashtray and pulled open the screen door. If phones weren’t a necessity, she’d have pulled it out of the wall years ago.

  “This is Dee,” she said into the receiver a few seconds later. Rachel had gotten a thingamabob called caller ID—a little box she plugged into her phone that told her who was calling. She thought Dee should get one too—it was a great way to screen calls so that you didn’t have to talk to those annoying telemarketers. Dee didn’t mind the telemarketers enough to pay the five extra dollars the phone company would tack onto her bill for the service. That added up to sixty bucks a year, just to see who was calling before you answered it anyway. The things people came up with to take your money.

  “Hey, Mom.”

  Dee paused a moment, then smiled and felt a rush of warmth move through her. She wouldn’t show it—she was still mad at him—but she doubted there was a mother in the world who didn’t melt a little when she heard her child’s voice from miles away. “Hey,” she said evenly. “Look who’s callin’ me?”

  He laughed, but it wasn’t genuine. Nothing was between them anymore. She’d hated the idea of Mark going to school in Laramie but relented because his getting a degree in agricultural science could only be good for the ranch. She’d hated the idea of his going abroad for his senior year of college but relented because he’d reminded her that once he was back on the ranch, he’d be there forever. And it was only Canada, and Ontario at that. “So, how are things going?” he asked. “How’s the herd?”

  That their relationship had dwindled to the small-talk level broke her heart a little bit, but she gave him the updates and then bit her tongue when he was evasive about school and work. The college had already sent her a letter telling her that he’d dropped out of class—she’d seen it coming. As soon as that Mae woman had stepped into his life, he’d turned into a pathetic hound dog. He hadn’t told her about dropping out yet. Maybe that was his reason for this call. She had already decided she would be calm and as reasonable as she could manage. “So, what’s the real reason you called?” she asked when they ran out of easy topics.

  He’d never asked her for money, but she kept a lecture in her back pocket just in case. No way would she make his choices easier for him right now.

  “Well, I’ve got something to tell you,” he said, anxiety as tight as a cord in his voice. “And I hope you’ll be happy for me. For us.”

  “Okay,” Dee said, steeling herself.

  “I’m gonna be a dad. Mae and I, well, we’re having a baby.”

  Dee’s hand tightened on the phone, but she clamped her teeth down to keep from saying something she might regret. Take a breath, she told herself. And she did. Let it out, she instructed. And she did. That trampy whore!

  Rachel’s voice came to mind, something she’d said when her first grandbaby was born a few years ago, months before the scheduled wedding. “Doesn’t matter how they get here, babies are magic.”

  Trampy whore or not, this woman was going to be the mother of Dee’s grandchild.

  Dee let herself remember the moment when Mark had first been placed in her arms. She’d always expected kids as a matter of course—that’s what Christian women grew up to do—but she’d stared into that crumpled face and felt certain locks click into place inside her. How desperate she’d felt to do a good job. How she wished, now, that she felt better about the job she’d done. She wouldn’t change becoming a Mom for the world, though. Even when Gregg left. Even when Daddy died. Even when her brothers wanted out and so she’d bought their portions of the ranch. Even when she wanted to throttle him, Mark was the best thing that had ever happened to her, and she’d do anything. Anything. Even be happy about this bastard baby.

  She cleared her throat. “A baby?” she repeated, keeping her voice even.

  “Yeah, in March, we think.”

  March. Calving season. Dee held back a joke about his heifer. She was going to have to work on her feelings toward this Mae; there was no way around it now. If only she had some idea how to cool the rage she felt for the woman who was taking her boy away from her. Now, more than ever. Rachel might have some advice on that score. She was good with people and relationships the way Dee was good with cattle and numbers.

  “Congratulations,” Dee said after too long a pause.

  “You’re happy for me, then?”

  “If you’re happy, I’m happy.”

  He didn’t answer, because they both knew that wasn’t a mantra she’d ever set her clock by. If Mama ain’t happy, ain’t nobody happy was more like it. But look where that had gotten her. Fifty-four years old, running a ranch by herself, her only child choosing to live in another country with this trampy whore who was going to be the mother of Dee’s grandchild.

  “I’m happy, Mom,” he said, his tone softer. “I’m really happy.”

  Why did it hurt her to hear him say that? Had she truly believed that someday a woman wouldn’t steal his heart?

  Just because he was the most important person in her life didn’t mean she was his. “Well, good then.”

  “If it’s a boy, we’re going to name him after Grandpa.”

  Dee swallowed the lump in her throat. She missed her dad. “And if it’s a girl?” Dee asked.

  “Sienna,” Mark said. “Sienna Diane.”

  9

  Sienna

  I wake up Saturday morning to the smell of bacon, and I blink at the ceiling. I put on jeans, a T-shirt, and long socks, and I pull my hair back into my customary ponytail before heading into the kitchen. Uncle Rich and Aunt Lottie ended up meeting us at the diner last night, which was a relief because I’m having a hard time shaking off the thoughts I’ve had about Dad hiding things from me. We had a nice dinner, then Dad and I watched an episode of NCIS, but we both claimed we were too tired to watch a second one. I hope the fact that he’s up and cooking means we’ll be better company for each other today. The continuing tension between us feels as if I’m wearing my boots on the wrong feet.

  “Smells fantastic,” I say as I walk to the cupboard to start pulling plates and cups out.

  He turns his head to smile at me. “Good,” he says with a nod. “It’s just about done.”

  I set the table, then pour myself a glass of orange juice. Dad has his Folgers French roast percolating in the coffeepot, but Tyson ruined me for cheap coffee. I’d rather not drink it at all if I can’t have Gaslight’s Peruvian roast. I wonder again why Tyson called yesterday. He didn’t leave a message, and I should probably call him back, but the idea gives me butterflies. Tomorrow, I decide, when I feel more settled. I wish he’d just texted, but then remember that he had sent a text earlier and I hadn’t responded.

  “Two slices enough?” Dad asks as he turns from the stove with a plate in hand. I can see the creamy pile of scrambled eggs on one side of the plate. When I don’t answer right away because I’m still wondering why my husband called me, he raises his eyebrows.

  “Two is great,” I say quickly.

  He smiles and nods before turning back to the stove and putting two slices of bacon next to the eggs. A few seconds later he slides the plate in front of me. My mouth starts to water as I pick up one of the bacon slices and take a bite. The fat melts on my tongue, and the meat portion snaps. The salt makes my lips tingle.

  “It’s supposed to warm up this afternoon, before the storm hits,” Dad says between bites. “I’m thinking if we head out to the pastures around ten, we should be good. What do you think?”

  I’m anxious about being in the cab of the truck with him and start thinking over topics that will keep the conversation going—something that’s never been hard for us before now. “Ten works.” I reach across my plate for the pepper.

  My phone rings next to my plate, and I pick it up, then suppress a groan of irritation when I see it’s Dr. Sheffield’s office. On a Saturday.

  Not doin’ it.

  I send the call to voice mail and turn my phone over so Dad can’t see the screen. When I look up, Dad’s watching me.

  “Telemarketer,” I say

  “Again?”

  Oh, right, I’ve used that already. I shrug. “I bet they get paid for every dial. That’s why they don’t give up.”

  “Nope,” Dad says, shaking his head while returning his attention to his plate. “I saw this on 60 Minutes. They have fancy computer things that call hundreds of numbers at the same time. If someone picks up, the call gets sent to one of their representatives who have nothing to do with—”

  His phone rings, cutting him off. “Well, speak of the devil.” Unlike me, Dad sees it as his patriotic duty to answer every call that comes to his phone. Even if it’s from India.

  “Hell-o,” he says in his drawling country-boy voice. “Yes, this is Mark Chadwick.”

  I take another bite of my eggs and think about yesterday. I didn’t find undelivered Mom letters in the filing cabinet. Unless there really aren’t any more letters, they have to be somewhere else in the house. Would I be willing to poke around Dad’s room? I can’t imagine doing that. The office is one thing—it’s common area—but his bedroom is something else. That room has been his all his life—Grandma Dee’s is still set up like it was when she died. It’s the master, so it’s the only bedroom in the house with its own bathroom. It would make sense for Dad to use it, but I know he feels weird about moving into his mother’s room. Instead, he stays in the smaller one across the hall from hers and uses the bathroom in the hallway there. He has the same curtains and bedspread he had in high school—I’ve seen pictures—and still sleeps in a twin bed. The idea of snooping through a space that is so completely and totally his is borderline repulsive to me. Which he likely knows, which is likely why that would be the place he would hide stuff about Mom. I step back from my thoughts and shake my head at all of this. It’s ridiculous—that he would hide anything and that I have to plan some kind of stealth operation to find it.

  “Oh,” Dad says into the phone, drawing my attention back to him though I tuned out only for a second. “Do you want to talk to her? She’s right here.”

  My eyes snap up to meet his as he hands the phone across the table. He lowers his voice as I swallow my bite of eggs and reach for his phone. “It’s a doctor’s office,” he whispers.

  A burst of fire fills my chest as I take his phone. I remember writing Mark Chadwick down as my emergency contact on those medical forms. They called him?

  “This is Sienna,” I say calmly, but my face is burning and I can feel Dad looking at me.

  “Sienna, this is Dr. Sheffield.”

  I should probably feel flattered she’s taken the time to make this call herself, but I am furious. And can’t show it. “Yeah, hi,” I say with fake sugar. “Can I call you back on my phone in just a minute? We’re in the middle of breakfast.” Because it’s eight o’clock in the morning. On a Saturday!

  Dr. Sheffield pauses. “Will you call me back?”

  I bite my tongue until I’m sure I can control what comes out of my mouth when I next open it. “Of course, it will be just a few minutes.”

  “All right,” Dr. Sheffield says. “Call this number. I’ll be the one who answers it.”

  I hang up without saying good-bye and pass Dad’s phone back to him. What if he Googles the phone number and finds out what kind of doctor’s office called and asks me questions that require answers I’ve already lied to him about?

  “Everything okay, CC?”

  “Yep,” I say, the end of the word sharp as a pickax. “I just need to call her back in a bit.”

  He’s still concerned, so I add one more lie to the cabin worth of lies I’ve been building for the last couple of weeks. “She’s a lady doctor in Cheyenne. I’ve got a consultation.”

  In our house, “lady doctor” doesn’t refer to the doctor’s gender; rather, it refers to her clientele. I’ve been seeing all kinds of “lady doctors” these last few years, and though Dad is as supportive as any girl in my situation could hope for, he’s vastly uncomfortable with lady doctor stuff. He nods, and we both go back to our plates. I try not to eat too fast, but I don’t taste a bite. Finally, I finish and stand up from the table, empty plate in one hand and my phone in the other. “Thanks again for breakfast, Dad. It was delicious.”

  “You betcha, sweetie.”

  I lock my bedroom door and go into the bathroom that my room shares with the guest room on the other side—the most private place in the house.

  “This is Dr. Sheffield,” she says when she answers after the first ring.

  “You called my dad?” I seethe.

  “We’ve been calling you for a week.”

  “And it’s my prerogative to call back or not.”

  “I’m your doctor and I’m very concerned.”

  “I should turn you in to the bar for harassment.”

  “The bar is for lawyers.”

  Oh yeah.

  “Look, Sienna, I know this is hard, I do, but you need to come in and get that tumor removed.” I prefer to think of it as a lump. “When is a good day for you? There are two open appointment times at the clinic on Wednesday and Friday of next week. I’ve consulted with the surgeon, and she feels it will be pretty straightforward—we don’t need to do an MRI or anything at this point, just get the tumor out so we can further evaluate.”

  I reach my free hand up behind my neck and try to massage the knots there. “I can’t make any of those appointments. It’s calving season on my dad’s ranch, and I’m the only hand right now. My dad’s been sick.”

  “Prostate cancer, yes, I know.”

  For a minute, I imagine Dr. Sheffield having gotten that information by hiding in the bushes with binoculars around her neck. Then I remember the medical history form I’d filled out before my appointment. The same one where I idiotically put Dad down as my emergency contact. “Yeah.”

  “I would think his illness would make you eager to come in.”

  She doesn’t understand. No one does. No one could. “I can’t get away for at least another three weeks.”

  “You can’t wait three more weeks, Sienna, you have an invasive cancer. That means the cancer, which started in a mammary gland, has already spread from the ductal wall. Because it’s in the surrounding tissues, you have cancer cells floating around in your body that can at any time filter down to your lymph nodes, which will send those cells everywhere.” She pauses for a breath. “We are talking about the rest of your life, Sienna. If we’re right about the size and grade, and assuming it hasn’t already spread, you have an excellent prognosis, but you need to get the procedure done as soon as possible. Even then, we’ll have to do a full pathology of the tissue to make sure we caught everything. I’m not trying to invade your privacy, but this is not something you can put off.”

  My head feels like it’s going to explode, and I raise my hand to my temple and close my eyes. I just need a little more time to sort things out. Is that really so much to ask?

  I take a breath and try to think about what she wants to hear. “I’ve been trying to learn about my mom’s cancer,” I say. “That makes a difference in how we treat this, right?”

  “It could make a difference in long-term treatment,” Dr. Sheffield confirms. “But getting that tumor out is what’s going to be the difference between life and death. That your mom died of this disease is one more reason for all of us to take this as seriously as we possibly can.”

  I want learning about Mom’s cancer to be the most important task at hand. I need it to matter. I need justification for the searching I’ve already done and the searching I need to keep doing. And yet Dr. Sheffield’s words do scare me, just like she wants them to. I’ve outlived my mother by two years. Shouldn’t I know better than anyone how serious this can be? What if I wait and the cancer does spread? I can’t bring myself to tell Dad I have it; how will I tell him that I ignored it long enough for it to get worse? “I’ll see if I can get some help to cover things for a few days. Let me look over my calendar.”