8

Pippa watches her brother with concern. Despite being a few years apart, the two of them are closer than most siblings. I remember the fights they got into when we were kids. Even though they fought a lot, their arguments never lasted long. Cade always ended up letting Pippa win. He’d apologize, even when it was typically her that was supposed to be the one apologizing.

“How’s he doing?” I ask, unable to help myself. Despite Cade always working closely with their father so he can take over the ranch one day, he was still a momma’s boy. He was sweet to her. If anyone could pull him out of a bad mood it was his mom. He’s got to be hurting. But in typical Cade fashion, you’d never know it.

“You know Cade,” she answers sadly, picking up a picture of Cade and Linda from when he was a baby. “He won’t really show—or tell us—how he’s feeling. But I know it’s not good. All he’s been doing is working.”

“That doesn’t surprise me.”

“He was the one to find her.”

My head whips in her direction as dread settles deep in my bones. “What?” I croak as sadness washes over me. The trauma Cade must be dealing with is overwhelming.

Pippa begins to place the photos in different piles. I want to ask her what she needs me to do to help sort them, but right now I’m too stunned. “I was at work, and Dad was on the trails. Cade stopped by for a morning coffee with Mom. It’s something they’d been doing for a few years. She’d been on him for working too much. One of the paramedics, someone who stops by the bakery often, told me Cade had given CPR on his own for at least thirty minutes until they arrived. Since then he’s just been…quiet.”

“I can’t even imagine.” I help her straighten a pile of photographs just to give myself something to do, my mind focusing on the pain Cade must be going through.

My eyes travel to the stairs again, shocked to see Cade leaning against the wood bannister. His expression is unreadable. I wonder how long he’s been listening to our conversation. He hadn’t been there when I looked not too long ago. He’s the only person I know who can walk so quietly in a pair of heavy cowboy boots. I rip my gaze away from him, not wanting to look at him longer than necessary.

“So what are we doing with the photos?”

When Pippa tells me we’re searching for ones to include in a slideshow for Linda’s memorial, I dive into the task. Hours pass as we sit at the large kitchen table, sorting through pictures that span decades.

6

CADE - PRESENT

I BOTH HATE and am strangely comforted by having her back in this house. It’s contradicting. I can’t imagine having to go through all of these arrangements without her. She was like a second daughter to my mother. But I also hate being in her presence—of being reminded of the past.

Mostly, I hate how different she is. I used to know Mare almost as well as I knew myself. Now it feels like I know nothing about her. I know everything about who she used to be and nothing about who she is now.

Coming to terms with that realization might be the reason I sit at the opposite end of the table from Mare and Pippa, a scowl on my face as I try to hide how closely I’ve been watching her. The pair sort through another box of photographs. They had to take a break earlier to pick out an outfit for mom to be laid to rest in, but it’s after dinner and they’re back to it.

At least they convinced Dad to join them. He sits in a chair next to Pippa, laughing under his breath at a photo Mare holds up of Pippa and me dressed as clowns for Halloween.

Mare wipes under her eyes, tears forming from how hard she was laughing. “Oh my god,” she wheezes, waving the photo in the air. “How have I never seen this photo before?” She looks at Pippa. My sister smiles wide back at her. It’s nice, for a brief moment, to see the pain softened on my sister and father’s faces. They both smile at Mare. At least that hasn’t changed about her. She still has the natural ability to make people laugh, even in the midst of the most intense grief imaginable.

“Probably because Mom knew how terrifying those costumes were,” Pippa remarks, shaking her head.

Dad clicks his tongue. “No, she was fiercely proud of those costumes. It was the last year the two of you let her coordinate what you were for Halloween.” His eyes find mine. It might be the first time my dad has actually looked at me and realized I’m here since mom died. Every look before this he was incredibly distant. He’s been a shell of himself. “The next year you insisted on being a cowboy. I’d tried telling you that you’d be that for the rest of your life and to choose something different. But you insisted.”

I shrug. “You want what you want. I was what, five?”

Pip flips the photo over, reading the date in mom’s loopy handwriting. “Well, we were creepy clowns when I was one and you were four. So you’re right.”

Marigold pulls a photo from the pile, smiling softly at whatever she’s looking at. I can’t see it from the other side of the long dining table. Whatever it is also catches Pippa’s attention.

“I remember that day perfectly,” Pippa muses, resting her cheek against Mare’s shoulder.

“That was the meanest pony.” Mare laughs, flipping the picture around so I can see it.

Pippa isn’t the only one that remembers that day. We’d gone to the auction to get some ponies. Pippa and Mare had been begging for their own ponies. They both had their own quarter horses at the time, but it wasn’t enough. Every little girl wants a pony and the two of them were no different.

“You insisted on bringing it home, even though it snapped at you every time you tried to put your hand near its muzzle.” Pippa gives Mare a look. Probably because even at eight years old, Mare was determined to take home that mean old pony, despite all the other younger, nicer ponies that were also there.

“I felt bad,” Mare explains, running a finger over the picture of the three of us standing in front of the pony. The pony, one she later named Bits, looked pissed, while she looks at him lovingly. Pippa watches Bits with an anxious expression. I don’t stare too long at myself in the photo. Eleven year old me has his hand out, watching Mare carefully to make sure Bits didn’t try to bite her. “If I hadn’t brought him home, who would’ve loved him?”

“No one probably,” my dad pipes up. “That thing was mean as hell to everyone but you, Marigold."

Mare places the picture in the pile of photographs we won’t be using for Mom’s memorial. A sad look crosses her face when she looks up. “He liked sugar cubes. The extra-large ones. Linda always remembered to keep those stocked for him.”

“I think she secretly liked that old horse,” Dad says. “I always found her sneaking him extra food.”

We all share a laugh. Reminiscing on the past—on Mom—hurts like a bitch. But it’s comforting to know we have memories of her. One day, it’ll feel better to sit around the table and talk about her. But right now, with her visitation and funeral so close, it really hurts to think back on the memories knowing we can’t make any new ones.

Dad sighs, his eyes roaming over the photographs. It’s quiet at the table until he stands up and looks around at us. “I think I’m going to get some air.” The grief washes back over his face again, making his wrinkles more pronounced. There’s no hint of a smile left, only devastation written on his face.

Pippa hops out of her chair. “I’ll go with you.” Turning to Mare, she wraps her arms around her. “You okay with that?”

Mare nods. “I think I might get cleaned up and go to bed.”

“Understandable,” Pippa answers. “I’ll see you in the morning.” It’s silent as they embrace for a few beats longer before they pull apart.

Pippa and Dad walk toward the door, leaving Mare and I alone once again.

Our eyes meet from across the oak table. She stands. I stay sitting. Time around us seems to come to a pause as our gazes lock.

"Why do you look at me like you’re mad at me?” she whispers. Her knuckles turn white from how hard she grasps the back of the chair she stands behind.

“That’s a loaded question.”

Two tiny lines appear on her forehead as she frowns. I fight the urge to close the distance between us and smooth out the skin with the tips of my thumbs. “I didn’t mean it to be,” she presses.

My knuckles tap against the table in front of me. With a large exhale, I stand up. My feet get closer to her on their own accord.