Chapter 47

Quinn leaned against the front entrance of the old stone house known as the Foundation, heart heavy, early the next morning. He put his hand against the wall for support, his fingers gripping the ridges between the big blocks as if he, by pure desire and will, could shift the face of what was happening. Change the horror that seemed to mutate into greater horror with each passing year.

When they thought they couldn’t bear it any longer, it would get worse.

That’s how it had been this whole time, with their boy. First Edith got pregnant—that had been their first miracle. After countless tries, even some of that in-vitro crap, his seed had actually taken hold in her. They'd both been over the moon.

Then, it had been a difficult pregnancy. They’d had to make a lot of adjustments, and the ranch had suffered. But he hadn't cared. He couldn't believe they were going to have a child. Her child. His.

Their son.

Then, the issues that started to present as Christopher grew. All the well-meaning specialists that said everything was fine, he'd grow out of these things. They didn’t mean anything. But they had. They’d meant a really big something.

All that had morphed into the horror of the diagnosis, the pain their boy was experiencing. And then, if all that wasn’t enough, they couldn't care for him at home, themselves. That was the biggest blow of all. Someone else had to assume responsibility for his son’s life and existence.

It was almost more than a man could bear.

He was Quinn Raary, damn it. He made things happen. People listened to him. His words meant something.

In the end, in this one thing that mattered the most to him, his words meant nothing.

However, as Edith had pointed out, it was a miracle that this home had happened, so close to them. As he made the regular visits, and the bond with his child grew—as did the child’s joy and his daily anticipation that he would see his father—Quinn had begrudgingly agreed.

It was a miracle. A damn miracle. He'd give Edith that.

Now, over the last long while, they’d finally gotten into a decent routine. It was wearing, but it was doable. Christopher seemed to be stabilizing. Not getting overtly better, but honestly? Not losing ground either. Not much.

Now—this.

Anger blazed in him. He clutched at the stone. But it was hard. Firm. He couldn’t scratch away a speck of it.

“Going to see Christopher, Mr. Raary? Beautiful day for it. He’s waiting, as always.”

That kind nurse, Summer. Always with an encouraging word. She smiled at him, then ran down the steps, out to do who knew what.

One of these days, it would be his last visit with his boy here. The last time to have those sweet, thin arms around him. That gentle voice laughing with joy, every time his hero and protector walked in.

He didn’t know how he’d bear it.

But he'd have to. He’d borne so many things in his life, but this was the hardest. The one that might actually break him.

He’d have to find a way to see his boy regularly, even though he was going to be out of province, far away.

He wasn’t sure how he'd run the ranch. Edith was already at her wit’s end with everything. Handling the ranch, him, and her own grief about their son. She was strong, but this thing with Christopher had worn her down. Seeing the boy was landing squarely on his shoulders these days. Her once a week visits took everything out of her, and the days she wasn’t there were worse for her.

There was no separating their lives from Christopher—their miracle—once he’d been born.

You just have to perform, damnit. Do it. All.

The stern words roused his adrenaline, just as he hoped they would. He had to see the kid weekly, no matter where he was. He, himself, couldn’t handle less.

But deep inside, he knew. The child might be moved so far away—for his own good, supposedly, damn them all—that weekly visits might be out of the question.

If that fool Dawson had only handed over the land years ago, maybe things would have turned out different. He’d have owned a bigger piece of land adjacent to the home, one that would have allowed him to have horses there. Maybe seeing them gallop and run, canter and play from his window would have raised the boy’s spirits. Helped heal him. The doctors all said such things were possible.

The child loved those beasts. Always seemed to gain strength from them.

I want to see the horses dance, Daddy.

But Dawson had dragged his feet. Insisted that Quinn’s words were nonsense. Well, he bloody well knew the truth now.

And that precious child wanted him to forget all about that mess? Let up on the lawsuit?

Well, what did he know. He was only a child.

Christopher’s final words from his last visit here, rung in his ear. “You’ll see, Daddy. You’ll see.” 

The child wanted miracles. He couldn't blame him. But this was reality. And reality wasn’t a kid’s storybook. Reality was hard.

A commotion erupted, behind him. He grimaced with the noisy intrusion into his thoughts, and they flew to his child. Would the noise wake Christopher? He turned and saw a beat-up truck pull into the parking lot, followed by another.

Then, of all people, that bastard Dawson jumped out of the lead vehicle.

He bristled. That fool was here? What the hell did he want? 

His son’s last words to him rang in his ears. You'll see.

Well, he did damn well see. The idiot was here to make trouble, notwithstanding his big gesture in the diner the other day.

Quinn started to stomp down the stairs. This time he’d grab him, throw him bodily back into his old truck, headfirst, damnit. But suddenly, more trucks came around the bend, spilled into the wide, circular driveway. Doors slammed, and a pile of men—twenty-five or more, with a couple of pretty ladies—piled out of those trucks.

And the gear.

Drills. Toolboxes. Saws. He saw Dawson himself gesture a guy over and pull out papers and drawings. The architect? What the hell was he doing here?

He saw Dawson look at the fancy plans, toss his head back and let loose a huge, rip-roaring laugh, then call to the others. The words floated to him on the air.

We’ll make short work of this, men. Let’s get this place ship-shape.

What the hell? He almost ran over and belted him on principle, but something held him back. They hadn’t seen him yet, so he had a chance to stop, think. The truth of it all started to filter in on him.

They were going to work on the home?

Emotion swirled in him. All his offers to pay for the repairs had been rebuffed. It had almost driven him insane. He had money coming out his ass these days, but it was useless. What was the use of having it in droves when you couldn't take care of the one thing you wanted the most in life?

Now here was Dawson—with his ranch hands, no less—the ones he was putting out of work and out of their home too…here to help?

He was stunned. What earthly benefit could there be to Dawson to do this? None.

He couldn't be there to sabotage the place, either. It was already lost. Without the repairs, it was already gone.

What the hell?

He felt the burn of inspection. Raised his head, and met the man’s glance. From twenty feet away, he finally got it. Read the truth in Dawson’s steady gaze on him.

I’m here for you, brother. Finally.

His feet took the stone steps, one at a time down the stairs, as if sleepwalking. He walked across the grass, over to the man.

They looked each other up and down. Then Dawson held out his hand. And when Quinn grasped it, Dawson’s words rung in his ears, expanded. Seemed to fill Quinn’s whole body.

“Move aside, old friend. Grab a cup of coffee from Dax over there, scarf down one of his crazy, epicurean sandwiches, and settle in. See that lawn chair we brought, over there, the fancy get-up? It’s all for you. Because in less than a week, Friend, this place is gonna shine.”