CHAPTER EIGHT

Peter eyed his daughter suspiciously across the short expanse of the carriage. Something was definitely bothering her. He could tell by the set of her jaw, the stiffness of her back and the ongoing silence, but the most obvious clue was that she was riding in the carriage with him. She never rode in the carriage with him on their trips to Lander. She much preferred the back of a horse to the interior of a carriage.

Then again, so did he normally, but things for him weren’t normal any longer and he knew he probably could not maintain his seat in a saddle.

When he informed his daughter of his continued tiredness, and that he planned to take the carriage to the horse auction, he expected her to argue in favor of forgoing the trip entirely, but her eyes had only widened slightly. Then, much to his surprise, she turned back toward the stables, her horse in tow.

She still hadn’t said anything to him when she crawled into the carriage with him. Now, a half hour later, she sat staring silently out at the lush green landscape. In fact, she’d hardly said two words at all to him in the past week.

“Marcelle, dear,” her father said softly, “if you’re fretting that I’ll make you marry Brian Walker, relax. I don’t think he’d suit at all.” That should make her happy again, he thought, but she surprised him again by simply muttering, “Who?”

“You know whom, dear,” he answered. “The banker from over in Pinedale.”

“Oh, him,” Marcelle said, her gaze remaining averted. “I never thought you would.”

“Oh, well, then, drat it all, whatever has been bothering you this past week?”

Marcelle turned then to look at her father and for the first time he saw worry outlining her wide, brown eyes.

“What is it, dear?” He asked.

“Why didn’t you tell me, Father?” Marcelle whispered. She fought the urge to cry, not wanting to give in to histrionics before giving him a chance to explain. She’d cried silent tears every night since her visit to her father’s physician last week. Their conversation still cankerous.

“Doctor Franklin, my father has been visited by you on numerous occasions, but doesn’t seem fit to tell me why, so I’ve come to you for answers,” she said without preamble, the moment he opened his door to her.

“Well, don’t you think that perhaps he should tell you when he’s ready? Perhaps he doesn’t want to worry you.”

“So, you’re saying I should be worried.”

“I’m saying you need to be discussing this with your father.”

“And I just told you that he won’t tell me anything, so either you can or I’ll simply sleep on your doorstep until you do.”

“Well, now, we can’t have that, can we?”

“It would be rather uncomfortable, but you know I mean it.”

“You are as stubborn today as you were when I delivered you. You wanted to stay sleeping in your mother’s womb. Seems to be a stubborn trait from birth.”

“I guess it is at that.”    

Peter felt a heavy weight descend on his heart. She knew! He’d hoped to spare her the knowledge, so that she could continue living her happy, carefree existence until the day of his death. He didn’t want her sad, like she had been so obviously this past week. His death would be soon enough for her to grieve over his loss. Until that time, however, he wanted things to go on as before, okay, maybe not the trial of finding her a husband. He’d rather be planning a wedding. Still, he missed her smile.

“Because of your very demeanor right now dearest,” he said. “That’s why I wanted to spare your knowing.”

“But you’re my father! I have a right to know!”

“It’s my life, dearest, and I have a right to reveal information concerning its imminent end to whomever I choose. As to your rights, you have none. It’s simply not your life to demand rights to.”

“How can you be so selfish?”

“On the contrary, it was selflessness that convinced me not to tell you.”

Marcelle merely snorted and returned her gaze to the view outside. Peter smiled. That was the girl he knew, full of spunk. Well, if he had to provoke her into a senseless argument that he didn’t feel like having, just to see her eyes sparkle and see the color return to her cheeks, then so be it.

“I do love you, you know,” he said impetuously. He snickered when his daughter shot a concerned gaze back in his direction. “No dear, I’m not dying this moment. My deathbed is not the only time, you know, where I can show affection for you.”

Marcelle’s eyes narrowed suspiciously. If he wasn’t dying, then why tell her he loved her. He never did so before. It only lent credence to the doctor’s prognosis.

“I was merely trying to explain in as few words as possible the reasons behind my not telling you.”

“Oh, well, I wish I could say it makes me feel better, but the thought of losing you, actually losing you,” she emphasized, “is tearing me apart.”

“Oh, dear child,” he sighed, “do you really think it makes me happy to know that I’ll be leaving you? Well, it doesn’t. In fact, it’s eating away at me. But I don’t want that, do you hear?” Peter was suddenly angry with the fates for cutting his life with his daughter short. “I don’t want for your sadness to be added to my own. That will only eat away at me faster, if that makes any sense. What I do want, is for the last months that we have together to reflect happier times, so that when I do finally go, it will be with the memory of your beautiful smile. Can you do that for me?”

“I don’t honestly know, Father, whether I can smile when you’re dying. It just doesn’t seem right, somehow.”

“Then fake it!”

“Father!” Marcelle gasped.

“You heard me,” Peter said sharply. “I said to fake it, and I mean just that. If a fake smile is all you can give, then I’ll take it, do you hear? It’s better than the sour puss face I’ve dealt with for these past few days!”

“You can be insufferable sometimes; you know that? First you tell me I don’t have the right to know, and now you are fairly demanding that I behave contrary to my actual feelings,” Marcelle said.

“Maybe I am, but I simply can’t handle the pressure of my illness and your sadness,” Peter said softly. “I know it isn’t fair, but promise to try to maintain a happy front for your old man. I need your laughter to sustain what time I have left.”

“It isn’t fair, but I’ll try,” Marcelle conceded finally. “I don’t want to lose you any faster than I’m going to already.”

“Good. Now, chin up,” Peter said, shifting to a straighter position in the seat. “I don’t want you milling about acting as if my funeral will be tomorrow. We’ll make our remaining time together full of joy and laughter.”

“Then can we forget finding a husband?”

Peter did laugh then, “No,” he said simply, patting his daughter’s knee. “That’s still a high priority.”

“Splendid,” Marcelle muttered under her breath, but her mood did feel lighter than it had in recent days. Perhaps if she carried on as before, it would boost her father’s health, or send him to an early grave. She smiled grimly.

Author's Note

All of my books are available on Amazon: Kindle, Hard copy, Lending Library (author, Barbara Woster)