Page 9 of Giddy Up, Daddy

Fuck.

He rushed past her and into the house. “What is it? What’s wrong?”

His grandfather was staring down at something on the floor.

What was he looking at?

Stepping closer, realization filled Stafford. “She broke one of Grandma’s cups?”

“I didn’t notice what cup she was using,” Grandpa Jack said slowly. “Should have been paying attention, but I didn’t want her here. It was a test . . . getting her to make a cup of tea. Why the hell did she drop it?”

Stafford frowned. It did seem strange. “Nerves?”

“Maybe. And what’s with wearing gloves inside on a warm day? All nonsense. She won’t do. Too jumpy. Can’t have her breaking anything. Only got four of these left, you know.”

Stafford knew. They were the last of a tea set his grandma had brought with her from England. And like this house and everything in it, they were things that his grandpa treasured. It was like he was trying to keep her memory alive by keeping everything the same as when she died.

Any time he suggested changing or updating something, his grandfather would get upset and he’d back off. The only room he’d been allowed to touch was his bedroom.

Stafford sighed. Shit. What was he going to do now? Although he admitted that he hadn’t been holding onto much hope that she’d last.

After cleaning up the mess, he stood to make his grandfather a cup of tea. That’s when he saw her sweater.

Shit.

Blakely sat on the sofa with a blanket wrapped around her shoulders. She didn’t know why she felt so cold, but shivers kept working their way through her body.

Stupid.

So stupid.

Mr. Whiskers and Mrs. Flopsy sat on either side of her, trying to comfort her. But it wasn’t working.

Why hadn’t she been more careful? She knew better.

“What are we going to do?” she whispered.

What was it about her that no one wanted to take a chance on her?

Maybe because you break stuff? Because you’re useless?

Stupid.

Blakely stared down at her hands. If she hadn’t been doing that magic trick . . . if she hadn’t been cooking and gotten distracted . . . if she’d been more damn careful.

She’d taken off her gloves but left the bandages on. She should probably apply some more cream, but the pain felt like a well-deserved punishment.

A knock on the door startled her and she glanced over, wiping the tears off her face. Standing, she grabbed a tissue as another knock came.

Someone was impatient.

The door rattled so much that she knew that it would only take a good shove to break it open. That thought often kept her awake at night.

It needed a deadbolt, but she couldn’t afford one and Mr. Brandt wouldn’t put one on.

“I know you’re in there, Miss Ellis.”

Shit. Mr. Brandt.

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