Page 49 of Her Saltwater Cowboy

“He’s not violent. Just … lazy.”

Margie offered a small smile. “Can I be honest with you?”

“Of course.”

“Don’t let that guy fool you. He is anything but lazy.” She tapped the envelope on her desk like a deck of cards. “It always amazes me when people spend so much time trying to figure out more ways to defraud others. Imagine what they could do with all that energy if they were to put it to positive use.”

“Had not thought of it that way.”

“Listen, my dear, you did everything right. Some people just want to upend others’ lives for the sport of it, but we’re in your corner here.” She kept her expression kind. “I can’t promise that your mother’s parole officer won’t make a change?—”

Willow gasped.

Margie leaned forward. “You’re doing your very best for your mother. We will be sure to tell him that.”

“And if she has another … episode?”

Margie sighed. “The outbursts are something else entirely. Hopefully, those are gone for good now that we know to keep her brother away from her.”

Willow pressed the issue. “But if it were to happen again?”

“You’re doing the best thing for your mother.” Margie’s formerly bright expression had dulled some, the creases near her eyes deepening. “We’ll cross that bridge if we ever come to it.”

Silence landed between them. Willow stood to leave. “I understand.”

Margie’s warm smile was back. She flicked a nod toward the door. “Go on now. She’s waiting for you.”

* * *

Willow found her mother seated in the chair by the garden window, humming a hymn she couldn’t recall the name of, and wrapped in a fluffy sweater. Sunlight from the east-facing window poured across her face, illuminating her smile.

“Hey, Mama.”

Her mother looked up. “You’re early.”

“Nope. Right on time. And I brought you a treat.” Willow held up a cookie she’d pulled from the basket. “Made it for you this morning.”

Her mother reached for it with a surprising amount of focus. “This is good, but why don’t you make the ones with cinnamon on them anymore?”

“Snickerdoodles?”

“Snicker what?”

Willow laughed. “You don’t like those.”

“Don’t like what?”

“Snickerdoodles. That’s why I don’t make them anymore for you.”

“Oh.” She took a bite of the cookie and chewed it slowly. Then, “You should make the ones with cinnamon on them then.”

Willow lightly snorted. “Okay, you got it.”

“I remember something about you,” her mother said.

“What’s that?”

“You used to eat those yellow noodles every day. Even during the summertime.”

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