Page 88 of Falling for the Cowgirl
Dylan was quiet for several exhalations. “Then go back and marry her.”
Did he dare? Could he really drop everything—his work, his next assignment, his future at Pinkerton—and return to Colorado to be with Ivy? How could he live with himself knowing how much she was hurting on account of him? He wanted more than anything to make her happy.
At the same time, maybe they both just needed more time to get back to their lives the way they were before the summer came and disrupted everything.
As if sensing the direction of Jericho’s thoughts, Dylan slapped at his chest. “You’re nothin’ but a coward, Bliss. A big coward.”
Jericho staggered backward. And this time nothing got in his way to halt him.
“Go on. Get out of here!” Dylan waved a hand at him in dismissal. “You messed things up, and now you don’t have the guts to go and fix them. You make me sick.”
Jericho somehow managed to find the door and push his way out into the night. The chill of autumn hung in the air along with the dampness from Lake Michigan. A crowded horsecar rattled past, leaving the waft of manure in its wake. In spite of the evening hour, the sidewalk and street were congested by pedestrians, and he allowed the swell to carry him along past cheap eating establishments, barrooms, pawn shops, and hotels.
He stumbled the three blocks until he reached his dad’s town house. He made it up the front flight of steps and into the dark foyer. As the door closed behind him, he leaned back against it and rested his head, only to find himself staring at his dad’s prostrate form sprawled across the settee in the parlor. The light from a lone lantern illuminated the flask on the floor.
His dad being inebriated was nothing new. It happened almost every evening. He started drinking in the morning, and by the time he got home from the office it didn’t take long to pass out. At least he’d taken to passing out at home in recent years instead of at a saloon.
With a sigh, Jericho pushed away from the door and crossed to his dad. With his arm draped across his eyes, his mouth hung open and emitted a rattling snore. Jericho was reminded of Nash every time he looked at his dad’s face and wished again, as he had over and over, that Nash was still around to try to talk some sense into their dad.
As it was, Jericho could only grab the afghan from the back of the settee and drape it across his dad. Once he finished tucking the blanket, Jericho bent and picked up the flask. If only he could find a place to hide it where his dad wouldn’t find it.
The liquid inside sloshed around. There was enough left in the bottle for another long sip....
Jericho lifted it to his nose and sniffed. Scotch whiskey.
His throat and mouth dried up. He tipped the bottle higher. Did he dare take a drink? Maybe finish what was left?
He put his lips onto the rim and tasted the bitter residue. For just tonight he wanted to lose himself in the drink. Seeing Flynn’s letter, hearing Dylan’s accusations, and learning about Ivy’s pain was too much to bear. It only opened the wound he hadn’t wanted to acknowledge, a wound that had been tearing him apart inside since the day he’d let her brothers take her away from him on the trip down from Windy Peak.
He was so tired of the ache of missing Ivy, so tired of the heaviness that resided inside him and had since his mom’s death, so tired of the endless search for justice.
What if it wasn’t possible to ever find peace? What if drowning himself in drink was the best way to get relief? Maybe that’s why his dad did it.
The truth was, Jericho hadn’t found peace yet any other way. He’d thought by focusing on his work and keeping people at arm’s length, he’d eventually gain satisfaction. But leaving Ivy behind hadn’t worked, had only made him more discontented.
He started to pour the whiskey into his mouth, but at a loud snore from his dad, Jericho halted. What was he doing?
A furious panic rushed through him. He’d been one sip away from becoming his dad totally and completely, something he’d vowed would never happen.
With a cry of self-disgust, he threw the flask against the brick wall above the fireplace.
The bottle shattered. Glass and whiskey sprayed everywhere.
He sank to his knees and watched the alcohol drip from the mantel onto the tile floor. “Oh, Lord Almighty.” His desperate plea echoed in the silence of the lonely town house. He bowed his head and tried to breathe past the bitterness rising in his throat.
What was wrong with him? The drinking hadn’t brought his dad relief. Maybe it worked in the short run to make him forget his problems. But it had turned him into a deserted wasteland.
Was that what pushing people away would do too? Bring only emptiness and pain? Jericho had used the excuse that he was leaving Ivy to keep her safe. But maybe all along he’d been trying to keep himself safe.
Dylan was right. He was a coward.
“God. Tell me what to do.” The truth was, he couldn’t find relief in drinking or in isolating himself from those he loved or even in chasing after elusive happiness like Dylan. Ultimately the only One who could give him freedom from his emptiness was the Almighty.
The verse Judd had read to him in the summer sifted through his mind:“The steps of a good man are ordered by the LORD. ... Though he fall, he shall not be utterly cast down: for the LORD upholdeth him with his hand.”
The verse assumed they would fall. It wasn’t a matter ofifbutwhen. And God was promising thatwhenJericho hithis knees—just like he had at that moment—the Almighty’s hand would be there to hold him up. All Jericho needed to do was reach out and grasp it.
Could he do it?
