Seeds of Summer by Deborah Vogts Read Free Book Online Page B

Willard’s narratives about the past. His calm, soothing voice comforted her soul, especially now. “Dad told that story a hundred times while I was growing up.” She knelt beside the coffee table andbegan lining up the black pieces on the checkerboard. “Want some popcorn or something to drink?”
    Willard leaned against the sofa and rested his hands on his stomach. “I don’t suppose you have any soda pop in your refrigerator?”
    â€œOrange Crush, right?” At his nod, Natalie held back her amusement and eased herself from the floor. As she walked past, she patted his spongy gray hair, glad for his company. “I’ll see what I can find.”
    Minutes later, she returned with two bottles of root beer. “Sorry, we didn’t have any orange soda, but hopefully, this will do.” She handed Willard the cold drink, deciding to broach the discussion she’d had with her father’s attorney. “Did Dad ever mention his dislike for banks?”
    Willard latched onto the bottle and scooted to the edge of his seat. “I remember him cussing when a bank teller charged him for a box of checks. He was right mad about that. Guess you could say he had a genuine dislike for them.”
    â€œWhat about his money? He never gambled, did he?” Natalie practically choked out the words.
    His bushy eyebrows arched. “What kind of nonsense are you talking, girl?”
    Natalie forced a smile. How much could she reveal without casting an unpleasant light on their situation? She’d rather eat dirt than confess they barely had enough money to make it through the summer. “I visited with Dad’s lawyer the other day. He told me there were no savings accounts in Dad’s records.”
    â€œYour dad never lacked for money. He inherited this ranch debt-free when your grandfather died.”
    â€œMr. Thompson suggested Dad might have gambled the money or given it away—like to a charity. I’d hoped he might have mentioned something to you.”
    Willard ducked his chin and frowned. “You know your dad. Hewasn’t one to throw away money. I can’t imagine him doing such a fool thing.”
    Natalie couldn’t imagine it either. But then she hadn’t been aware of his dabbling in poetry. “Did you know he wrote poems for Chelsey and Dillon?”
    â€œIs that so?”
    â€œAccording to Mr. Thompson, he wrote one for each of them,” she said, hiding the resentment that he’d given them such a personal gift of love. Natalie had set the poems aside, thinking it best to show the kids after they’d had time to accept their father’s death. Then again, maybe it was more a matter of putting them out of sight, out of mind.
    Willard scratched his bristly chin. “He once gave me a poem called ‘Boots.’ I thought it odd at the time, but you know my fondness for verse.”
    Natalie’s stomach twisted. It seemed her dad had written poetry for everyone but her. Had he been mad or upset with her? Or had he sensed the same disconnection she’d felt since Las Vegas? “Do you still have it?”
    â€œI don’t even know.” He twisted the bottle cap, and a puff of mist sprayed out the neck. His gaze bore into her as though reading one of his favorite books. “You ready to play checkers or is there something else on your mind?”
    Natalie rolled her bottle of root beer between her hands, the condensation cool and moist against her palms. “Actually, there was something I wanted to ask you.” She pressed her lips together, willing her mouth to form the words.
    â€œThe other day when we were unloading cattle, you said Dad made you promise to take care of us. That you were with him when he died. You’ll probably think I’m crazy…” She stared up at the yellow water ring that stained the ceiling and took a deep breath. “Was he in a lot of pain? Was he scared—to