I didn’t notice that it was Drew who carried me out of the kitchen until sometime later when he said, “Sugar, you are not allowed to wash this shirt.”

I peered up at him, surprised to find myself in the living room, on his lap, his arms around me, his hand in my hair.

“Why?” I said, two hot, fat tears rolling down my face.

“Because you haven’t given me back any of the others, and I’m running out of T-shirts.”

I considered his words then laughed and buried my face in his neck. “Quit being stupid. You’ll get them back.”

“When will I get them back? Do you want me to walk around the mountains shirtless?”

This was a comment that might have elicited a completely different reaction twenty-four hours ago; but as it was, Drew was providing me with humor and comfort, and that was what I needed. I didn’t need anything beyond that.

“Have you called your friends yet today?” he asked, surprising me.

I gathered a deep breath, held it in my lungs, and responded on an exhale. “No.”

“You should. It’ll help. They likely miss you.” He set his chin on my head and—as though the thought had just occurred to him—added softly to himself, “You’ll be leaving soon....”

I sat motionless and let those words wash over me. He was right of course. I would be leaving soon, most likely once the funeral was over. It shouldn’t have felt like a shock, but it did.

I was yanked out of these thoughts when the front doorknob rattled followed by a sharp, insistent knock.

Drew craned his head around toward the kitchen; when none of my brothers appeared, he set me down on the couch. “Just a sec,” he said. “Let me see who this is.”

I grabbed a throw pillow and hugged it to my chest. I noticed that a box of tissue had magically appeared on the coffee table, so I snagged a few and wiped my eyes, feeling the futility of the action. These were only the first tears.

“Who the hell are you? And where is my wife?”

I froze in terror. Like a lightning bolt splitting a tree, the man’s words and aggressive tone sliced through the fog of my grief like nothing else could.

“Darrell,” Drew said in a laconic drawl. He blocked the door with his body and added, “Bethany died this morning. You’re too late.”

“Get out of my way. This is my house.”

I jumped from the sofa and ran to the kitchen. Knowing my father, strength in numbers was necessary.

“Guys, he’s here,” I loud whispered to the room. My face must’ve showed my panic because they all stiffened for a half second then were spurred into action. My brothers moved like the devil himself had arrived, and the only way to keep him out was to stand him down at the door.

I waited a half minute, inhaling and exhaling until I felt my courage buoy, and then I followed them out. The sound of rising voices and tempers made me flinch, and I saw that Roscoe was standing in the doorway. The rest of them were outside in the front yard.

I walked up to Roscoe and placed my hand on his back. He glanced down at me, his face strained, his jaw set; but his eyes softened when they met mine, and he wrapped an arm around my shoulders, tucking me close to his side. We watched the scene unfold from the house.

Darrell Winston was some distance from the porch, maybe five feet, and Jethro and Billy were standing in front of him. Jethro had his arms crossed, but Billy had taken an aggressive stance, his fists balled, and his feet braced apart like he was ready to throw a punch.

“Son, this is my house.” Darrell was speaking to Jethro, and his tone was entirely reasonable. “Why you going to keep a man from his house?”

“Darrell….”

“I’m your daddy. You will address me as such.”

Jethro’s Adam’s apple moved as he took a hard swallow, and his eyes were heavy-lidded with aggravation. “I’m trying to explain things to you. Momma died this morning. You’re not welcome at the funeral, and you’re not welcome here. This ain’t your house.”

“Son, this is the house I made my family in with your momma. This house belongs to me and all you kids; we need to come together and support each other.”

Billy rolled his eyes. I got the sense he was purposefully trying to bait him. “You’re delusional,” he said. “We haven’t ever been your kids. You’re a sperm donor, and your services haven’t been needed for a long time.”

Surprisingly, my father didn’t take the bait. “Where’s your sister? Where’s my baby girl?”

“I don’t think it’s right you calling her that,” Cletus said, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. “She hates you and she’s like, twenty-six. It just feels wrong.”

“Ashley.” My father called my name, obviously not yet noticing that I was watching the whole ugly scene. Again, I froze. His voice was demanding, and so many terrible childhood memories burst to the surface. “Girl, you come down here.”

“We told you to leave, old man. This place ain’t yours. It wasn’t Momma’s neither when she died. She sold it.” Beau said this standing on the stairs of the porch just in front of me with Duane at his shoulder.

“Sold it?” Darrell shot an angry glance at Beau, and I felt the moment that he realized I was there, the second his eyes settled on mine. “Ashley, girl, look at you.” He placed a hand over his chest like the sight of me made his heart hurt. “You’re beautiful.”

I stared at him from my place next to Roscoe, drawing from my little brother’s strength.

“Your daddy needs to speak to you, Baby.”

“Don’t you speak to her.” Drew stepped forward, though he’d been quiet up to this point.

My father ignored him, kept his voice calm. A beseeching smile—such a pretty smile—tempered his features as he said, “Come here, baby girl. I can see that you’ve been crying. I know your momma loved you best. Come to your daddy so I can make it better.”

I saw so much of myself in him, in his gently spoken words, his eyes and smile, how he moved, how he sounded when he was trying to appear sincere. It made my stomach turn.

“Jethro, you make him leave, or I’m going to arrest him.” Drew’s threat was quietly spoken, but it felt like a gunshot in the thick, tense dwindling light.

“How are you going to manage that?” Darrell turned his smile on Drew, but now it was more like a smirk. “This is my house, son. This is my family.”

“This is not your family, and don’t call me son.” Drew’s words were eerily stoic and emotionless.

“Darrell,” Cletus drawled, sounding oddly at ease. I thought for a moment that Cletus was going to put his hand on my father’s shoulder, but instead he gestured toward Drew. “This here is a federal officer, and you’re on his land. You see, he purchased this house some time ago. Now, according to Tennessee law, even if he weren’t an officer, he could shoot you dead right now—if he felt threatened.”

“That’s right,” Beau put in, “and we’d all be witnesses.”

“That’s right,” Duane echoed his twin. “That’s seven witnesses.”

I saw a brief shadow of confusion and apprehension fall over my father’s handsome features. He glared at Cletus—he never liked Cletus—then his eyes cut to Drew’s.

“Those are lies. Bethany couldn’t have sold this house, not without me knowing.” His attention moved back to me as though I were the family litmus test of truth. He didn’t seem to like what he saw, because his eyes grew large then narrowed. He lifted a finger and pointed at Drew but his eyes never left mine. “Is this your man?”

“Darrell Winston, get off my property. This is the last time I’m telling you.” Drew stepped forward and Jethro flanked him. I didn’t want Drew to touch him. He was an awful, evil man, and I didn’t want Drew to have any contact with him.

I walked out from Roscoe’s hold and stood in the center of the porch, crossing my arms over my chest. “Yes, Darrell. That’s my man. And he just told you to get off his property. There is nothing for you here. All the money is gone. The house belongs to Drew. Momma left you a checking account with exactly sixty-three dollars in it. That’s enough money for you to buy a tank of gas, a six-pack of beer, and get out of town.”

“Ashley, did your momma give you my house?” My father was shouting now, and his smile was gone. Even in the stark twilight, I could see his face growing red.

“No.” I shook my head. “No, she didn’t. She left us nothing.” Nothing except peace of mind, love, memories, laughter, wisdom…and Drew.

My father backed up as Drew, Cletus, and Jethro strolled forward, yet his gaze was affixed to me. “This ain’t over. You think just ’cause I’m leaving this is over, but it ain’t. This house is mine. That money is mine. You are all mine. You belong to me. What’s yours is mine. You’re my blood.”

“You ain’t shit.” Billy spat.

“Shut your mouth, William.” My father was even with the door to his car now; he turned a snarl on Billy, his blue eyes flashing mean and wicked at his son who might as well have been his physical clone. “I’ve beat you once, and I’ll beat you again.”