"I'll do it," Bo offered. "You check on your daughter." "Mr. Callahan— Bo." Kelly met his eyes directly. "Thank you for being here for—"
She gestured helplessly, encompassing the dead snake, the fence repairs, the reprieve on the debt, maybe even the awkward comfort of a few moments ago. "For all of it." Bo nodded, not trusting himself to speak. He watched her walk back to the house, her spine straight despite the tremor he could still see in her hands, and felt something shift fundamentally in his chest.
This wasn't about the debt anymore. Maybe it never had been. That afternoon, while Kelly was occupied with the children, Bo walked to the creek with a shovel. He dug carefully, looking for the right spot, and found what he was seeking, a patch of wild roses growing along the bank.
Their pink blooms were bright against the green. He dug up three of the bushes, careful to keep the root balls intact, and replanted them in the bare dirt near Kelly's front porch, where she'd see them every morning when she came out. It was a small thing. Probably a stupid thing.
Bo had never been good at gestures like this. Catherine had always complained that he was too practical, too focused on the tangible and immediate to understand romance. But Kelly wasn't Catherine. Kelly was a woman who split her own firewood and faced down rattlesnakes and raised five children on determination and stubborn hope.
Kelly didn't need grand gestures or expensive gifts. She needed someone to see her, to acknowledge the weight she carried, to remind her that she wasn't completely alone. Bo hoped wild roses would say what he couldn't find words for. He was covering the last transplant with soil when a shadow fell across him.
Bo looked up to find Thomas standing there, watching with those too-wise eyes. "Those are for Mama, aren't they?" the boy asked. "They're just bushes. Needed something to fill this empty spot." Thomas smiled, a knowing expression that looked strange on such a young face.
"Mama's going to like them. She always stops to smell the flowers when we walk by the creek." "Yeah, well, don't make a big deal about it." "I won't." Thomas paused.
"Mr. Callahan?" "I'm glad you shot that snake. I was scared it was going to bite Martha." "That's what men do," Bo said, still focused on packing soil around the rose bushes. "We protect the people who can't protect themselves."
"Is that why you're helping us? Because we can't protect ourselves?" Bo sat back on his heels, considering the question. "I'm helping because it's the right thing to do." "Papa used to say that the right thing and the easy thing are hardly ever the same thing." "Your father was correct about that, at least."
"Did you know my papa?" Thomas asked suddenly. "Before he died?" "Not well. He came to me for a loan, and I gave it to him. That was the extent of our acquaintance."
"Was he—" Thomas hesitated, and Bo realized the boy was building up to something difficult. "Was he a bad man?" Bo looked at Thomas carefully, seeing the real question beneath the words. This boy had heard things, had probably heard his father called a drunk, a fool, a failure.
He was asking if those labels made his father someone not worth remembering, not worth loving. "Your father made some poor choices," Bo said slowly, choosing his words carefully. "But poor choices don't make a man bad. They make him human."