fun of it, and because I'm a pretty avid reader. That's what I was doing when Charlie came home. I'd lost track of the time, and I hurried downstairs to take the potatoes out and put the steak in to broil. I wasn't sure how long I had been upstairs reading Wuthering Heights, but I guessed that it had been longer than I'd thought it had been.
"Bella?" my father called out when he heard me on the stairs.
Who else? I thought to myself.
"Hey, Dad, welcome home."
"Thanks." He hung up his gun belt and stepped out of his boots as I bustled about in the kitchen. As far as I was aware, he'd never shot the gun on the job. But he kept it ready, because that was his job. When I came here as a child, he would always remove the bullets as soon as he walked in the door. I guess he considered me old enough now not to shoot myself by accident, and not depressed enough to shoot myself on purpose.
"What's for dinner?" he asked warily. My mother was an imaginative cook, and her experiments weren't always edible. I was surprised, and sad, that he seemed to remember that far back. After all, it was the memory of those happy days that inspired him to harm his own body and FedEx my mother the evidence.
"Steak and potatoes," I answered, and he looked relieved.
He seemed to feel awkward standing in the kitchen doing nothing; he lumbered into the living room to watch TV while I worked. We were both more comfortable that way. I made a salad while the steaks cooked, and set the table.
I called him in when dinner was ready, and he sniffed appreciatively as he walked into the room.
"Sniff sniff. Smells good, Belle."

36

Chapter 2

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