Hello - Thank for reading! As the description said, this story is done. I'm publishing every few days to avoid overload. Comments are so helpful. Let me know what you think. Speculation is invited. :)

Well I came home
Like a stone
And I fell heavy into your arms

These days of dust
Which we've known
Will blow away with this new sun

But I'll kneel down
Wait for now
And I'll kneel down
Know my ground

And I will wait, I will wait for you...
- "I'll Wait for You" by Mumford and Sons

"Mama…"

"I'm right here with you, son. Someone's coming to help you. Just keep breathing."

"But I'm so tired."

"You've been carrying all that weight about your daddy for me and your brother all these years. I'm so sorry I didn't do better by either of you."

"You did what you could, Cricket. You did nothing wrong."

"Neither did you, Vegeta. That's why you must live. You can't leave my grandbaby by herself yet – or the preacher's daughter."

"Bulma… doesn't need me."

"Oh my sweet boy. Yes, yes, she does. I may be a dead old lady, but I'm still a woman."

If death weren't so close, Vegeta would have laughed. His mother's wit put others to shame.

"Good morning. I'm standing outside Black Orchid, a popular Jefferson City garden and hardware store, where owner Vegeta Rutledge was shot several times, police tell KIBZ-TV. It's too early to identify a motive, a detective says, other than 'being in the wrong place at the wrong time.'

"The owner's daughter says the store was sacked. Another worker, a former emergency response technician who arrived early, attended to Mr. Rutledge's serious injuries. Viewers, if you have any information that could assist law enforcement with this investigation, call…"

Bulma's car television lost sound. Rather, she reduced the volume, thinking about the young reporter's poise at the awful crime scene. She barely watched this station, preferring early-morning news from local and national radio stations, but not before coffee - never before coffee. The devastating report had yet to catch up with her responsiveness.

"Krillin, take that highway off-ramp coming up and pull into that nice-looking office park, please."

"Something wrong, governor? We're almost at the airport."

Bulma hands abruptly stopped trembling. "I…I just heard something on the TV that requires my attention. Calling Ambrose now to cancel everything in Dallas. Oh, and it looks like there's a decent patisserie next to that boutique. Have you had breakfast yet?"

"Well, uh…" Krillin peeked at the rearview mirror, bracing for a high-decibel screech.

"Fuck's sake, Krillin! You started driving before sunrise. Are you trying to get us killed?!"

"I'm sorry, governor," he said impassively. "I planned to grab a bite after you boarded your flight."

Bulma plunked a one-hundred-dollar bill through the car's privacy barrier. "This should be enough."

(Why wasn't she telling Krillin about this? He needed to know. He's stood beside her –- by them - from day one.)

"I imagine a C-note would be enough for coffee and croissants," Krillin replied dryly, though he was curious about the unstableness of Bulma's lively blue eyes. "Give me a smaller bill than this, Bulma. I'll get a sandwich. How much rocket fuel do you need?"

(Giving him that much money: a stress response, perhaps.)

Bulma shook her thermos bottle, a rudimentary yet effective measurement method. "At least two cups please. Tip the barista appropriately."

"I always do," Krillin said, glancing at her again.

(Her heart felt like a boulder, but she could hold herself together. Vegeta would say, "Governor, I expect no less, you hear?")

Bulma was boot-leather tough, sharp-tongued, exasperating, brilliant, funny, selectively vulgar, and unfailingly loyal. Krillin Callaway loved her like family. They crossed paths years earlier, during her pioneering campaign to become Missouri's first female governor. She recognized him instantly at a union-workers event, happily telling everyone they attended high school together. Krillin, a shy man who stood at barely five feet, had no escape from her high-wattage hug and tackle, as well as no job. Many newly laid-off workers at an industrial factory where he worked naturally were skeptical that Bulma could do much for them.

Krillin believed their high school's former student-council president could make good on her promises – and Bulma did, working twice as hard as her predecessor to support economically struggling cities and towns across and attract new businesses. Almost every union supported her second run for governor, which she won by a landslide, with other voters crossing party line.s When they reunited, Krillin didn't have much money after paying off debts and barely had any kinfolk. Following Bulma's first election, he overcame his nervousness, humbly asking to work for her.

"Something simple," he said, dropping his head. "I don't need much. Life has kicked me around some. I can drive you places and keep my eyes on maintenance at the governor's mansion."

Bulma plunked a kiss on his shiny bald head, leaving a thumb-size velvet-rouge lipstick mark. "If that's what you want, then you're hired," she said, respecting his pride, though believing his abilities were far more extensive. "Just let me know when you're ready for more than something simple, especially if I run for Congress some day."

Jefferson City, located smack dab in the state's center, was 31 miles south from the flagship-university town of Columbia. Combined, the long-term population of both reached just above one-hundred-seventy thousand. Decidedly small-town best defined the atmosphere and relationships, though. Bulma invited college journalism students to her office at the state capitol to practice their craft, including those unfortunate interns assigned to KIBZ - her least favorite of the four local TV stations.

Krillin took leisurely bites of his croissant between coffee gulps. The governor rarely stopped travel plans for any reason. She could be exceptionally calm during job-related emergencies as well as a strong, shrewd negotiator, but her voice sounded different. A café worker raised the volume on a wall-mounted TV near some tables. KIBZ's "morning show" teemed with saccharine stories, nonstop weather reports, scorn disguised as legitimate criticism about Bulma (bordering on lies), and big-city blood-and-guts tales.

"A shooting at Black Orchid" blared from the speakers, causing a nasty jolt. Krillin carefully unlocked his gun's safety switch, leaving Bulma's thermos on the counter. Only after checking the car's exterior did he re-enter, opening the privacy barrier. Angry flare-ups weren't his style, but this rattled him.

"Don't ever do that again, Bulma!" he said, steadying himself. "You ain't got to tell me everything - but what in the Sam Hill were you thinking, sending me outside at a time like this?"

Bulma's worried, widened eyes locked onto his. "The… our patrol guys aren't that far – probably in the bushes. Who'd want to shoot me? The car is mostly bulletproof anyway."

"Mostly." Krillin's sharp breathing and stiffened back relaxed. He had to remember that his friend was in shock – almost dissociated after the upsetting news. "Now take a breath and talk normal with me."

"I just…just…needed us to stop…stop moving, you know?" Bulma said, touching her chest. "I can't believe this is happening."

A full security detail of state highway-patrol cars seemed to fly in from everywhere. Officers were never that far away because of their normal duties, but they struck a balance between noticeability and concealment. Krillin spoke intermittently on the police band radio, discussing details.

"So… how is Vegeta, hon?" Krillin's hand slowly circled the steering wheel's grooves. "I didn't hear all the news in the cafe. Anything else I can do?"

Bulma laid her phone aside, blankly fixated on her skirt's hem. "Four shots. One near his spine. They're operating on him at University Hospital. Ambrose just texted me."

"Give me your hand, governor."

Bulma pulled back, shaking her head. "You know I'm not a religious person, Krillin."

"Some ministers' daughters seem to have that issue," he said, closing his eyes. "Maybe I need your support instead. We have an almost two-hour drive back."

Bulma sighed, unable to reject his modest request for silent prayer. After vocational school, Krillin practiced Quakerism for a few years but later left the movement. Yet he still believed quiet reflection could be life-changing, and Bulma needed comfort.

"Thank you, my friend," he said, releasing her hand.

"Only for you," Bulma said. Her voice trembled, but it hurt too much to cry. "I'm ready to move now."

Krillin hoped his love could be a pillar for his friend's heart. Bulma's rejection of Vegeta's marriage proposal almost a year earlier gave hellish a new meaning. The governor refused to slow down initially, and then performed her summer and early-autumn duties vigorously, wrangling with state representatives during their ten-day session that challenged vetoed legislation. But, after that, she found herself crying in the mansion's gardens on some nights.

Aldrich Ambrose Boone, her cigar-chomping, expensive-booze-swilling chief of staff, found Bulma dazed and feverishly ill in the gardens one evening. Afterward, he carefully kept her out of the limelight, tightly managing meetings and events. Others in Bulma's devoted circle of appointees agreed she needed more rest until the next legislative session. The governor still worked but had more breathing room – another success orchestrated by her mentor and closest adviser. Better for her to cut emotional ties with Vegeta before future high-stakes campaigns, Ambrose reckoned.

The General Assembly, chock full of colorful personalities, met each January through May, putting the white-haired Ambrose – as everyone called him – in commander mode. But this year, everything had to be just so. Bulma readily took on new challenges, while her excited campaign committee busily prepared for her April announcement to run for a third – and final – term. Despite Bulma's popularity with voters, ambitious competitors were already airing their aims for the position, including the state's lieutenant governor. Ambrose wanted Bulma to run for the U.S. Senate instead, but she didn't budge.

After her jubilant campaign launch, a month after the legislative session ended, shots were fired- turning Bulma's world upside down.

Ambrose chewed forcefully on multiple ink-pen caps like a restless mongrel, making and fielding calls. After canceling Bulma's speech at the National Governors Committee's meeting in Dallas, he poured a small glass of Knob River whiskey. Bulma would get through this trauma, he believed, but the rapid emergency response to Vegeta's shooting would cast all doubt aside – statewide - about their relationship, possibly confirming an authentic threat to Bulma's safety.

Ambrose was paid to be suspicious. Shootings like this rarely happened in Jeff City. Was Vegeta targeted to rattle Bulma? Their relationship had been an open secret, but townsfolk usually stayed out of personal matters unless salacious events were involved. Bulma had been a county prosecutor, though. Maybe a few convicts and their well-connected friends on the outside did their homework to exact mobster-like revenge. Yet law enforcement routinely (and quietly) investigated tips about threats to public officials. Many amounted to nothing.

Ambrose swigged from a flask of bourbon in a stylish waiting room at University Hospital, offering a nip to Krillin, who sharply refused. "Whoever did this to Vegeta could get mauled by some locals if the police don't catch him first, Krillin. I hate to say it, but I'm also glad Bulma's hothead cousin Buzz isn't alive. Remember those hunting guns he got caught with? Whoo boy. We'd have to keep his ass out of jail too."

"He was already a felon who seemed to take pride in that status," Krillin replied, pouring Ambrose a large glass of water. More water guaranteed less talking.

Vegeta had a following – especially young men in their mid-twenties and old timers - across five counties who liked him. He did good, fair business, almost always found what customers needed, and treated them with respect. Folks laughed off his unceasing crankiness, especially with those who ignored the "greenhouse rules" prominently displayed throughout the store. Out back past the greenhouse, customers were treated to rows of seasonal flower and vegetables for sale.

"We don't know if the shooter is male," Krillin cautioned, "and put that damn flask away, Ambrose. Bulma will want some, and I don't want her drinking –- or anyone thinking that she is."

"Neither do I, preacher man," Ambrose said, looking at his sliver watch. "Don't worry. It's almost empty anyway."

Security and hospital staff blocked floors when Bulma arrived. Doctor Beau Yardley, the medical director, greeted her with a warmhearted smile and handhold.

Bulma removed her wraparound head scarf, shaking out her wavy lavender hair. "Beau."

"You're looking well, governor."

Bulma might have blushed during a less serious moment, especially with the throng of medical and security personnel around, but both had business to address.

"Where is his daughter?" she asked. "I…I don't plan to stay long. I just wanted to personally thank you. I know others need to be with their sick loved ones. Their care is just as important."

Beau was well-versed in counseling patients' shocked families. Bulma's composed "I don't plan to stay long," bespoke heartbroken disbelief and grief. Her security detail commandeered the highway like a funeral procession to bring her there. Everyone who needed to be aware knew she loved Vegeta.

"Oh, don't worry," he replied. "We're providing a comfortable environment and excellent food for the families. We're just not allowing anyone else on these wards for everybody's safety."

An attractive teenager with amber eyes and shoulder-length black hair ran from behind the nurse's station. "Please stay, Bulma. I feel so alone. Daddy never bothered anyone. Why would someone do this to him?"

"I don't know, precious." Bulma held the sobbing girl, who celebrated her sweet-sixteen birthday two weeks earlier. "I'll stay. Your aunt and uncle coming, Bulla?"

"Yeah. It's a longer drive for them because Aunt Gure can't fly as much, as you know. She's afraid that her arthritis would act up badly on any plane."

Normally Bulma would have been more understanding, but Gure Yardley Rutledge didn't fear much. Even Bulla questioned her aunt's arthritis excuse. The ultra-wealthy discount-store heiress usually preferred having her needs met first. Ambrose once said Gure "gave rattlesnakes a run for their money on toxicity, but at least those reptiles aren't born mean."

Beau sat them down, removing his wire-rimmed glasses. "Bulla, I can't say your daddy will make it through the night or even the next few days, but we're doing everything to keep him with us. Our trauma and ICU teams are on par with the larger cities that treat severely injured patients."

"So where do things stand?" Bulma asked.

"We've removed three bullets except the one near his spine and stopped internal bleeding near some vital organs. Once he's more stable, we'll work on removing that last bullet."

Bulla wiped her eyes. "Can she go see him now, Beau?"

"Let's limit it to about fifteen minutes," the doctor said, looking at Bulma. "We're keeping Vegeta heavily sedated to reduce the inflammatory stress on his body."

"I understand," Bulma said, kissing Bulla's cheeks. "You're welcome to stay at the mansion with me, to feel safer."

"Yes, I know," Bulla said, tearing up again. "Thank you. Don't worry about that, though. You know our manager, Big Nappa. His wife Donna and her brother asked me to be with them. Nappa is closing the store for a week, after the police investigate. Everyone is just so hurt. Just go be with daddy, Bulma. He probably wouldn't want me to say this, but he's missed you so much."

Beau hugged the girl, handing her tissues. "Bulla, let's just put all our faith in your daddy's ability to speak for himself soon. Go on inside, governor. Becky, his ICU nurse, is checking his vitals."

Bulma thought she was prepared, but flashbacks struck like a demolition machine.

Vegeta: the intractable five-year-old who rebelliously crossed his arms at Chicory Methodist Church every Sunday. If he didn't trust the adults grinning in his face, they sure as hell weren't getting a hug out of him. But the boy's menacing scowls always relaxed when Reverend Everett Brief's pretty daughter with the curly little pigtails and shiny patent-leather shoes smiled - and gave him candy.

Vegeta: "that quiet flame-haired kid" who got so fed up with a trio of bullies that, one day, he beat the living shit out of them for other schoolchildren. Though morally questionable, everyone from the principal to the sheriff looked the other way – their method of accepting blame for not doing enough.

Vegeta: Bulma's introverted, yet engaging, high school sweetheart who loved fishing, reading and tending to plants to cope with his father's drug addiction.

"Vegeta." Bulma covered her mouth, bursting into tears. "Oh god." There was no sound, only sorrow. Next to her father, he was the strongest man she'd known in mind and spirit.

Becky held her. "Just be yourself in here, sugar," the nurse whispered. "Say how much you love him - and tell him again. If half the state doesn't know by now, governor, it will eventually. I'll return for you later."

Bulma stroked Vegeta's black and gray hair, tightly holding a handkerchief over her eyes. "I'm so sorry I hurt you. I thought I did the right thing for us – for you. My heart knew that I loved you before my brain, I guess, when we fished at Brush Lake as kids. If you must leave us, I promise to help Bulla finish school. I'll be OK, too, my love."

"Now do you believe me, Vegeta?" Cricket asked. "Look at me, hon - not over there. Look at mama."

"That light."

"It's magnificent, yes. It felt wonderful before I died too, but I know you heard Bulma. What about my dear grandchild too?"

"Bulla?"

"She worships the dirt you walk on, boy. Can you say a few words when she's here? Give her peace."

"Yes, mama."

Bulla chewed on her nails, entering the room. Bulma reached out as Vegeta's eyes slowly opened. The two flanked him, holding his hands. Bulma nodded, encouraging the girl to speak. Bulla didn't cry, drawing on her courage. "You and granny made me as tough as hell, daddy. I love you so much. Thank you for being the best father. I'll be all right. I'll be all right."

"I'm sorry. I love you both." Vegeta couldn't speak, being on a ventilator, but Bulla and Bulma recognized another effort. His thumbs pressed into their palms twice. Tears streamed before his consciousness diminished. He was unready to leave them. Bulla moved beside Bulma, taking her hand as the ICU nurse returned.

"Vegeta, my precious son, I must go now. I love ya, honey, forever and always."