Second Chance

by Van Barrett

  And Clay was finally going to get his chance to make up for how things had gone.

  He knew there was a big chance that Rust would never find it in his heart to forgive him. And if that was the case, Clay would have to accept that as his life path. He'd had to accept some difficult things in the past, and yeah, it'd hurt, but that's what life was—pain, sometimes.

  Pain taught you. Without pain, you couldn't learn. And without some measure of pain, you couldn't ever know or appreciate the heights of happiness.

  But Rust, the poor guy, was totally beat. He'd yawned non-stop ever since they managed to load those two sweet horses into the trailer and took off. Once they got on the road, the hum of the highway was like a lullaby for a baby. Rust leaned back and dozed off in a hurry.

  And Clay couldn't help but smile as he looked over and took in that familiar sight. Whether it was his old truck, or on the team bus … Rust had always been a pro at falling asleep on the road.

  For Clay, it wasn't so easy. He had to be in a big, comfortable bed. Maybe you could add that to the list of reasons Clay was never cut out for the pro hockey life. Too much missed sleep. Guys like Rust just zonked out at their first inkling of tiredness.

  The familiar sound of Rust's gentle, rhythmic breathing took him back.

  Man.

  All those good times. That bond they shared.

  He'd thrown it all away. He was sure he was doing it for the right reason back then. Now? He wasn't so sure. Who knew how things were meant to play out. But he hoped Rust might understand, if he ever got a chance to tell him.

  Before long, Rust, fast asleep, began to slide sideways across the bench seat. His head softly landed on Clay's shoulder. Clay was afraid he might wake up and find himself in this position, and they'd both be embarrassed. But Rust smacked his lips instead, and a contented smile spread across his lips, and he went deeper into sleep.

  “Aw, man,” Clay whimpered to himself. He softly pressed his lips against the top of his old friend's hat. Rust's familiar smell—a sweet scent but manly and woody, like maple—crept into his nostrils. The mere scent of Rust triggered a series of memories that forked through his mind like a flash of lightning.

  The day they met. The first words they spoke to each other. How Rusty asked him to take him under his wing. Random, unconnected memories: talking to each other on the bus; naked in the showers together; Rusty playing guitar and Clay singing country tunes; Clay passing the puck to Rusty, who blasted a one-timer into the net.

  And, of course … the day they spent some time together on that truck hood.

  Rust's smell took him to all those places, and thousands more, in the blink of an eye.

  “Jeez,” Clay mumbled to himself.

  You almost forget the bond you have with someone, the memories you share together—until you've been apart for so long, a single whiff of their smell makes it all come rushing back.

  And so do all those old feelings, too. It was like not a single day had passed.

  Clay drove the rest of the way back to the farm, with Rust's head snugly resting on his shoulder.

  ***

  It was just before six o'clock when Clay drove the truck up the old, winding dirt road that led to Second Chance Horse Rescue.

  Now he was confronted with the task of waking Rust, without Rust realizing that he'd been sleeping on his shoulder the whole time. Clay knew Rust would be embarrassed he'd done that … but the fact that Clay had let him—and liked it—was obviously more embarrassing.

  So Clay drove over a pot-hole in the road that he normally avoided.

  “Whoa!” he grumbled.

  Propelled by the bump, Rust's head popped off his shoulder, and he was suddenly awake and alert, and sitting upright on the passenger side.

  “Huh?”

  “Sorry buddy. Hit a pot-hole there.”

  “Oh.” Rust blinked, his eyes puffy with sleep.

  “How are you?”

  “I'm … I'm good, still.” Rust clearly sounded relieved.

  “Good. I'm glad. You woke up just in time. This is it.” Clay waved his hand over the vast swath of land. “All this is part of the ranch.”

  “Whoa. Whoa Clay, this is a lot of land.”

  “Yeah. Pop bought it back when it was still relatively cheap to buy up 250 acres … not really so cheap to do that today.”

  Rust practically had his forehead pressed against the glass, his eyes sweeping left and right as they passed the rolling green hills, the majestic trees—Ash, Magnolia, Oak, Cypress, Locust, and so many more—that reached tall for the blue sky.

  “It's so beautiful, too.”

  “Thanks, buddy. Glad you like it.”

  As they neared closer to the farm, they reached the fenced-in pasture. Horses milled around, grazed, and ran and played to their heart's content.

  Clay rounded the turn, pulled in front of the farm, and backed the trailer up to the gate. Out front, Melissa—one of Clay's main paid staff—was showing a group of volunteers how to use a hay hook to carry bales into the barn for storage.

  Before they got out, Clay turned to Rust.

  “Listen. If this gets to be too much, or if you start to feel unwell, let me know. We can put you someplace private and comfortable and hopefully you'll feel better. But if not, I'll take you back to Dallas the moment you say so. Okay? Seriously.”

  “Sure. Thanks, Clay. I feel good, though.”

  The two men hopped out.

  “Before we unload these horses, we're going to have our vet look them over first,” Clay said. “Come with me.”

  Clay took Rust in to meet Liz. They found her in the main stable.

  “Hey Liz. Want you to meet somebody,” Clay said.

  Liz turned, her expression already one of surprise.

  “Wha'? Who's this?”

  “A very old friend of mine. Name's Rust. Rust, this is Liz, our vet.”

  She gave her hand to Rust for a shake. “Nice to meet you, Rust.”

  “Nice to meet you too, Liz.”

  “It's so nice to meet a friend of Clay's!” She gave Clay a tell-tale look when she said that.

  Clay quietly groaned, took off his ball cap and rubbed his forehead.

  “Yeah, yeah,” Clay mumbled and changed the subject. “So I got somebody else for you to meet. Two, actually.”

  “The mother and son?”

  “Yup. Misty and Scout.”

  “Aw. So cute.”

  “You free? I can bring them in if you're ready.”

  “Sure.”

  Clay and Rust went back outside, back to the truck. Clay swung the pen gate open and opened the trailer.

  First, he let the colt out.

  Clay grinned at Rust. “C'mere. Stand right beside Scout, by his shoulder. He's a calm boy, as long as he can see his mama, so don't worry.”

  Rust stepped alongside the horse and Clay handed him the reins.

  “Now just keep him there for a sec. When we get going, you don't have to yank or even tug on the reins. Just be gentle, and patient, and guide him—and he'll get where you want him to go.”

  “Okay …” Rust said, although he sounded unsure.

  “Don't worry.” Clay winked. “He really just wants to go where his mama goes.”

  Clay went to fetch Misty from the trailer next. The two quietly bonded; Clay stroked her muzzle and spoke softly to her to calm her. When Clay thought she was ready to move, sure enough, the horse followed his lead. And then Scout and Rust followed too, and they walked the horses into the stable.

  “That easy,” Clay said, smiling at Rust.

  Clay tied the horses so Liz could do her thing.

  “Alright. I'm going to show Rust around the farm then.”

  “Have fun, you guys.”

  ***

  The first leg of the tour was a short walk through the main stable. Less than half of the farm's horses were in there—most were out grazing, or out with riders on the trails—but Clay introduced Rust to the horses that were there,
and gave him each horse's story and how they came to the farm.

  There was a common theme in those stories, as Rust noted aloud: a lot of those horses came from owners who couldn't handle the serious responsibility of owning a horse.

  Sometimes the original owners couldn't afford to feed or train their horses. Sometimes the original owner was too green to own a horse, and had no idea what they were getting themselves into—finding themselves unable to care for what was quickly becoming their 'problem' horse. Sometimes, the original owner was just plain neglectful.

  Whatever the case, the results were always similar: you ended up with a horse that had developed bad, and potentially dangerous, habits. The best case scenario was that a horse ended up as a lawn ornament. The worst case scenario was that the horse hurt somebody, and ended up getting sent to an auction—where the cycle could very well repeat itself.

  As Clay told Rust, there were few actual 'problem' horses that were truly beyond rescue. Most were more like poorly behaved children who hadn't been raised in a loving environment; they hadn't known love and respect. They were frightened, angry, and accustomed to getting their way when threw a temper tantrum.

  Clay's philosophy was that every horse deserved a second chance; that each horse had his or her own experiences that had led to their behavior. That a horse wasn't 'wrong' for acting a certain way; that it had learned behavioral patterns as a survival or coping mechanism. But, if given the proper love and training, a horse could begin to recover, and be trained out of their problematic behavior. And thus each horse was given a second chance at life, ready to be adopted out to a family that could love and provide for their new family member.

  And, Clay stressed, it was very important to give the horses a job. It wasn't enough for a horse to sit around tied up all day, or left to graze and run wild. Horses needed a mission, a sense of purpose in their lives. So after a horse was rehabilitated by Liz, and cleared of any and all medical problems, Clay and staff began work on training the horses. Horses that could 'work' would take riders on the farm's trails for a small fee—and the proceeds went back towards the farm, naturally.

  Clay started to show Rust around the rest of the farm. But as they started to walk around, Clay realized that Rust seemed slow and fatigued. He stopped in his tracks, worried Rust's symptoms might be returning.

  “You okay buddy?”

  “Um …”

  Rust tried to hide his guilt, but even behind those sunglasses, it still showed. And Clay knew: he wasn't in the mood for this.

  “Damn, I've been talking your ear off about the farm—I didn't even notice you weren't doing so hot. I'm sorry.”

  “No, it's great to see and hear everything, Clay. I'm just … I'm still fatigued. I think I just need to lay down and rest for a little. Sorry to be a buzz-kill.”

  “Not at all, man. C'mon, I'll take you to your bedroom.”

  Clay took Rust to his ranch house. It was the house where he'd grown up. He led Rust to the guest bedroom, sparing him the house tour for now.

  “At the end of work on every Friday, we do a family style dinner. Me and the staff.” Clay checked his watch. “That'll be in an hour or so if you're hungry.”

  “Sure, I could eat.”

  “Great, bud. Let me know if you need anything.”

  “Thanks.”

  Clay went off to help with the cooking chores, shaking his head at himself.

  Damn, he sure got quiet … I hope he's okay.

  22

  Friday Dinner

  – Rust –

  Rust sat on the foreign, twin-sized bed with an old quilt laid atop it. The mattress was stiff as a board and creaked under his weight. He looked around the guest room. It was kept painstakingly neat and clean, so a guest like Rust might come in and feel at home, and not like an intruder in someone else's life.

  But that also meant it was bare of the normal sort of belongings that gave a room a sense of life. Except for the presence of a medium-sized grandfather clock, with a golden, swinging pendulum that methodically clunked out each passing second—tic … toc … tic … toc.

  With that thing, you couldn't miss a single passing second.

  The room smelled not dusty, but somehow not lived in. Rust sniffed at the air. Preserved and floral, like artificial flowers.

  The hell am I doing here?

  Something about this whole thing didn't sit right with Rust. And the boggling part was, he wasn't sure what that niggling sensation in his stomach was.

  Clay's farm wasn't just beautiful, it was amazing. He obviously did good work and was respected by his peers. That crazy old man Critter had clearly loved Clay. Liz seemed like she was quite fond of him, too. (Did they have a thing together? Rust wondered. But no, she was wearing a ring …)

  And seeing the way Clay won over that mama horse Misty was enough for Rust to understand that Clay was something of a real life horse-whisperer.

  Then, you get to his farm, and you see the fruit of his labor.

  Families, volunteers, kids running everywhere. Apparently, during the day-time, the place was overrun with school children on field trips. (Rust bet that Second Chance Horse Rescue would be one field trip those kids wouldn't forget.)

  Hearing the stories of the horses was obviously amazing, too. So many of them with troubled backgrounds and experiences. Clay really was giving them all a second chance, and they were running with the opportunity—and thriving, too.

  But, as Rust looked around that guest bedroom, he still couldn't shake the thought:

  But what the hell am I doing here?

  Whatever Clay had done with his life since they parted hadn't changed the way they'd parted. Right? Clay might be an amazing human being now, a life saver, a friggin' saint.

  But none of that changed how much he'd hurt Rust in the first place.

  Yet Rust was keenly aware that he wouldn't be here at all if his concussion symptoms hadn't mysteriously improved with Clay's reappearance. He would have happily wrote Clay off forever, if not for that convenient coincidence.

  Rust had a lot of questions, too. Like why did Clay bring him out here in the first place? What were Clay's intentions?

  (If only I were a horse, he thought with a snicker, recalling what Clay said about horses being able to read people's intentions.)

  And why, for the love of God, had Rust hopped in his truck like a lost, lonely puppy and agreed to go with him on this crazy trip? Sure, because his migraine had let up—that was the obvious excuse.

  And sure, it was 'nice' to see Clay again, and hear about everything he'd done, and act like they were still good friends who understood each other. Even though that was obviously surface bullshit.

  But was there something deeper at work?

  Because the root problem that split them up ten years ago still lingered, still went unaddressed. You could cut a tree down to its stump, but you couldn't take all of its roots out of the ground. And if those roots didn't totally die, and the stump saw enough daylight? The tree could send up shoots and start growing all over again.

  Suckers, Rust thought. Pretty sure they call those shoots 'suckers.'

  Which was funny and sort of apt, for a guy who was starting to feel like a sucker.

  Because the more Rust thought about it, the more he realized he could never be friends with Clay. There would always be a part of him that fell for that man. And seeing how he'd grown to be a successful man, a genuinely good man, didn't make that any easier—it made it harder, actually.

  It made him want to like Clay, even though he wasn't supposed to, and he knew well enough that he never could.

  A pressure started to return to Rust's temples. Not big and terrible, but there, present. A reminder that he wasn't out of the woods yet. He hadn't been miraculously cured of his concussion just because he ran into Clay.

  He laid down on the guest bed, all too aware of his temples, which thudded with every single clunk from that old clock.

  ***

  Rust must have fa
llen asleep; a gentle rapping at the door stirred him from a light nap.

  He sniffed at the air as he rose out of bed. Whatever dinner was, it smelled delicious. Rust answered the door.

  “Hey bud, you get some sleep?” Clay asked, adding with a cute smile: “You look sleepy.”

  “Yeah, think I did.”

  “Good. How do you feel now?”

  Rust paused, reflecting with surprise: Shit. It's gone.

  “I feel good. I thought I was having another attack earlier, but … I guess that nap helped me.”

  “That's great, man.” Clay gestured back down the hall. “Dinner's ready if you want to come eat with everybody. Everyone's making their plates right now.”

  “Yeah, sure. It smells great, by the way.”

  “Brisket, green beans, scalloped potatoes and gravy,” Clay said matter-of-factly.

  “Hearty,” Rust said. He hadn't had a good home-cooked meal in God-knows how long.

  Clay guided Rust into the kitchen and announced his entry to the group of six others.

  “Hey everybody, this is my friend Rust. He's going to be joining us for dinner.”

  “Hey Rust!” the group of six others said. They were standing in line, holding plates and serving themselves food from the stove-top.

  Clay introduced Rust to each person. He already knew Liz, the vet. He also met Cheryl, head trainer; Melissa, who oversaw the volunteers; Jodie, Max, and Sarah, who filled in anywhere and everywhere else as farm-hands.

  “We eat outside when it's nice like this,” Clay told Rust as he handed him a plate.

  Rust and Clay went to the end of the line and started filling their plates. The others made their way to the picnic table out back.

  “You make this yourself, Clay?” Rust asked as he scooped himself some of the mouth-watering brisket.

  “I help,” Clay laughed, “but Sarah's the real cook.”

  Sarah, a late twenty-something, added with a smile, “Clay made the gravy!”

  Rust smiled at her. “So, were you hired to be a cook here, or something?”