Word Gets Around

by Lisa Wingate

  She blinked as if she were seeing me for the first time. “Really? I hadn’t pegged you for the farmboy type.”

  “It’s been a lot of years. They had to sell the place and move to a nursing home when I was thirteen.” Taking in the horizon, I thought of my grandfather’s dairy, of the little white house and native stone barn tucked among the soft green hills of northern Arkansas. It was like a picture postcard in my mind, a place that always seemed comfortable and safe. Every time my mother and I drove up the lane, I felt like I’d been holding my breath since we left, and now I could finally let it out. During the transient years, I knew that after the obligatory arguing, Mom would settle into the front bedroom and I would curl up on the Murphy bed on the back porch, where my grandmother kept the nurse bottles for motherless calves and the cream separators. In the morning, my grandfather would wake me early, and we’d head out to bring in the cows as if I’d never left. He wouldn’t ask where we’d been or how we’d been living. He would just lay a hand on my head and say it was good to have me home. After my mother and I moved in with Doug, I lied and tried to make Joplin sound better than it was. By then, my grandparents were old and frail, and I was afraid Doug might do something to them if I started trouble.

  “What kind of farm?” Lauren’s voice came from somewhere outside the swirl of memory.

  “Dairy,” I answered, and the next thing I knew, I was telling her all about the place—about the land that had been in my grandfather’s family since before the Civil War, about the little dairy barn, where my grandfather did the morning milking before heading off to work at the post office. “The place was pretty much heaven on earth for a little boy.” I finished, leaving out the smarmy details about my mother, because there seemed to be little place for them in the picture.

  “Sounds beautiful,” Lauren mused. Her green eyes were soft and filled with thoughts, making me wonder what was on her mind.

  “I’d like to go back and see it someday,” I admitted. “See if everything’s still there.”

  “Why haven’t you?” She watched me closely as we drifted along a winding gravel road with the windows open.

  For a fraction of a second, I wanted to tell the whole story. I hadn’t had that urge in years—not even with Nicole. The farm, Doug, Mama Louise were ancient history. Buried and forgotten. “Long story,” I said, because oddly enough, I didn’t want to whip up a convenient lie that wouldn’t ring true later. I realized vaguely that I was thinking ahead to future conversations, more days spent with Lauren, goat wrestling or whatever came up.

  “We’ve got time. It’s a little trip out to Uncle Top’s house,” she offered in a way that made me want to divulge things.

  “Nah. Tell me about life around here.” I waved vaguely out the window. “Some background might come in handy with the script.”

  Lauren proceeded to give me the tour as we drove onward to Uncle Top’s place, winding up steep hills and through canyons where live oaks and sycamores stretched lazily in the evening light. The branches fanned cool shade over streams of clear water that flowed through smoothly polished floors of buff-colored gravel. Outside the window, the air held the quiet scents of midsummer, of moist soil and grasses basking in long hours of sunshine while slowly dropping seeds into the wind.

  Lauren talked about her family. The Eldridges were pioneers whose origins could be traced back to a pair of brothers traveling to Texas to find adventure. Instead, they landed among the sparks of revolution as Texas sought independence from the armies of Santa Anna. In the end, the brothers fought in the battle of San Jacinto and were given the adjoining land grants on which Lauren’s father still lived today. “Which is one of the reasons I’m so concerned about this business with The Horseman movie,” she finished, bringing the conversation back around, as always, to the practical. As far as I could tell, Lauren wasn’t much of a romantic. “Apparently, my father co-signed on some loans for Willie. He used the ranch and the building downtown to secure the loans.”

  The larger-than-life story of the two brothers and the battle of San Jacinto popped like a soap bubble. “Why would he do that?”

  Lauren sighed. “I think he felt he owed it to Willie. Their friendship goes back a long way. Willie helped my father out when he needed it in the past. My father lives by the cowboy code. He won’t leave a debt unpaid.”

  “Ughhh,” I groaned, not because of the cowboy code but because, in this case, it was seriously inconvenient. There was more at stake here than just potential hurt feelings and the mass letdown of a town full of very nice, well-meaning folk who believed in Justin Shay.

  Lauren combed dark curls away from her face, bound them in the back with her fingers and rested her elbow on the door frame. “If I’d been here, I don’t think he would have done this. I think he figured if he got involved in this movie, I’d have to … come home and … ” Something darted out of the bushes in front of us, and Lauren hit the brakes. The truck vibrated to a stop as a doe and two fawns skidded to a halt in the road. They remained frozen temporarily, then moved on.

  Whatever Lauren had been about to say had been lost by the time we started up again. She seemed to shake off the melancholy mood. “There’s Uncle Top’s place.” She pointed ahead, and then we turned into a hodgepodge entranceway made of dented chain link and shipping pallets strung together with wire, bungee cords, and what looked like a faded dog leash. Just past the gate, a handlettered sign read,

  No trespassing

  If you can read this

  U R in range

  I rolled a questioning look at Lauren.

  “It’s a joke,” she said. “Uncle Top is harmless … mostly.” Her lips quirked to one side, forming an adorable little dimple that made me wonder what mostly meant.

  A collection of dogs barked lazily from the porch as we passed a ramshackle farmhouse then continued to a barnyard, where groups of goats wandered among corrals constructed of everything from more shipping pallets to what looked like highway guardrail metal.

  After surveying the barnyard, Lauren backed the truck up to a converted U-Haul flatbed that had a cage welded on top. When the truck was in place, Lauren hopped out, so I did, too. In an enclosure nearby, goats began milling around, excited by the new activity in Uncle Top’s barnyard. A fairly large goat with woolly white dreadlocks put its front paws on the fence and made goat noises at me. I reached over and scratched its head, remembering the pet at my grandfather’s farm. This goat was larger and hairier, but it brought back memories.

  “We have a volunteer,” I said, but Lauren didn’t seem properly impressed with my choice.

  “I had something smaller in mind.” She proceeded to attach the trailer to the truck.

  “He’s friendly.” Not that I really cared, but this goat did have personality, and unique hair. The rest of the herd had moved to the opposite side of the corral and didn’t seem interested in the prospect of a future movie career.

  Lauren was unconvinced—stubborn girl. After hooking up the trailer, she backed it to the corral and opened the gates so as to create a loading corridor. “We’ll sort off one of the young ones and run it into the trailer,” she said as I climbed over the fence, thinking that real shoes would be a good idea right now. “That’s a she, not a he, by the way.”

  As Lauren headed off across the corral, my she-goat followed me. I walked to the trailer. She came along. I walked in. She walked in. It may have been my charming personality, but the capture couldn’t have been easier. “I got one,” I called, and Lauren turned around, then lifted her hands palm-up, seeming shocked and impressed.

  I exited the trailer and triumphantly closed the door. “Just call me the goat whisperer,” I said, and Lauren chuckled.

  With goat procurement easily accomplished, we closed the corral gate, started the truck, and rattled back down Uncle Top’s driveway with the newest member of The Horseman crew now safely in tow. I couldn’t help patting myself on the back and thinking that some days, things just work out even if yo
u don’t have on the right clothes.

  Chapter 15

  Lauren Eldridge

  Everything about Nate Heath intrigued me. He wasn’t at all the hapless, shaggy-haired celebrity hanger-on he appeared to be. He was actually a thinker, a contemplative type who noticed the little nuances of the people and interactions around him. Goats liked him. People liked him. Uncle Top’s Angora nanny seemed inclined to follow him anywhere. As we headed back to the ranch, we talked again about the farm Nate remembered from his childhood and how much he missed it when he and his mother moved away.

  “You know, for years I wished I could remember it better,” he said, the words filtered through thought. “If I’d known it was the last time I’d ever see it, I would have really looked, made sure I knew exactly how everything was.”

  “Isn’t that one of those life paradoxes—if you knew it might be the last time, you’d fully live the moment? Carpe diem?”

  He turned an appraising look my way. I waved off whatever he was about to say as we turned into the Anderson-Shay ranch and rolled up the driveway. “Sorry. I sound like a sappy internet chain letter.” The construction site was quiet as we passed, and I could hear Lucky Strike in the barn, whinnying frantically and kicking his stall. He had probably paced around in circles all evening.

  “So, why didn’t you ever go back to your grandparents’ farm?”

  I asked as we rolled to a stop near the barn. Maybe I shouldn’t have pressed, since he’d dodged the question the first time, but the look on his face when he talked about the place made me curious. I had the feeling there was a lot going on in Nate’s head that he didn’t share.

  He reached for the door handle. “My mother’s boyfriend didn’t like my grandparents, my grandparents didn’t like Doug, Doug didn’t like kids. I didn’t like Doug. Doug and my mother only liked each other some of the time. After a while, my grandparents started asking too many questions. My mother knew they’d eventually figure out what was going on and they’d call Social Services. Then my grandfather’s health declined, and they moved to a nursing home, and the farm was gone. The school called Social Services eventually anyway.” He stopped talking when he realized I wasn’t getting out of the car, but just sitting there watching him, taking in the story. He shrugged as if it didn’t matter. “You know how family stuff goes sometimes,” he said, then got out and shut the door.

  The truth was I couldn’t imagine a family situation like that. My family had always been solid and consistent. We gathered for holidays, birthdays, Sunday dinners, weddings, and funerals. The only one missing was my mother, and there was nothing anyone could do about that. After she was gone, Aunt Donetta stepped into the gap and did everything she could to help raise us.

  It occurred to me that it had been a long time since I’d been grateful, or maybe I never really had been properly grateful for my family. Ever since the accident, my thoughts had been on me, on rebuilding my own life, on nursing my own pain, on leaving the past behind. But in trying to move on, I’d moved away from the people who loved me most. Perhaps I’d felt free to do it because I knew that when I wanted them back, they would be there. It never occurred to me that family isn’t something you put away in your pocket and just pull out when you’re feeling needy. Family, a good family, is a gift not everyone receives. God gave me everything I needed to recover from the accident, to be whole again, but instead of trusting it, instead of letting other people hold me up as I found my feet again, I’d stumbled along on my own, disconnected, unhappy, ungrateful, unwilling to admit to anyone that I wasn’t recovering.

  When I got back to Kansas, I would turn over a new leaf, be more open to the people around me, be thankful for the things I’d been taking for granted, and stop wallowing in my own misery.

  When I got home, things would be different.

  You are home, a voice whispered in my ear. This is home. Why wait? Start now. Start here.

  I stepped out of the car with the idea circling my head like a butterfly determined to find a sweet place to land. Looking around at the old Barlinger ranch, I took in, really took in for the first time, the scope of its resurrection. This place, which had lain fallow for so long, which had been useless and empty and broken, was being lifted up, given a new purpose. If such a thing were possible with old buildings, certainly it was possible with my life. This trip to Daily, this movie project, was an opportunity, and I should have been looking at it that way. I could have been back in my condo, where stuff was piled everywhere and there was nothing on the walls, because I didn’t want to admit I’d be staying there. Instead, I was back home in Daily, taking on a challenge—creating a partnership between Justin Shay and Lucky Strike was definitely a challenge—but both Aunt Donetta and Imagene had always been confident that great things can come from humble beginnings. They’d painted that motto, along with others, over the tops of the beauty shop mirrors. God uses small things for great purposes. I’d passed that mirror a thousand times and never stopped to think about what the words really meant.

  Nate was already unloading his new friend from the trailer by the time I rounded the truck. “You might wait until … ” There was no point adding, I can back the trailer up to the gate. The nanny stepped out, looked around, then lowered her head and scratched her ears on Nate’s leg.

  “Guess we’d better put it in the stall, or someplace,” Nate said, patting the goat’s shoulder blades as if it were a big dog. He started toward the barn with the goat nibbling on the hem of his shorts.

  Nate pushed it away and quickened his pace. “Ouch, hey, there’s skin under there. All right, this is getting a little weird.” He moved into a jog. The goat bleated and trotted after him.

  I laughed as the two of them disappeared into the barn, the goat crying out and Nate calling back, “Lauren? Hey! Lauren?

  Uhhh … Puggy, hurry up, all right? This goat’s getting a little … uhhh … I think it likes me … Ouch! Cut that … ”

  When I entered the barn, Nate and the goat were playing tag around a pallet of feed sacks, while one of the barn dogs yipped and frolicked just out of reach.

  “Open the door!” Nate had lost a flip-flop and was half running, half limping on the rough stone aisleway. In one graceful bound, the goat jumped atop the feed sacks, and Nate had nowhere left to go. He stopped, standing frozen with his hands palm out. “All right, open the door.” He was focusing on the goat like an animal tamer keeping a lion on a pedestal.

  “What’s it worth to you?” I teased, and he cut a warning glance my way.

  “Not funny.”

  “I wasn’t kidding.” I was, really, but the nervous, edgy side of Nate was something I hadn’t seen before. He was always flawlessly laid back, at least on the outside.

  “Puggy … ” He pointed a finger at me while still giving the goat the one-handed stop sign.

  “There’s no one here by that name.” Moving to Lucky Strike’s stall, I pinched the gate latch between two fingers. The horse moved to the far end of the stall and continued pacing.

  “Lauren. Open the gate.”

  “Ask me nicely.”

  “Lauren, darling. Pookie, open the gate now, and we’ll let the little lonely goat go make a new friend. Won’t that be nice?”

  The muscles in the goat’s haunches coiled as I slid the door latch and swung open the door. Nate bolted through the opening, closely followed by the goat, then performed a side pass worthy of a professional toreador. He slipped past Lucky Strike and vaulted over the rear gate and into the barnyard in one impressive acrobatic leap. I closed the door, flipped the latch, and only then considered the fact that if Lucky Strike didn’t like the goat, things might get dicey.

  Lucky Strike didn’t seem to notice his new companion. He continued pacing along the far wall as the goat investigated the stall, then stood on her hind legs by the back door, searching for her flip-flop wearing new best friend.

  Nate came around the barn, and we hovered at the front of the stall, watching for signs of goat-h
orse bonding. I was conscious of Nate’s body close to mine, his arm warm and solid where it touched me.

  The goat turned our way, stretched out her neck, and let out a long, bleating complaint.

  Lucky Strike halted at the sound and stood frozen beside the wall. He slowly swiveled toward the goat, lowered his head and took a sniff, then snorted, eyes wide and white-rimmed.

  The goat was intrigued. Sticking out her tongue, she bleated at Lucky Strike, then moved in the horse’s direction. The horse retreated, snorting and backing to the other side of the stall, then coming forward, then backing off again.

  “I … dunno,” Nate muttered.

  “Give it a minute,” I whispered. “At least the horse is reacting to stimulus. He’s focused. That’s good.”

  We watched as Lucky Strike and the goat circled the stall once, twice, again, again, again.

  “Come on, come on,” I muttered. If we were ever going to make a success of Lucky Strike in The Horseman, stopping the pathological weaving was a necessary first step. “Please … ”

  We waited as the moments ticked by, and then finally a minor miracle began to take place. Lucky Strike lowered his head to sniff in the nanny goat’s direction, and the goat extended her nose toward Lucky Strike. The gap closed slowly, until finally only inches separated them. Lucky Strike nickered low in his throat, the nanny goat bleated softly, and then they greeted one another with a warm, wet nose rub. The bond of friendship progressed rapidly from there, horse sniffing goat and goat sniffing horse, until finally the nanny grew tired after her long evening adventure and moved to the corner of the stall, where she folded her knees and lay down in the soft pine shavings. Lucky Strike moved back to his pacing spot, and I held my breath, leaning closer to the stall door.

  I felt Nate beside me, his body tense with expectation. “Come on, big guy,” he whispered. Lucky Strike cocked an ear to the sound. In the corner of the stall, the goat gave a soft, beckoning call, and Lucky Strike looked back and forth between the goat and the wall, between a new possibility and an old habit.