by Alex Cord
The golden boy, Damien, was looking tarnished in the fluorescent coldness of the hospital room. The glow was gone. A complex network of wires and tubes crawled in and out of him to and from plastic cocoons and metered nests with blinking lights and numbered graphs. He was still as death but for the rhythmic hissing of the machine that moved his chest up and down in a parody of breathing. It was an image burned forever in Jesse’s brain as he sat there. It had been five days with no change, not a blink, not a hair moving. Jesse had gently lifted an eyelid that seemed not fully shut and saw a pale lifeless pupil that had once been bright and blue. He borrowed scissors from a nurse and cut a lock of platinum hair, a final desperate clutch at something he could hold onto, evidence that his son had been here. He knew as he looked at the body on the bed that the spirit of Damien no longer occupied it. He kissed him anyway on the cheek and held the big lifeless hand for a moment and left the room. He had already signed the forms.
The scene played over and over in his mind. It would sneak up and assault him like a mugger by surprise. Often, he could cut it off and think of something else—fishing in a mountain stream, wildflowers and log cabins, cold chicken, and music. But then he didn’t ever want to forget his son, so he’d try to remember the good times, the laughter, the joys of firsts, the letting go as he found his balance on the bike, his first time driving the tractor. But this time he decided to let it play out. He wanted to feel the emotions rip through him, tear him up, and fling him about. He wanted to allow it to envelop him without resistance…like crawling into a python for a look at its innards.
Jesse’s eyes were closed but he knew, at the same instant Dozer did. The dog made a sound, lifted his head, got to his feet and stared at the wall with that quizzical look and whimpered, wagging his tail. Jesse sat up and saw his son in the moonlight.
Jesse heard the words in his brain. “Dad…I’m all right now. I’m sorry. You couldn’t have done anything more than you did. It was meant to be the way it was. I know you love me and I am with you. I love you, Dad.”
“Oh…Jesus…” he hadn’t breathed. “I love you, Damien. I miss you so much…” His heart drummed in his throat. He stood and extended his arm as his son began to vanish like a vapor in a breeze. Dozer whined and brushed against his leg. He reached down and stroked his head, then headed for the door.
Stars glittered in the black above the thick twisted cottonwood behind the barn. Moonlight filtered through the flutter of leaves overhead as he sat on the plank swing hung low enough for a boy’s legs. He pushed himself in a slow circle, leaned his full weight back on the ropes, looked up at the swirl of stars, and felt his head begin to swim.
29
To Write a Letter
A pale rolling mist enveloped everything beyond a few feet from the porch. Light from the barn glowed dimly in the distant gray. Ricardo was up and beginning to feed.
He had been holding the pen poised above the pad long enough to have written a thousand words but the page was blank. He mauled his face, took a last swallow of cool black coffee, a deep breath and wrote the words, “Dear Holly Marie…” and then he stopped and pondered. The risen sun had routed the mist by the time he’d penned a page. He had read and reread, scratched out, and rewritten and even gone in to get a dictionary. He closed the pad, went into the house, scrambled eggs, and drank more coffee. Then he went out to work.
Holly Marie had fed the horses, dogs, goat, and ducks before fixing breakfast for Ruby and herself. Then with a scrubbed face, worn jeans and a ball cap, drove to the post office to pick up their mail.
She took the brown paper-wrapped package from Texas up to her room and opened it. Inside, on the first page of the well-worn volume, were written the words, “There is a potent, influential energy that comes from within the horse and those who fall under its spell are the slaves of a grand passion.” Beneath, it was signed, “Jesse,” and the date. She smiled then read the words again saying them softly. She kicked off her boots, stacked the pillows and lay back on the bed and began to read Training and Showing the Cutting Horse.
A big black Mercedes, miraculously glossy and clean, shunned by the red Texas dust that matte-finished everything under the sun, came to a halt near the barn. Dr. Walter Nalls stepped out as armored as his car with an aura of repellent that rendered him impervious to dirt and dust. He could have sliced open a patient with the crease in his Wranglers. Dr. Nalls specialized in facial reconstruction. He’d spent five years putting together a Mexican boy’s face that had melted like wax from a barbecue accident. He did it quietly without payment.
A client and friend, he owned Bueno’s Big Bar, the stud that had sired Buckshot. He took Jesse aside and said, “I’m going to make you an offer you can’t refuse. I want you to breed San Mamacita to Bueno again and get you another colt. A present from me.”
“That’s a mighty generous present.”
“Think of me as a generous man.”
“I do. And you’re right.”
“About what?”
“I can’t refuse. Thanks.” He reached out and shook the doctor’s hand. Walter clapped him on the shoulder.
That night he read his scribblings in the notepad for the tenth time and made a few more adjustments before he closed it and went to bed. The next morning he was on the porch with coffee and the pad to greet the sunrise flaming across the green-sweatered hills. He read the letter again, rubbed his hair and pulled his nose. Then he went into the house and sat at a gnarly-legged table with stationery and copied the letter from the pad as carefully as he’d ever done anything. Then he read it again. He blew out a deep breath thinking this is insane, tear this up, boy, right now, while you still have a chance and nobody knows to what extent you have lost your mind. But he didn’t tear it up. Instead, he read it one more time.
Dear Holly Marie,
I hope you won’t find any offense in the clumsiness of this attempt to communicate with you. Here is what I’m thinking. Life is short. Sometimes real short. I know you know that. And it’s the thought that I could be dead before I get embarrassed that gives me the courage to try to say what’s really in my mind and my heart. Please know that there is no reason to feel any discomfort of any kind. There is no pressure in any of this, only an easy offer of friendship.
You stepped out of Larry’s house to the porch where I stood with a bunch of unshaven Texas toughs and I swear I couldn’t believe my eyes. I did an actual double take. There I was, having a pretty good time, I thought. Then came you…in pale blue silk and a black hat, and everything else ceased to exist. Then it hit me that you were the daughter that Bear and Ruby had spoken about with such love and pride. Ever since that moment on the porch, you have been in my mind. I have tried to push you out when I think about convention and that I shouldn’t allow myself to entertain any thoughts of you whatever. But you have been so kind and talking with you makes me feel so damn good. I thought I’d say to hell with convention and the fact that I’ve got boots older than you are and invite you to come visit and have some free riding lessons.
There’s a private guest room with its own bathroom and great big ol’ padlocks on the inside of all the doors. Hell, I’ll even give you a loaded gun.
I just realized that for all I know, you might be engaged to be married. Or maybe you are married. Have you got a husband tucked away somewhere? Anyway, I’m sure there’s a line of admirers from Kiowa to New York and Europe seeking your attention. So, if accepting this invitation is not something you want to do, I’ll understand. I might blow my brains out, but I will understand.
If I never hear from you again, just getting to know what little I have of you has enriched my life. Please be at peace with this and let me know what you think. If you decide to accept, it would be my great pleasure to send you the plane tickets. All the best to Bear and Ruby.
I’ve got a love-sick Rabbie here who misses his Bunny Bunny. So if for no other reason, say yes and bring her with you to mend his ailing heart.
Yer saddle pa
l,
Jesse
He folded it carefully and slid it into an envelope. The post office was next to the auto supply and a small grocery store. There was a mailbox in front. He walked up with the envelope, and like teasing a dog with a biscuit, waved it above the box but didn’t put it in. He turned away, went into the grocery store, bought some beer and pretzels, a couple of cans of green chilies, some beans, and a package of tortillas. The letter was in the pocket of his shirt. He put the groceries in the truck, went back to the mailbox, and stood there with the letter in his hand. He pulled open the chute door but still didn’t drop the letter. Suddenly, a quick waft of Damien’s cologne was there. He felt a force like a vacuum suck the letter from his grasp. Down it went. He stood in wonder for a moment, then smiled, walked to the truck, and drove back to the ranch.
Abbie was going on about, “…I mean, what a pain in the ass…the guy’s a nitwit. I hate it when I’m smarter than the teacher…I wasted the whole damn day yesterday. I don’t know what the hell I’m gonna do with that degree anyway. It’s only good if you wanna teach. I don’t wanna teach anymore. I should’ve gone to vet school. Make just as much money as a brain surgeon and you don’t have to listen to any bullshit from your patients. I met a polo player. His daughter’s in one of my classes. He wants to learn about cutting. I gave him a card and told him to call you. His name is Kevin Bradley. Big bucks. You could just tell. I’ll bet you he calls.”
“How much?”
“Five bucks.”
“Deal. Tell you what. If he becomes a client, I’ll give you ten percent of everything that comes in through him.” Jesse settled a saddle on the back of a bay gelding.
“All right! I get enough of that going, I’ll shine the school…and when you die you can leave me the ranch.”
“I’m probably gonna kill you first.” Jesse stepped into the saddle and turned the bay toward the pasture.
30
A Stallion’s Work
Jesse had raised San Mamacita. He had shown her as a three-yearold at The Futurity where she finished third. He last bred her to Bueno’s Big Bar four years ago, which produced Buckshot. Once again, handlers prepared her for covering by the big sorrel stud.
Her shoes were removed. She was ovulating. To determine her readiness for covering, a “teaser” stallion was used to flirt with her over a five-foot high plank wall between them. Bueno was far too virile and excitable for such a task. He would have climbed the wall or gone through it ejaculating on the way. She proved her readiness by standing still, almost squatting, opening her vulva spasmodically, and oozing fluid.
They quickly dressed her for the mating. A thick leather protective neck covering was strapped in place. Bueno, in his exuberance, would bite a mare’s neck with enough force to snap a bone. Abbie stood at her head in the large breeding stall while Jesse buckled hobbles to her hind legs to prevent her kicking at the stud.
A chilling shriek pierced the air and sent a shiver down Abbie’s spine. It stood the hair on the back of her neck. The barn vibrated with his approaching presence. Prancing unshod hooves struck the bricked barn aisle with the threat of an invasion. He screamed again, a trumpeted whinny announcing the arrival of a demon from hell. Sideways, he came, cantering in place, pounding the ground, arching his neck. A handler on each side stepped gingerly along. One held a long line with a chain through a bit in the stallion’s mouth. He came glowing in a dark wet sheen, all nerves and muscles quivering with one fierce desire. The palpable heat rising from his hide shimmered like rippling light on a road. He threw his head side to side tossing foam and snorting rumbles from deep within where his blood surged. Each foot he held suspended in the air, as if he were intended to be more above the ground than on it. Then it dropped to stave holes in the earth.
At the entrance to the breeding stall, he stood straight up on his hind legs pawing at the air and trumpeted loudly to the heavens where the rigid scepter of his royal maleness aimed. Like oiled bronze, fifteen feet tall, he came to her walking on his hind legs and snorting all the way. A handler had to pull him down to the ground before allowing him to mount her. To let him descend from such a height would’ve risked injury to the mare. A trembling mass of power, grace and strength, he rose and wrapped his legs along her sides, lunged like a shark for the shield on her neck and poured his fire into her soul.
Jesse, Walter, Abbie, and the handlers stood silent. Finally, Walter said, “He knows his job.”
Abbie said, “Awesome.”
“And he does it just for room and board,” Jesse said with a smile.
31
From Polo to Cuttin’
Santa Rosa International was an offshore drilling company with a net income of over one hundred million dollars a year. Kevin Bradley grew up in it. He owned the best horses, hired the best pros and worked as fiercely at polo as he did his business. He was just past fifty and fitter than most at thirty. He sat easily on a seasoned bay mare next to Jesse on his roan as Abbie settled the herd. He had a pleasant soft way of speaking. “It was a little over a year ago. One of my best horses too. We were taking the ball to goal, flat out. She just collapsed under me. We cartwheeled through the air. I ended up with a broken leg, fractured ribs, and a cracked skull.”
“And you’re still playing?”
“Yeah, but not for long,” Kevin said, “if I want to stay married. Carley says if I don’t quit, she’ll quit. I’m excited about this.”
Jesse asked Abbie to ride into the herd and demonstrate how it’s done. They sat their horses, watching, as Jesse explained what she was doing and why. She cut three cows, then quit just right and rode toward them stroking the horse’s neck, her face reddening.
“What do you think,” asked Jesse, “ready to give it a try?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Just ride in there and have fun. She knows what to do.”
Jesse talked Kevin through entering the herd and setting up a cow to cut. He had a sense of cattle, how they think and move in relationship to a horse. He got one set up just right.
“Now just drop your hand on her withers and let her work.”
The mare locked on to the cow, splattered out, and quivered. Kevin laughed as he focused on the cow and the smile never left his face.
Jesse and Abbie applauded as Kevin, tanned face beaming, rode toward them. He was giggling like a boy. “I have been riding horses all my life and I have never…had this much fun on a horse. She is amazing. Thank you, sir.”
Jesse shook his hand. “You rode her just right.”
Kevin engaged Jesse in a walk toward his truck. In fifty yards, he asked fifty questions and ended giving Jesse his card. “You’re sure that mare is not for sale?”
“I’ll ask…but…I doubt it. We’ll get you fitted on something you’ll like just as well. It’d be good for you to ride a few other horses. Get a feel of different ways of going before you make a decision.”
“When can I come back?”
“Whenever you want to.”
“I’ll call you later today. Damn, this was fun. That Abbie is quite a young lady.”
When the fancy Texas Hauler cranked up and started down the driveway, Abbie was back at the barn getting a horse ready for their next client. Jesse took a five dollar bill out of his pocket and folded it in the palm of his hand and walked back to the barn. Abbie turned to him all aglow. She had her hand out. He slapped the ready five into her palm. “Plus ten percent. He wants me to find him a horse and he wants to start taking lessons immediately.”
“Yeow,” she said, and gave him a high five.
32
Yes
Eighteen days. Not a word. He’d come to hate going for the mail. He knew he’d been a fool. She was not about to dignify his outrageous presumption with a reply. He was getting black-hearted.
He needed a food supplement for the pregnant mare, San Mamacita. Cullen’s Feed wasn’t far from the post office.
The return address on the package said, H.M. Bassett, Double R
ainbow Ranch, Kiowa, Colorado. He drove home, eyeing it on the seat as if it contained a bomb.
He smuggled it into the house like contraband, took it into his bedroom and shut the door. When he pulled out the crumpled tissue paper, a two-inch cube of pinewood like a child’s block fell to the bed. He picked it up. On the side facing him, a feather had been etched into the surface with a wood-burning tool. He turned it slowly to the next side. There, rendered in a few simple lines, was the graceful, soaring image of a falcon in flight. He moved his thumb over the surface, then turned it again. Burned in on the next side was the word, “Jesse,” and a small star next to the name. He smiled and bit his lower lip. He turned it to the next side. Burned in script was the single word, “yes.”
He looked for a note. There was none. He picked up the block of wood again and read all its sides and when he was sure he was reading it correctly, he let loose the yahoo that had been welling within. It surged to the surface in a full-throated, stampede-starting howl that was heard by Ricardo in the barn.
Good God Almighty, she said yes. Now what? He turned the wood block over in his hand to the image of the feather. Of all things, why a feather?
He thought about the wheat-colored hair, the ivory skin, and her wildflower fragrance enveloping his senses as they rode together on that Colorado day through the postcard of the Rockies. She is a big city sophisticate, lived all over the world, been everywhere, done everything. What am I going to do to entertain her? You dumb old son of a bitch, what the hell have you gotten yourself into now?
He walked around in circles scratching his head, trying to decide what to do first. Go out and ride, pretending everything is normal. Go out and tell everyone the most beautiful woman in the world is coming to visit him. Call her. Yes, he had to call her and tell her he’d received her yes and how happy he was to get it. He stood there and looked at the phone with his heart drumming like he was about to bungee jump off a bridge.