Home on the Range

by Ruth Logan Herne

  And now Trey would donate part of his liver to keep his father alive. A good Christian man would go forward boldly, embracing the opportunity. Trey marked that up as another out-and-out failure because he tried to live out his Christian faith in every way.

  But not this.

  His internal guilt spiked like an overwound E string on his guitar, but Trey spent so much of his life feeling guilty that today shouldn’t be any different. But this change—this summer—would be life and death. And that made a difference, right there.

  He exited the highway and took the right-hand turn leading away from Gray’s Glen, the town he grew up in. Broad fields stretched on either side, filled with lush grass and the gray-green sagebrush growing thicker as the hills climbed. Dark red cattle dotted the upper pastures like a generous sprinkling of cayenne pepper on steamed broccoli.

  He was hungry.

  Tired.

  Nervous? Yes, that too.

  The Ellensburg deejay segued into Trey’s newest single in a way that made him cringe. “Ya wanna talk a Cinderella cowboy story? We’ve got it right here, as central Washington’s own Trey Walker tugs the heartstrings while he rockets up the charts again with ‘You Only Live Once’.”

  Trey shut the radio off.

  He had no desire to hear himself croon sage words of advice to trusting fans. They thought he understood their plight.

  He didn’t.

  They sensed he had a heart of gold.

  Wrong, again.

  They believed in him, in his music, his calling, his faith.

  How he wished he could believe in himself. He—

  The aged, dark blue van came out of nowhere. Trey hit the brakes, too late.

  The van shot into the intersection.

  Trey cut the wheel and prayed. The SUV squealed in protest.

  The van spun about in a desperate move to avoid the crash. The maneuver worked, but then the van raced up the embankment and tipped up and over before landing on its side in the small creek running into the glen.

  Trey shoved the SUV into park and jumped out. He raced across the two-lane country road, jumped the hill, and hit 911 on his phone at the same time. He leaped into the water and yanked himself up onto the side of the tipped van. Wet fingers made the grip difficult, but once he gained a leg up, he was able to pull himself the rest of the way. He reached down to jerk open the van door.

  It wouldn’t budge.

  The driver, a woman, was facing away from him.

  She didn’t move. Didn’t wiggle. Didn’t—

  His heart stopped. He pounded on the door, not knowing what else to do, then realized he might be able to get in through the back hatch. He jumped down and ran through the knee-deep water, bent and grabbed the latch on the back hatch.

  It opened.

  His relief was short-lived. The entire back of the van was filled with floral debris. Upended plants, baskets, planters, and trays of seedlings blocked his way. Utter destruction filled the banged-up van from top to bottom.

  “No.”

  He looked up.

  If despair had a face, it was the one he saw right now as the driver spotted the complete wreckage. “Unlock your door,” he ordered, then slogged back through the water. He climbed up again and braced himself. The van’s angle made pulling the door tough. Its weight worked against him, but instinct dictated he needed to get her out of the van. And what if there was a passenger? He hadn’t seen anyone, but the visibility was poor.

  He pushed down on his heels and tugged the door upright. It blocked his view, and he didn’t have the best footing, but he hung on for dear life. “Can you climb out? I’m afraid to let go of the door to help you. It might fall and hit you.”

  “I can climb.”

  Trey prayed.

  He doubted the effectiveness, because while he believed in God, he was pretty sure God took a detour somewhere north of his Virginia home a long time ago. But then, why wouldn’t he?

  He and God knew the truth. He was here, seeking absolution. Seeking…something.

  Trey wasn’t stupid. The prospects of finding peace in the broad, lush green valley of central Washington were slim to none. He wasn’t being pessimistic. It’s just how things rolled these days.

  A hand appeared, then another, then a mass of long, gold-and-brown hair tumbled over the side, accompanied by a face.

  An absolutely beautiful, very angry face.

  Great.