by Van Barrett
“Oh.” Rust's brow grew heavy. He was hearing details of Clay's story that he'd never heard before, and now the puzzle pieces seemed to be falling into place for him—but in a way that Clay knew made him feel sad.
“Don't worry.” Clay patted his thigh. “I've come to terms with all this, man. Or I'm working on it, anyway.”
“Oh … uh … okay.”
“So—” Clay trailed off again. “I got off on a tangent there. I was talking about the hip.”
“Right.”
“Back at Pop's cattle ranch. Man. Must've been the first or second week back home. He had a few horses. Modie was his newest horse, and he'd bought him for cheap at an auction. A big, beautiful, but wild horse. Really had a mind of his own and wasn't great around the ranch. Pop screamed at this horse, whipped him, jerked him around—his way of breaking him, I guess. It was really sad, seeing how he treated that horse. I told him he didn't have to be so god damned mean to him, if he'd just be a little more patient and understanding with him. They're really intelligent creatures, Rust.” Clay looked away from the road and locked eyes with Rust to emphasize this point. “They're so emotional. It's like, they know what you're thinking, and you form this emotional connection, this bond with them. Just by being around them and spending time together.”
“Oh, er, okay.” Rust swallowed, slightly uncomfortable. “I wouldn't know. Never been on one.”
Clay continued. “Pop didn't appreciate me of all people, telling him that the way he'd done things his whole life was wrong. And rightfully so. He had his own methods, and he'd made a successful career out of them. I just didn't agree with his heavy-handedness. Anyway. I felt bad for this horse. And I started working with Modie. I guess to prove something to Pop. Upstage the old man, maybe—but also show him he didn't have to be so aggressive and cruel.”
“Uh huh.”
“That was the first time I'd really worked close, one-on-one, with a horse. And that's when I realized. You can't lie to a horse. They read you; they know your intentions. And they respond to it all—our thoughts and energies and really, our souls.”
Clay looked over at Rust again, but he could tell Rust didn't understand. And the fact that Rust didn't understand, made him fidget and squirm in his seat.
“It's okay Rust, I don't expect you to get it right away. And hell, I know it sounds like some hippie stuff. It's hard to put into words. Really though, working with a horse, it's like gazing into a mirror and seeing your own reflection. All Pop saw when he looked at a horse was a means to an end, a tool, and he'd get angry when that tool had a mind of his own. Because he didn't respect that the horse was its own thinking, feeling, intelligent creature. But that's just Pop, you know? His life was work. Anything that didn't fit his vision, his plan, was a problem.”
“Gotcha, I think. So—what'd you see? When you worked with Modie?”
“An angry, confused horse. But get this; this is the crazy part. I asked Pop what Modie's background was. He was a former race-horse. He came from good stock, and good breeders, but he hadn't won a thing. Had a few good finishes when he was younger, but that was it. And eventually his owners got sick of him and shipped him out to a kill pen. The kill pen tries to auction their horses off. If they can't, they slaughter 'em.”
“What!” Rust gasped. “That's fucked!”
“Yeah, well, that's how it is. It's a lot more common situation than you'd think. If a horse doesn't win … that's exactly what happens to him.”
“Fuck …”
“So,” Clay peeked away from the road and gave Rust his wily eyes. “You might see why I identified with Modie. The failed race horse and the failed hockey player.”
“Yeah, I get it.”
“He was angry, like I said, and confused. Didn't understand what had happened in his life. Just try to imagine, from a horse's standpoint, what it's like to try to understand what these weird humans are wanting from you. And to go from one extreme—horse racing—to the next, cattle ranching. He just needed someone to be patient with him, to show him love, and that things would be okay.”
Rust pursed his lips, listening intently.
“So I started to do that. And fuck me, Rust, if I didn't find it super rewarding. A beautiful experience, really. We bonded. I started to feel like I was learning about myself through this horse. And slowly, surely, he became more patient, more docile, and he let me saddle him and ride him around. Pop hadn't seen it happen yet, but damn, I'd done it, alright.”
“What do you mean, learned about yourself?”
“Maybe—maybe that can be a story for later, too.”
Rust nodded.
“I'd been telling Pop I was riding Modie, that he was a changed horse, and he had to see it to believe it. Pop didn't believe it, of course. But he came out one day, begrudgingly, and I showed him as I saddled him up and hopped on.”
“And?”
“And …” Clay shook his head. “I guess—Pop's presence. It freaked Modie out. I should've known, because he was uneasy as hell with Pop around. And as soon as I hopped on, he threw me off. I hit the ground and busted up my hip.” Clay patted the side of his pelvis. “Two plates and seven screws, right here.”
“Damn. What'd your Pop say?”
Clay imitated his Pop's voice, “'Told you that horse was no good, Clay.'”
Rust rolled his eyes. “Of course.”
Clay laughed, a bitter and hurt laugh. “The shitty part is that he just couldn't see Modie was a good horse, you know? He walked back to the house and came back with a shotgun.”
“No.”
“That's what I said. Thankfully—I talked him out of it. Told him to give me a week to adopt the horse out.”
“And?”
“I did. From my hospital bed, I posted an ad on Craigslist. Got tons of replies. I was high as shit on painkillers, and I could barely move, when the first person came to see Modie. She was a nice, middle-aged lady. A lawyer. She fell in love with him—I could tell she was a sweet person who got Modie the same way I did—and she took him home that same day. Pop didn't understand it, of course, but that didn't matter. He was just happy to get rid of the horse.”
“Damn.”
“Yeah. It was a rush. And … that's when I realized I could do something like that for a living.”
“So, you're some kind of horse adopter-outer then?”
Clay laughed. “Yeah, that works. I'm the owner of Second Chance, a non-profit horse rescue farm. Fifty stalls in my stable, but I wish I had more.”
“Where'd you get the money and the land to do that?”
“Ah.” Clay drew his lips into a thin line. “About a year after my hip incident, Pop got cancer. Pancreatic.”
“Shit. I've heard that's bad.”
“Yeah. Diagnosed and gone in 3 months.”
“Jesus. And you lost your Mom when you were young, too … I'm so sorry.”
“It's okay.” Clay let out a deep breath. “It hurts to lose your parents. And it hurts more that Pop never quite understood me, and now he won't ever have the chance. But … he left me his business in his will. And thanks to all his hard work, he set me up to do what I do today. I sold the cattle off and converted the barns into stables. I've got fifty horses on 250 acres.”
“Sounds like a lot,” Rust said, although he sounded a bit unsure. “Uh. Is that a lot?”
“It's a good amount of land, oh yeah. But with that much land, we could stable at least twice the number of horses we currently do. But that means building more structures, and doubling my paid staff, expanding our volunteer programs, etc. … and all that, of course, means bringing in more money. And like I said, we're a non-profit, so we're not exactly rolling it in. Fund raising isn't exactly easy, either.”
Clay had turned off Route 144, and the men had driven through some smaller and more back-woodsy looking towns, and the roads slowly turned from paved, to gravel, to dirt.
At last they pulled up to the kill pen. Clay parked and turned to Rust.
> “You feel like coming with? Fair warning, this is not the most uplifting place in the world.”
Rust swallowed before he answered.
“Yeah, let's do it.”
20
Misty and Scout
– Rust –
An older man with a leathery-face and cloudy brown eyes came out to greet them. He had a bushy white beard that was stained yellow around his lips, no doubt from smoking cigarettes. He and Clay shook hands, made some small talk. The old man talked with a thick hillbilly accent. Clay introduced him as 'Critter' to Rust.
In place of a handshake, Critter gave Rust the country once-over capped with a dismissive, frowning nod. Rust could tell Critter was probably thinking some strange things about the 'city slicker' in the hoodie, jeans, hat and glasses. Rust didn't mind; he found it amusing.
This was Clay's new world, strange as it was.
Critter led the two through the pen that was made of metal pipe-railing. It looked far too small for horses to live there—but, Rust figured, that was kind of the idea of it. They weren't here to live long lives …
Rust noticed now the way Clay walked had changed. He had a confident strut, and a wide, slightly bow-legged stance. Rust looked closer and noticed that, thanks to that hip injury, Clay was hiding a small limp. But with his thumbs tucked through his belt loops, the pieces all came together, and the image was complete: Clay looked like a good ol' boy from the south. A real modern-day, struttin' cowboy.
It was a funny reminder that they'd come from such different backgrounds. And that so much time had passed between them since they last saw each other.
Critter led Clay to a pen with two horses in it, one older and the other obviously younger. Words and terminology that Rust didn't understand were thrown around. The older horse was a 14 year old bay tobiano mare; the other was her baby, a three year old bay tobiano colt. Whatever that meant.
“This here's Misty,” Clay told Rust as he stroked the horse's muzzle. “She's a sweet girl.”
Misty was colored with brown and white splotches, a brown mane and tail. She was a pretty horse.
“And this here's Scout, her son.”
Scout had a more dramatic coat than his mama. He was pure white from his head, down to his hips—which were completely brown. With an almost perfectly straight line that spanned his waist, it looked like he was wearing brown pants, complete with a hole for his white tail to stick out from. He was kind of hilariously cute, and he had the zany, young personality to match.
Clay turned to Rust to tell him the story of how mother and son got to be here.
(And meanwhile, Critter added his grumble-throated mm-hmms to confirm that each detail of the story Clay relayed was indeed true.)
Their previous owner had a pasture of stallions, that she for some reason hadn't bothered to cut and allowed to run wild. Somehow, this owner added Misty to her pasture, and, surprise surprise, the mare got knocked up in no time flat.
This came as a surprise to the owner. But, as Clay explained, what might seem to be common sense to you and I is not always so common. (Mmmmm-hm!, Critter added with a grin he tried very hard to hide.)
The owner wanted to keep Misty and Scout. But she didn't want Misty to get pregnant again. Misty and Scout couldn't stand to be separated, either. They had that mother-son bond, and if at any time, they couldn't see each other? Get ready for some serious squealing, head-tossing, and hoof-stomping panic attacks.
That's why Misty and Scout were a package deal only.
Both horses were beautiful, and a few people were apparently willing to adopt one or the other, but couldn't commit to both. Critter didn't need the mess of trying to separate those two—he knew it'd be a complete pain in the ass in the short term, and in the long term, devastate both horses. It wouldn't be worth the problems it'd create.
So either they went to a new home together … or they'd be slaughtered together.
Thankfully, Critter called Clay. And Clay knew he was in a better position than anybody else to help those two horses.
Within the hour, they'd loaded Misty and Scout into the trailer. They were going home with Clay. Critter and Clay shook hands again and said bye. Critter didn't say bye or look at Rust.
The two men climbed into the truck and drove off, with the horses in tow.
“So—I can take you back to your hotel now.” Clay said, but Rust knew his old friend well enough that he was holding another option back.
“Or?”
“… Or, if you wanted to get away, you could come out to my farm. You can see my place and meet all the horses and my staff. I've got a guest room you can stay in. For a day, couple of days, for as long as you like.” Clay paused. “No pressure.”
“Hm.” Rust took a deep breath. “I don't know. You really think that's a good idea?”
Rust wasn't sure if he was asking about being away from his hotel, and thus his concussion specialist … or if it was a bad idea for the two of them to spend so much time together suddenly.
Clay answered as if he meant the former.
“It's really beautiful out in the country, Rust. The fresh air, the scenery, seeing the stars at night? It might be good for you. Who knows. It's a change of pace, at least. I'm no doctor, but I can't help but think that being cooped up in that hotel room can't be good for you.”
“But what if my symptoms come back?”
“I'll set you up with Liz, my veterinarian.”
Rust raised an eyebrow at Clay, trying to determine if he was serious or not. But Clay only stared straight ahead.
“Yeah, forget Advil,” Clay added. “She can pump you up with horse tranquilizers.”
“Dick,” Rust growled, and his fist slammed into Clay's shoulder.
“Ow!” Clay yelped with a laugh, and rubbed his smarting shoulder. “I'm sorry, buddy, it was a bad joke! God damn, there's that famous Kellar right hand, eh? You hit like a Mack truck.”
“Yeah, well, I've had some practice over the years.” Rust soothed his knuckles. “Plus you deserve at least one good punch …”
“Fair enough.” Clay nodded, not missing the unspoken point. “Seriously though. If your symptoms come back, I can drive you back to Dallas ASAP. You'd have to survive a few hours in the truck, but I'd be glad to do that for you.”
“You sure?”
“Yeah.”
“Hm.” Rust took a minute to think it over while Clay drove them out of the country and back towards the main road.
What do I have to lose? Rust wondered. Clay was right. Staying in that hotel hadn't done a damned thing for him for two months. He'd felt better now, being with Clay, than he had since the hit. It was worth a shot, wasn't it?
“Alright. Yeah. Fuck it. Take me to your old horse rescue farm, Clay.”
“Hell yeah.” Clay pumped his fist. “To Second Chance.”
Second Chance, Rust thought to himself as Clay drove west. The name of his ranch seemed apropos. Was that a coincidence? Not that Rust was seriously considering giving Clay an actual second chance. A second chance to be a minor character in his life again—sure, maybe that. A second chance to be friends who caught up with a phone call every now and again.
But nothing more. The romantic flame had clearly been snuffed out between them long ago.
But if that's true, why am I even thinking in those terms? Rust had to ask himself.
He shook his head to banish all those difficult questions.
“What's up?” Clay asked.
Rust had to think up something else to talk about instead of what was really on his mind.
“Do you think that old guy had a problem with me?”
“Who, Critter?” Clay asked, looking surprised.
“Yeah.”
“No way. He liked you.”
“What?” Rust asked with a laugh. “Yeah, right.”
“No, seriously. He's really shy. You wouldn't think it when you look at him, but yeah. He's a man of few words.”
“How do you know he li
ked me, then?”
“Um, because in the past, he hasn't liked the other help I've brought. And it showed. With you, he stuck around. That's huge. The fact that you asked questions about the horses probably helped a lot, too.”
“Huh.”
“So what'd you think?”
“Of the kill pen?”
“Yeah,” Clay nodded.
“Kinda sad … all those horses. But kinda beautiful that you can help even just a few. Sad and beautiful, all at once.”
“It is, isn't it.” Clay shook his head somberly. “I wish I could take them all.”
“But there'd always be more horses out there needing rescue, wouldn't there,” Rust added.
Clay nodded. “Yeah, you got it.”
“Sheesh.” Rust let out a heavy sigh.
“Hey.” Clay wiped his hands through the air to reset the mood. “You just saw the sad part of the biz. You're about to see the happier part—my part.”
“Thanks, Clay.”
“Thank you. For letting me show you.”
The men were quiet as Clay merged onto the US Route and they continued their drive west. It was late afternoon now, and they drove towards the Sun, which was thankfully still high enough in the sky that it didn't blind Rust.
Rust yawned.
“Man. I'm wiped. I haven't had this much activity in one day in way too long, Clay.”
“Try to doze off then, buddy. It's going to be a couple hours.”
“You don't mind?”
“Nah. I'm used to long hours on the road by myself.”
“Okay.”
Rust leaned back and found a way to get comfy in the truck's bench seat. He pulled the brim of his hat low, over his eyes, and let the gentle hum of the road lure him to sleep.
I'm in a truck with Clay Grayson, in the middle of nowhere, Texas, hauling a mother and son horse even further out into the boonies. Huh. How 'bout that.
21
The Tour
– Clay –
Clay couldn't help but take frequent peeks over at his passenger.
Rusty. It was really him. Sure, he was a little different now—he was Rust, for one—but this was really him. He was really here, right next to him, sitting in the passenger seat.
