by Gayle Trent
“Shoot, I know that. I won’t let 'em use you as a scapegoat.”
“If I leave now, it’ll look like I’m running away,” I said.
“Merry, your daddy just died! Git.”
Jack walked up behind Pete. “Tully’s hollering for you, Pete.”
Pete nodded, patted my arm and limped toward the van the EMTs were using for their first aid station.
Jack stood at the door of my truck, waited for me to climb in and shut the door with a resounding smack. Mercifully, I had parked on the far side and away from Jethro’s path of destruction, so my truck hadn’t sustained even a denta fresh dent, at least. “Hiram was a fine horseman and a great trainer, Merry,” Jack said. “Email us and let us know what’s going on. If you have a memorial service, I know some of us would like to come.”
“Jack, it’s to hell and gone in No-where, Georgia, but I’ll let you know.”
I could see him in my rear view mirror as I pulled out onto the road and turned toward the big wrought iron entrance gates of The Meadows, the farm that had hosted the show. As I drove over the railroad tracks to the road, I considered turning around. I did not want to face three hours of solitary driving with nothing to think about except the father I would never see again.
I made it as far as a Wal-Mart parking lot before I pulled over, stopped, put my head down on the steering wheel, and bawled. We were so close to reaching some sort of meeting of minds, my father and I. Now we’d never have the chance.
Eventually I gulped myself into silence. Then I got angry. “How dare you die on me, Hiram Lackland? I loved you. Now I can’t tell you.” I smacked the steering wheel so hard I yelped, took a deep breath and calmed down.
What was I supposed to do now? Any death involves protocols and rituals, Southern deaths more than most. Even In retirement Hiram Lackland was a large fish in the small pond of international carriage driving. A great many people would have to be notified.
I couldn’t face all that this afternoon. Still, a couple of people had to know right now. I dialed my cell phone and listened to it ring. Just as I was about to hang up, this was not the sort of thing one left on voice mail, it was answered.
“Hello?” She sounded breathless. She’d probably been out in the garden. She usually was in the spring.
“Mom?”
“Merry? What’s wrong? Oh, lordy, is it Allie?”
I hadn’t heard the emotion in my voice, but she had and she’d jumped right to worrying about her granddaughter. “She’s fine.”
“You?”
“Not so good. Mom, Hiram’s dead.”
Table of Contents
Cover Page
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Recipes
Meet Daphne Martin
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