That was eight years ago before my father got sick. Since then I had used Georgie only for trail riding. He was beautiful. Of course, he should be for the price Daddy had paid for him. He was a sorrel gelding with a shiny coat, short, clipped mane and one hoof with a white stripe. We had several other horses that were used mostly for breeding, but Georgie-B was my favorite.
****
One day, soon after my high school graduation, when I had finished packing my suitcase for my trip to New York City, I went outside looking for Daddy, but I couldn’t find him. I had hollered and ran around the house looking everywhere. Breathless and crying, I was about to dial 911 from the phone in the stable when I heard a moaning sound coming from Georgie-B's stall.
When I looked inside, Daddy was lying on the floor. Georgie was peering down at him, still with his bridle and saddle on, nuzzling Daddy's arm and breathing over his face. I knew in my heart Georgie was trying to revive him — and probably did! I was afraid he had suffered a heart attack and at first, so had the doctors. I knew he had pushed himself to finish the fence around the pasture because he was expecting a new load of calves. But after spending several days in a Cheyenne hospital, the diagnosis the doctors had finally decided on was chronic fatigue disorder.
When I asked the doctor what that meant, he glanced over at Daddy first, and when my father had nodded, the doctor peered at me over his glasses, and said, "Rachel — that's your name, right?" I nodded in agreement. Then the corners of his lips turned up into a practiced smile, but it was his sad eyes that were telling me the truth. "Rachel, what this means is your father is going to need some help for a while. His body is fighting with him, stealing all of his energy."
As the weeks turned into months, it became painfully clear that Daddy could barely work at all. His uncontrollable fatigue slowly took over his life. For several months he never mentioned how his back ached, and his daily chores were becoming harder and harder to finish. One day I heard him pull up on the four-wheeler and I ran outside to meet him to see how his day was going. When I rushed around the corner, I gasped at what I saw. Daddy was standing beside the fence, bending over, holding on to a post with one hand, and the other one was on his knee. I ran up to him, and asked, "Daddy, what happened...what's the matter?"
He shook his head. "Rachel, my legs feel so tired, like my feet are buried in concrete up to my ankles. It takes a lot of effort just to move them." I had helped him inside and onto the couch, where he stayed for the rest of the day. That night he could barely make it up the stairs to go to bed. It was two weeks before he came out of his room. We had to hire Sally, a nurse, just to help him in and out of the bathroom and to give him a bed bath. But after a while, with the aid of a physical therapist, he regained some of his strength, at least enough to get around and to take care of himself.
He felt better for a few months, but I knew that sooner or later I would have to make some important decisions. I’d saved my allowance, and with Dad’s help, I had a ticket to New York City that was still safely tucked under the books on my bedside table, and that was where it stayed. I had decided not to leave despite Daddy’s passionate protests — what else could I do? I loved my father and didn’t want to leave him in his condition. I had decided to give it a year to see how well Daddy recovered, and since I had my deferment from college, all I was really giving up was my trip to New York City.
But a year came and went, and I soon realized my father was suffering from an incurable degenerative disease, which left him taking a plethora of drugs just to manage the pain — he would never fully recover. The doctors finally confessed the only prescription that would help him was a complete change of lifestyle. They recommended no heavy lifting, no driving, no walking at a pace that would elevate his heartbeat over one hundred beats per minute. He had a specially designed recliner and a mattress made from the foam — like the astronauts used — to keep his weight equally distributed, allowing him to sleep comfortably. What it had all boiled down to, with domestic help, I was put in charge of running the ranch. I had no choice; it was the source of our livelihood.
Year after year, I worked on the ranch, following Daddy’s orders. I tried to run things the same way he did, but I was physically incapable. Thankfully, we had friends in the community, who for a while would come by when I needed an extra hand with mending the fence or bailing hay. Daddy was so apologetic, and often said, “Rachel, sweetie, I feel so sorry about all the added responsibility my condition has caused you. I’m going to put an ad in the paper for a ranch hand. You need to go on to college.”
We had hired a few ranch hands, but they never stayed around very long. When the winter winds started to blow snow and sleet sideways, they all had quit in search of a warmer climate or found a job that didn’t require working outside in the freezing cold. After all, what was the point? There was no way that I would leave Daddy by himself, to make do on his own. Deep inside I knew that my dreams of graduating from college were the ultimate sacrifice for our financial survival.
****
During all those years, I have always tried to give Georgie-B extra attention. Daddy was sitting there on the swing, watching what I was doing — smiling and nodding his head.
After I had finished brushing Georgie, Daddy was ready for help back inside the house. When I was sure he was resting in his recliner, I headed outside to put Georgie back inside his stall. As I opened the door and turned to remove his halter, my thoughts drifted back to the time when I had found Daddy lying there on the floor. I paused for a moment, then I kissed Georgie's velvety nose and gave him a pat on his neck.
When I started walking toward the house, I noticed how the stars were beginning to shine, and I thought of my valedictorian speech. I could still remember the punch line. Just to hear the words again, I spoke them out loud, "This isn’t goodbye, my friends; it’s au revoir — adios — until we will meet again."
As I slid the patio door open, I felt my eyes began to flood. I had been a high school senior so full of hope and naïveté, dreaming about my future. That day was supposed to be the first day of realizing my dream — and the day Kent Walker had kissed me. I remembered how shocked I was, and I wanted to hear what he had come to tell me. But he disappeared, and in time my dreams had vanished with him.
When I got inside, I noticed Sally helping Daddy to his room — his old office that we had remodeled into his downstairs bedroom. I kissed him on the cheek and mustered a wide smile, but inside I wanted to cry.
I sighed as I headed up the stairs, and when I entered my bedroom, I sunk into my chair. Then I glanced at my bookcase and plucked Gone with the Wind off the shelf. It was time to relax alone for a moment before I took my shower. I switched on the pole lamp that stood beside my chair, opened the book and started to read about the party Scarlet O'Hara was attending. Recently, I had begun taking an online course on American literary classics and Gone with the Wind was on the assigned book list — but my mind started drifting.
I began thinking about how I didn't socialize much because it just wasn't my nature. I loved my books and taking online courses on subjects of interest. I had dated two guys back a few years ago; the introductions were arranged by some of my high school friends. I had even had sex with one of them a few times and had definitely enjoyed the experience. But as time went on, and Daddy's health deteriorated — I guess he just lost interest because I was always busy with the ranch. Oh well, his loss; he was beginning to bore me anyway.
Anyway, I had Daddy, Sally, the animals, my books and studies; that was company enough. But on evenings when I felt particularly sad, I would think about how different my life might have been if I had married Kent. On graduation day, I had felt a spark, like the energy of the entire universe was exploding on our lips. I wondered what else he wanted with me?
Looking back I realized I had always secretly wanted Kent to be the man to take my virginity, but I was too young and naïve back then to understand my feelings. I had heard through the grapevine that Kent
had joined the military, and then a few years ago his picture was in the newspaper. He was the first person from Cody to become a Navy SEAL.
I shook my head and laid the book down; I wasn't concentrating on it anyway. I headed for the shower, and as the warm water flowed over my shoulders and down my back, I resigned myself to the fact that I was only building air castles when I started dreaming of how things could have been different if I had married Kent Walker.
Chapter Four
Kent
I flipped on the turn signal before I pulled up to the Silver Dollar Saloon. It was Friday night, just before the rodeo started, and the parking lot was almost full. Hoping to grab a few brews before I returned to my old stomping ground — Cody’s Stampede Stadium, I jumped out of my red truck and shook my head at the sound of the door squeaking shut. But as I sauntered up to the sidewalk I figured for a ten-year-old Dodge pickup I had gotten a pretty good deal — five hundred down and fifteen hundred dollars spread over the next three months — my disability check was enough to cover the payment.
When I pulled open the door of the saloon, I was taken aback. In eight years, only two fucking things were different. Blake Shelton was singing “Every Time I Hear That Song” over the sound system instead of Carrie Underwood’s “Cowboy Casanova.” I walked over to the bar and sat down on the stool covered with the same red faux leather. I winced a bit, still sore from getting another tattoo — a bucking bronco on my bicep. I had the same artist create it that had done the cobra down my right arm a week before. Cobra was Marcus' code name.
The bartender had his back to me, reaching for a Jack Daniels bottle. So I glanced around the room, scoping out the chicks, and there were a few hot ones. Then I heard the bartender ask, "What can I get you this evening?" When I turned, I did a double take. It was Chad Peterson, one of my high school friends, but I almost didn’t recognize him. He had gained at least thirty pounds and had grown a scruffy beard just like mine.
"I'll take a Coors — on tap," I said and waited a moment to see if Chad would recognize me, but he only grunted and walked away. Back in our high school days Chad and I had been team-roping partners. The last time I had seen him was just after graduation. He was on the way to the Championship Rodeo in Greeley, Colorado with Matt, his new roping partner.
I figured he must have given up rodeoing by the way he looked, out of shape with a big beer belly. He must have decided to settle down and go to work with his old man — the owner of the Silver Dollar Saloon. I didn’t blame him. After all, it was a thriving business for tourists coming to see the Cody Stampede or on their way up to visit Yellowstone.
Moments later he came back and sat my mug of beer in front of me. Then he paused a second, looked up and squinted his eyes. "Kent? Is that you, Kent Walker?"
“Chad,” I said, giving him a half-grin that quickly dissipated, preferring he hadn’t recognized me. I had no energy for smiles and politeness anymore and didn’t want to be placed in a situation where I had to put on an act.
“Kent!” Chad bellowed, thrusting out his palm. “How the hell are ya?" He shook my hand and laughed, peering hard into my eyes. “Look at you, man! Where've you been? I read in the newspaper that after you left here and joined the Navy, you had become a SEAL. Is that true?"
I took a sip of beer and licked the foam off my upper lip before I nodded my head, and replied, "Yep, it's true."
"Wow, man, tell me about it." Chad reached behind the bar and pulled out a bottle of Crown Royal and set it down in front of us. Then he picked up two shot glasses and filled them to the brim. I figured if he was expecting to have a private welcome home Kent Walker party, he was mistaken. "Were you over there in Syria with the SEAL Team…uh — 4?”
“SEAL Team 5,” I informed him.
“Whoa! That’s so exciting!”
"If you say so." I picked up the shot that Chad had so graciously poured for me. Throwing my head back, I downed it in one quick gulp. Chad ran his palms through his hair and was looking at me with wide eyes, like a kid that had just seen their favorite rodeo star. He seemed oblivious to my lack of desire to continue our conversation. But I had to admit, I felt a pang of guilt at my dismissiveness when he smiled, and said, "I want to thank you for your service!"
I could tell by the kind expression on his face he was sincerely glad to see me. After all, we had spent many days together growing up on his grandfather's ranch, practicing our calf roping and fishing in their pond for trout and bluegill — and whatever else we could catch. We had even doubled dated a few times, but that was a long time ago. Chad had stayed in Cody where life didn’t change much, but my story was different.
After picking up a few empty beer bottles and setting my mug in the sink, with a gleam in his eye, Chad continued. “So…you’re back!”
I nodded my head. "Yep, I'm back," I said, as I slid my shot glass over for him to refill. The Crown was going down smooth and also loosening my tongue. "I came back to Cody — well Meeteetse, really."
Chad's head whipped back like I had taken a punch at him. "Meeteetse, that's thirty or forty miles away."
"Bought a used fifth wheel camper...staying in a campground over on the Greybull River where it’s nice and peaceful,” I said, rolling the shot glass around in my fingers.
Chad looked over at a customer who was trying to get his eye. Then before he walked over to take the man's order, he faced me and nodded. "That's right. Your family doesn’t live here anymore. Now I remember.”
I looked down at the bar and shook my head and waited for Chad to come back before I explained what had happened. "Soon after I left to join the Navy, my folks divorced, and my Mom and her boyfriend moved to Cheyenne and Dad moved back to Dallas — in with my grandmother.” Then I rolled my eyes. “What a fucking disaster! I don’t talk to either of them much anymore, but I do call Granny now and then.”
About the time I was ready to make my retreat, Chad refilled my shot glass again. So I hung around and continued our conversation.
"I'm sorry to hear that."
Then Chad shook his head, and his voice cracked. “Dad is gone now. He died five years ago from a sudden heart attack. And, well, I was already helping out here at the saloon. So I stayed and helped Mother with the business. She was a nervous wreck trying to keep up with the ordering, the cooks, and the waitress schedule, so I took over.” Chad paused a moment and chuckled. “Now all she does is come in to close-out the cash register each day. I think she likes to count the money.”
“I’m sorry to hear about your father,” I said, hoping the tone of my voice sounded sincere enough. After being around the carnage of war, and seeing friends die right before my eyes, I had become callous to death, even though it's icy fingers still gripped my heart at times. No matter what I did — drinking, drugs, women, or meditation — I still had that gnawing, cold ball of despair hidden inside of me somewhere.
“Things aren’t the same anymore, man,” Chad said, as he took the towel off his shoulder and began wiping the bar. Then he looked up at me with a gleam in his eyes and changed the subject. “Remember Sheila Doherty? She broke her back last summer. Fell off a horse or something,” Chad said. “And Paul…” Chad pantomimed like he was slinging a newspaper into someone's front yard. “…the guy who used to do the paper routes. He ran away with Nina Browning five days after she had married Mike Bledsoe.”
Chad went on. I nodded with no expression and glanced around the room. But when he asked, “Do you remember Samuel Turlington?” Chad suddenly had my full attention. I looked up and watched him serve drinks to the couple sitting next to me and rubbed my arm. Then Chad returned, throwing the rag over his shoulder. “You remember him, right? Rachel Turlington’s old man. They live out by the —“
“Yes, I remember them. What about Sam Turlington?”
“He’s real sick ... some kind of disease that makes him tired all the time. Folks around here never heard of it." Chad squinted his eyes, leaned closer over the bar toward me, and added, "Mother says h
e's just putting it on...his selfish way of keeping his daughter home on the ranch. The way I understand it she had several college opportunities.”
“What do you mean, Chad?” I asked him, trying to keep my voice even.
“I don’t know. I’ve forgotten the exact name of the disease. Rachel had to drive him to Cheyenne for weeks to the doctor — poor girl.”
I crossed my arms over the bar and looked around, like I was afraid someone would hear what I was about to ask. “Not the disease, Chad. What do you mean she didn't go to college?”
Chad opened his hand's palms up and shrugged his shoulders. “I mean that she’s still here, man. She didn't go anywhere. She's running the Pitchfork Ranch all by herself."
"Oh, I see." I swallowed hard and stood up, reaching into my jean’s pocket for my wallet. After hearing Rachel was still in town, my breath began to come in hitches, and I rubbed the back of my neck. I could feel my PTSD kicking in. I couldn't help but think I had made a mistake, returning to Wyoming to try and forget about the last eight years. I had assumed Rachel had gone on with her plans. So I whispered to myself, “I need to get out of this place. Fuck going to the rodeo!”
As I fumbled to take out my credit card, Chad looked over at me. “Are you okay? You look pale!”
I nodded my head but didn’t answer, when he said, “It's on me. It’s nice to see ya.” I didn't even thank him; I just turned and took off out the door.
Out in the parking lot, I yanked open the door to my truck and started the engine. As I pulled into the street and stomped the gas, I was impressed that the old truck still had enough in it to lay rubber for at least twenty feet down Sheridan Avenue. As I glanced up into the rearview mirror and put Cody behind me, I felt relieved, at least for the moment. But I knew come Monday morning I’d be paying Sam Turlington and the Pitchfork Ranch a visit.
Renegade Ridge Page 17
