All Things Left Wild

by James Wade

  The buck stiffened, looking past me into the road, then bounded away through the pines. Gracie shook her head as a rider approached. He rode a great white Arabian at a slow walk. I held up my hand and he tipped his cap and put the big horse off the trail in my direction. As he approached, I felt something familiar wash over me, the way an old man’s mind might remember a dream he once had and call it real. And what are dreams if not memories of something, lived or desired, broken or whole.

  I had touched my dream, pressed upon it with my lips and held it in my arms. This thing I believed could never happen then did, and in the end there were no storms or dark skies or moments of panic. Only a fleeting thought of wanting to stay in this dream a while longer, a wish to not be woken.

  The man came closer and I breathed in the air around me and looked up through the canopy of limbs and squinted my eyes at the sun.

  “Sophia,” I said.

  Epilogue

  The boy sat away from the other men at the bar. He held open a dime novel and studied it with the intensity of a doctor midsurgery. There was nervous and excited talk about the revolution near the border. Some men had taken to carrying stools to the river and watching the fighting as if it were theater. Others worried for their ranches and their horses and their cattle. None seemed to worry for the future of Mexico.

  There was talk of growing unrest in Europe, talk of weather, drought or floods or both, and talk of women—always women. The boy paid no mind to any of it. He just sat and read and waved away the bartender each time the man approached.

  “You doing alright, Thomas?” a man called to him.

  The boy nodded.

  “Kid lost his father to a horse kick,” the man explained to his companions. “Momma ran off with some card dealer. Shame, too, Thomas is a bright boy. Also been a dead aim since he was ten. I saw him shoot nine cans with six bullets.”

  “The hell you did,” one of the men said and the argument ensued and devolved and life carried on as it often does.

  An old man, shadowed by a dark coat, finished his beer and rose from the corner of the room. He had an air about him that the other men found discomforting. He walked with a limp and there were scars about his hands and face and his boots landed heavy before him and to the end of the bar, where the boy was perched upon his stool. The old man ran his hand through his beard, then slicked back his thinning hair.

  “Son,” he said, smiling at the boy. “Have you ever heard the story of Lightning?”

  Acknowledgments

  I would like to thank everyone in the Blackstone Publishing family, including Josh Stanton, Rick Bleiweiss, Josie Woodbridge, Jeff Yamaguchi, Lauren Maturo, Greg Boguslawski, Megan Wahrenbrock, and Mandy Earles. You all helped make this book better than it would’ve been anywhere else.

  Tremendous thanks to my agent, Mark Gottlieb, and the entire team at Trident Media Group. Mark, you were the first person to read the book, and the person most responsible for making sure this story was able to be told. I am forever in your debt.

  To my incredibly talented editor, Peggy Hageman, thank you for understanding what I wanted the book to be and helping me take it there. You are a joy to work with.

  Thank you to Michael Krohn. Your attention to detail is unmatched, and this book is so incredibly fortunate to have had your touch.

  To Kathryn English, thank you for designing a book cover so perfectly commiserate with the world these characters have to live in. I will treasure your work, always.

  Thank you to Coy and Dorinda Wade. Without you I wouldn’t be me.

  Thank you to Luke Calhoun, my best friend and brother. I’ll see you at the Astrodome.

  Thanks to Stacy Faison for being such a wonderfully cool person, and a great friend.

  Thank you to Jimmy and Kathy Strassner for all the SBNOL moments you’ve given me.

  Thank you to Julie and Andrew Landrum for being free spirits for life.

  Thanks to family: the Cains, the Hassells, the Ricks, the Stephensons, and Nina Wade.

  And to friends: the Byler family, the Cobb family, the Havard family, Denise Hoepfner, Dr. Derrick Holland, Jenny Klein, the Powell family, and the Stone family.

  To David and Cheryl Calhoun, thank you for letting me be a part of your family.

  Thank you to Trent and Nickie Ashby for your kindness and generosity.

  Thanks to Roy Knight and Scott Riling, two of the best men I know, for your guidance and friendship.

  Thank you to Dr. Eric Wiedmann of South Austin Medical Clinic for all you’ve done for me and the Austin community.

  Thanks to Becka Oliver, Michael Noll, and everyone at the Writers’ League of Texas.

  Thank you to the Austin writing community: Owen, Felix, and Seth at One Page Salon; Sam and Spencer at Chicon Street Poets; Oscar, Tom, Janet, May, and so many other talented folks who took me in and made me feel like I belonged.

  Thank you to Joe Lansdale for telling me to put my ass in a chair and write every day.

  Thanks to those who are gone but left a lasting impression: Professor Perry Carter, James Edward Wade, Terry Lamon, and John Mitchell.

  Thank you to Betty the Bullet, our trusted travel trailer, for all the miles and all the memories.

  Thank you to Bronn and Paris. We miss you always.

  And thank you to Jordan, my life partner and greatest love. You made me do this, and I can never thank you or love you enough.