Nothing Comes Easy

By Jacquewin Arnold

Marcus, a troubled boy who's mother who took off on him, tries to cope with the inner pain of abandonment. He knows his pa, Billy Joe Jr., loves him, even if—biologically speaking—the man is really just his uncle. Nevertheless, that love is not enough. Marcus takes his wrath out on animals for the crimes he feels have been committed against him. Tired of doing barn chores and being forced to care for his pa’s gentle Standardbred, Dancer, Marcus tortures the horse with taunting and his BB gun, a weapon he also unleashes on other animals that wander into the barn. In time, Marcus’s animal cruelty catches up to him. Much to the dismay and embarrassment of Billy Joe Jr., the boy is taken into custody for the needless death of a cat. He is sentenced to serve time in juvenile detention, in the hopes that he will be rehabilitated before he becomes a dangerous adult. Unfortunately, the damage has already been done, and Dancer has been scarred inside and out. The rage that Marcus harbors becomes part of the horse, a once-loving creature who morphs into a dangerous animal. Unaware of the reason for the horse’s sudden change in personality and fearing his own suspicions of the cold-hearted boy, Billy Joe Jr. knows he must get rid of the colt, an heirloom left to him by his father, famed trainer Billy Joe Benson Sr. His brief encounter with a local horseman, Dallas, at a gas station proves to be the remedy, and he offers Dancer to him free and clear. Meanwhile, in Pumpkinville, Ohio, Krickett is a young woman trying to keep her life in order. Having recently lost her mother to cancer, she now works tirelessly to help her beloved grandfather, Rodney, a legendary trainer in his own right. Between caring for horses and cleaning stables, she struggles with her relationship with Trent, a wealthy young man who seems to have a problem committing and keeping his eyes off of a busty barfly by the name of Ruby. As Krickett’s stormy relationship with her would-be fiancé unfurls, she continues seeking solace in her work with the animals she loves. Out on an assistance call with the local veterinarian, she encounters a special horse, one she does not believe deserves the fate of being put down for his temperamental behavior. Dallas, the horse owner, is reluctant to turn Dancer over to her, for fear he may hurt the young woman, but Krickett is persistent and gets her way. As her relationship with Trent falls apart, the horse helps to hold her together, filling her life with excitement. The crazy colt becomes the talk of area horsemen, even dubbed Ghost for his demonic behavior, but with much hard work, as well as some bright ideas and the friendship of other four-legged barn-dwellers, Krickett and Rodney manage to tame Dancer and build him into a champion. In time, he finds his way into the winner’s circle, much to the chagrin of Trent, who so shamelessly trampled Krickett’s heart just to steal her grandfather’s horseracing secrets. Trent tries his best to ruin Dancer’s chances, even going so far as to sneakily cause injury to Rodney, but with Dallas in the driver’s seat and Krickett and Rodney by Dancer’s side, the colt rises to the top of Standardbred competitions in Ohio, Pennsylvania, and Kentucky, leaving Trent and his cohorts looking like fools. Krickett’s dreams of owning her own racehorse are fulfilled by Dancer, with the help of a gift left to her from her mother. Her dreams of love and security are found in Dallas, a real cowboy who welcomes her into his heart and his home. All those dreams are jeopardized, though, when jealous Marcus bumps into some troublemakers from Pumpkinville and discovers that his biggest enemy, the horse he loved to torture, is now a prized animal, being lauded and praised and paid to race. Furious and jealous, he manages to sneak out of the detention center with vengeance on his mind, ready to destroy the horse who put him there, no matter who or what gets in his way.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Jacquewin Arnold
• Release date: Mar 28, 2018
• ISBN: 9781370627455

Book preview

CHAPTER 1

Billy Joe Jr. gazed through his living room picture window at the bluegrass-covered hills, blanketed with a thin layer of early-morning October frost. He loved his peaceful farm that was situated outside the small, quiet town of Paris, Kentucky, the life blood of Bourbon County and home to many thoroughbreds. He was born and raised on the outskirts of that small town and couldn’t imagine growing up anywhere else. Where has the time gone? he sometimes wondered. He was forty-three years old and had never married.

Looking back, Billy Joe Jr. didn’t know if he would’ve had time for a wife. He’d worked full time since he turned eighteen, on a local tobacco farm, and later added thoroughbreds to his farm to sell as racing prospects at yearling sales. Any extra money he earned helped, for his sister Ella, the black sheep of the family, had left her infant son with him to babysit during her doctor’s appointment, only to vanish. He hadn’t seen or heard from her since. The Bourbon County Sheriff’s Department investigated the missing-persons case and found no record of any doctor’s appointment. They searched for several months and gave up, having determined that she had left on her own free will and had simply abandoned her son. As far as Billy Joe Jr. knew, she could have drunk herself to death or run off like a coyote in heat with some lonely truck driver. It wouldn’t have been the first time. After all, she had once disappeared for months, only to return all burnt out, with her health run into the ground. Billy Joe Jr. had no choice but to adopt the boy, who was only three days old when his mama took off. Raising him seemed harder than he ever would have expected, but he loved the child dearly. For all intents and purposes, he was the boy’s father, and the boy grew to know him as Pa.

Billy Joe Jr. turned toward the stairway and tapped on Marcus’s bedroom door with lazy knuckles, trying to wake the boy and get him moving. Marcus was an adolescent now, thirteen, and his laziness was something Billy Joe Jr. had to address on a daily basis. Every day, it was the same routine: Marcus, do your chores, brush your teeth, pick up your shoes, and do your homework. After constant nagging, the kid always seemed to get the job done, but Billy Joe Jr. had to tame his temper and resist the urge to bust his butt. Marcus reminded him of Ella; his mother was apparent in the way he frowned, ate, walked, and talked. He knew the boy couldn’t have come from a world-class paternal pedigree either. Ella was the town whore, and only God knew the secret identity of the boy’s pathetic sire. Billy Joe Jr.’s muscles tightened at the thought of Marcus turning out like her.

Even though he was the boy’s caretaker and guardian, he had ignored several letters from teachers and counselors at Lakeview Middle School to have the child mentally evaluated. They felt Marcus had a personality disorder, and there were several reasons for them to think so: He purposely isolated himself from his peers, and he maintained only the lowest grades and harbored a silent but seemingly menacing temper. Billy Joe Jr. was certainly curious about Marcus, but he couldn’t pinpoint what it was that made him uneasy with the boy. He had no idea of the boy’s true nature. Sometimes he thought it was just growing pains, the unsettled stage of puberty. Maybe the boy doesn’t know how to handle his raging hormones, he reasoned. In any case, he was tired of the school administration sticking their uppity noses in where they didn’t belong. He lived with Marcus and never had any issue with him that outside the issues that all parents of teenagers had. Marcus’s C average was good enough for Billy Joe Jr., and while he knew the boy could do better, he didn’t feel it necessary to push him any harder.

After knocking, he listened for a moment to see if Marcus was up. His light tap on the door turned into a loud knock, and his tone of voice grew stern. Marcus! Get up! The yearlings need fed and their stalls cleaned. Get a move-on, would ya? Ya can’t lay around all day like a sack of taters. I’ll be in the shop if you need me. The corners of his mouth quirked as he shrugged his broad shoulders. If I don’t see the lights on in the barn, that BB gun I bought for ya is gonna be mine.

Marcus heard his pa loud and clear as he rested flat on his back, clasping his wool blankets around his medium-sized body. The old farmhouse felt chilly, and he felt warm tucked in his cozy bed. He stared at the vaulted, water-stained ceiling with his sleepy hazel eyes for a moment, then pushed his lengthy brown hair away from his slender face. There had been four other boys at school with shoulder-length hair, but now he was the only one, and his classmates insisted on calling him a queer. He clenched his fist, and a callous expression rolled across his face as he uttered in a growl, I ain’t never whacking it off. Never!

Marcus wanted to kick all their asses for insulting him, but he knew Pa would spank him with the family paddle, Get Even Steven, Steven for short. The paddle was named after his great-grandfather, whose butt had met the paddle more than once. Nearly every notch in the wood represented ass-whippings his great-grandfather had earned. Steven had been passed down through three generations, and it now hung on the kitchen wall, next to the pantry. Marcus still remembered the first paddling he received, for leaving the horses out one too many times. You been warned a hundred times, his pa had said. The boy would never forget how time stood still as he waited for the first swat and the heated sting that followed. By the third swat, his eyes filled with tears, blurring his vision. He was smarter now though. As long as he didn’t get caught, he didn’t get paddled.

Marcus yawned lazily and stretched out his legs until his toes reached the end of the mattress, then extended his arms over his head. His fist easily touched the white wrought-iron headboard. He hesitated a moment before he rolled to the side of the bed and got up.

Billy Joe Jr. put his ear to the door and heard Marcus mumbling. He knew he’d get up in his own sweet time and have to rush through his chores, doing a half-ass job before hurrying off to school. He hoped the kid would cooperate sooner rather than later, for he dreaded the thought of confiscating the gun.

As he dressed, Marcus glanced at the BB gun on top of his antique dresser. Next to the gun sat a box of ammunition, a reward from Pa for stacking fifty bales of alfalfa hay in the loft in the barn. It was a lot of work, but he felt it was worth it. He was excited at the thought of shooting the targets he had spent most of the night drawing; that was a whole lot more fun than draining his brain on schoolwork he had already fallen behind in. No big deal, he thought, assuming he could just finish the boring homework in study hall. Schoolwork oughtta be left at school anyhow.

He glanced out the window, hoping to see a bird perching in the trees or a cat prowling in the bushes near the old farmhouse, but he had no such luck. A whistling breeze sneaked in through the window frame, lifting the drapes, and the movement caught his attention. It was dark outside, making it difficult to spot any critters. He needed more time to hunt, so he dressed quickly and wasted no time filling his gun full of shiny copper BB’s.

Marcus dashed down the stairs and straight through the kitchen, ignoring the fresh-griddled pancakes stacked on a plate in the center of the kitchen table. He hurried out the side door, letting the screen door slam shut behind him, then raced to the barn like a jackrabbit on the run from a starving cougar.

The red and yellow fall leaves rolled across the ground at his boots as he made his way to the barn with his gun tucked in his armpit. Get the barn lights on first, Marcus muttered, rolling his eyes. Before Pa comes a-lookin’.

He climbed over the wooden fence that separated the house from the barnyard. As he swung his leg over the top board, the gun slipped out from under his armpit and plunged, barrel first, into the mud.

Daggone it, he whispered as he hoisted himself over the top of the fence and landed with both feet on the ground.

Marcus grabbed his weapon and wiped the mud off the barrel with the sleeve of his worn, olive-green fleece jacket. He glanced toward the shop door, making sure his father wasn’t about to come out and catch him red-handed; he had been forbidden from using the gun in the barn. After cleaning the outside of the barrel, he noticed that there was a great deal of dirt packed inside it. His eyebrows lowered, his eyes narrowed, and his mouth turned up into a smirk. Marcus whacked the barrel of the gun against the fencepost to loosen the mud, then slid his hand up the barrel and had a peek into the opening at the end. His nose crinkled as he became aggravated at the sight of dirt packed tight inside.

Daggone horses! He snarled. If I didn’t have to get the damn lights on so fast, I wouldn’t have dropped my gun. It’s freaking stupid that I have to feed ‘em.

He slid both hands back to the butt of the gun and grasped it tight, then brought it back for a powerful swing, as if he was trying to hit a homerun with a baseball bat.

They ain’t my damn horses, he ranted, as he swung the gun. He struck the fencepost so forcefully that the blow echoed in the cold, crisp air like church bells ringing on a quiet Sunday morning. The vibration sent a throbbing, burning pain through all his fingers but the sting was well worth it, since the mud broke loose and fell to the ground. Still, as effective as it was, the move wasn’t without any guilt. Pa always told Marcus, Losin’ one’s temper never done a man any good. It only stirs up trouble. Now, Marcus realized how right Pa was, because he very well could have broken his brand new gun in a fit of rage.

He stomped toward the rotted swinging barn doors that were held shut with a long, rusty pipe wedged between the ground and midway up the doors. He swung his leg back and gave the pipe a swift kick, knocking it down to the ground. The wind caught the doors, slamming them back against the barn, breaking loose tiny white paint chips that had peeled away from the aged wood; they flew away with the draft like an untimely snow flurry. The ruckus brought the quite barn to life. The horses nickered and pawed at their stall doors, excited that it was feed time.

Marcus stepped through the doorframe, flipped the light switch on, and tied the doors shut with twine he had looped around some rusty nails. When a cold breeze raked its chilly fingers across his butt cheeks, he grabbed the waistbands of his baggy jeans and boxer shorts, pulled them up to his hip, then plopped himself down on a dusty tack box. He set his gun beside him and pulled his iPod from his coat pocket. He stuffed the spongy earphones in his ears and listened to the new songs he had downloaded from the Internet. He hoped if he sat long enough, a pigeon might appear in the rafters, begging to be his first kill. He kept his eyes peeled, like an owl searching for its prey, while he tapped his heels against the tack box to the beat of the music.

The five impatient yearlings, who would be two years old the first of January, pawed and paced in circles inside their eight-by-ten box stalls, anxiously awaiting their breakfast of hay, grain, and water. The dust from their soiled bedding stirred and danced upward, creating tiny glimmering flecks in the rays of the dim light that shone down from the cobweb-covered lights above each stall.

Across the aisle from Marcus stood Dancer, a gray Standardbred yearling that had been hauled to Billy Joe Jr.’s farm after his father passed away a year ago. The colt paced in front of the stall while Marcus swayed to the beat of the music.

Nearly ten minutes passed before a rat poked his head out from under Dancer’s stall door, looking for an escape route from the potentially hazardous hooves of the irritated, hungry horse. Marcus felt ecstatic at his first glimpse of the rat and quickly grabbed his gun.

You ain’t so smart, he whispered.

The boy’s sudden movement alarmed the rat, and it ducked back inside the stall. Marcus sat very still, aiming his gun at the floor, waiting for the rat to peek its head out. He waited nearly five minutes, staring down the barrel of his gun until his eyes began to water. Come on, rat, he finally whispered from the corner of his mouth.

The dust in the air attached to his watery eyes, making it even harder to see. He rubbed his eyes to regain focus, then tiptoed to the colt’s stall. He sneaked a peek inside, looking for the rat and ignoring the frustrated, angry mood of the hungry colt.

Starving, Dancer charged to the front of his stall, his ears tightly pinned to the poll of his neck.

Marcus jumped back, nearly knocking over a wheel barrel. In the process, he hit the front of the stall with the butt of his gun. Dumb horse! he squealed.

The colt charged again.

How’d ya like to be shot in the ass? He aimed the gun at the colt’s rear end, then slowly moved it up and trained it on his eye. Or maybe in the damn eye?

The colt circled the stall, pinning his ears and tossing his head.

Marcus slid the barrel of his gun between the wooden slats, still aimed at the colt’s eye, and placed his finger on the trigger. Don’t think I won’t shoot ya. Then, without a second thought, he squeezed the trigger.

Dancer shook his head and jumped to the back of his stall, pain stinging him below the eye.

Standardbred donkey-ass anyway!

Marcus then pumped his gun full of air and pulled the trigger again and again, shooting Dancer aimlessly in the rump, chest, and neck. Marcus giggled at the power he had over the colt, trembling and cornered in the stall.

Frightened and enraged, Dancer darted back and forth across the stall, searching in vain for a safety zone and sending clouds of dust and debris into the air.

Like that, did ya? Marcus snickered and watched the colt dance frantically as he shot the horse in its front and hind legs. He steadied the barrel of the gun on the top stall board and targeted Dancer again, taking some sort of enjoyment in aiming at the whites of the horse’s frightened brown eyes. Just as he prepared to pull the trigger, he heard banging on the barn doors. Marcus threw the BB gun behind the tack box, where he hoped Pa wouldn’t find it, then ran down the dusty aisle to open the doors.

Billy Joe Jr. entered and peered at the boy suspiciously, sensing that he was up to no good. Why’d ya have the doors tied, boy?

’Cause that wind near blowed ‘em off, Pa.

Don’t ever do that again. Use your head. What if the barn caught on fire?

I don’t know.

If I’ve told ya once, I’ve told ya twice. Prop ‘em open with the pipe. This place could use some airin’ out once in a while anyways.

All right

Billy Joe Jr. waved his hand in front of his face. Where’d all the dust come from?

I was trying to get a rat, and the horses got spooked.

Chores come first. Have ya fed ‘em yet?

Nope. Like I said, I was trying to catch the rat.

Rats are pest, not pets. I’ll buy some poison next time I’m in town. Now let’s get those horses fed ‘fore your bus gets here. You can clean out the stalls when you get home.

But you said I could play with my gun after school, and—

You didn’t get your chores done.

But the rat! Marcus pleaded.

Billy Joe Jr. looked at him disapprovingly and was about to lecture him but decided it wasn’t the time. He was already running late, so he ignored Marcus and stepped into the feed room to fill a bucket with oats and corn. He scooped grain into each yearling’s feed tub while Marcus threw hay in each stall. Billy Joe Jr. then headed in the direction of the tack box that concealed the gun.

Marcus followed his father with his eyes as he swept the barn, praying that he wouldn’t find the gun and wondering how he’d explain it being in the barn.

Billy Joe Jr. bent over and grabbed the water hose from the floor, nearly two feet away from the gun.

Marcus inhaled, then let out a sigh of relief as his father looked past the gun and started filling each horse’s water bucket. Marcus couldn’t wait to get out of the barn and on the bus. The last thing he wanted was a morning encounter with Steven.

CHAPTER 2

Marcus stepped off the school bus and rushed to the barn to get his gun. The idea of his father finding it had haunted him throughout the day. He’d hardly been able to concentrate on his schoolwork, as he feared his father would get off work early and discover it. He gasped with relief when he found the weapon undisturbed.

He grabbed the gun and headed for the house, but a sparrow perched on a rafter above him chirped a tune and caught his attention. The corner of his mouth hooked upward, and he smiled, relishing thought of that tempting first kill. He calmly pumped his gun with air, aimed, and fired.

The sparrow fell in the aisle, flapping its wings.

Marcus’s voice rang out, Yes! Gotcha in one shot!

He snatched the bird off the ground, wearing that familiar smirk on his face. He spread the creature’s wings, lifted the feathers, and searched for the wound. The squealing sparrow pecked the palm of his hand and tried to squirm free, making it difficult for the lad to keep the wings spaced out.

Stop that! Marcus said. Stop pecking me, he demanded as he held the dying bird in one hand. He looked around the barn for something to keep the bird still. This oughtta do it, he said, reaching for a hammer that hung on the wall next to a rusted coffee can.

The boy’s grip on the hammer was clumsy, yet he managed to stretch his fingers deep inside the can for a few of the miscellaneous nails Billy Joe Jr. had collected over the years. His eyes scanned the aisle, in search of anything to nail the bird’s wings to, but nothing was in plain sight. He kicked the side door open and immediately fixed his eyes on an old fencepost lying in the shadows next to the barn. He knelt down and held the sparrow snug to the post. The bird squawked for its life as Marcus nailed its wing to the wood; once the first was secure, it was much easier for him to nail the other down. The fragile feet of the sparrow quivered as Marcus forced its mouth open to peer at its tiny tongue. The bird struggled, rolling and stretching its head frantically to get free.

Hold still! Marcus demanded.

He closed the bird’s beak with his fingertips, covered its nostrils, and gazed into the bird’s beady eyes until they dimmed, the life smothered out of them. Suddenly, he was surrounded by silence. The sparrow was dead; its fight to live was over.

He continued searching through the feathers for the wound, hoping he had hit the bird in the chest. As he spread the feathers beneath the sparrow’s neck, he found the small hole there. Dang it, he fumed, angry that he’d missed the heart. Nex’ time I’ll shoot somethin’ bigger, maybe a dog or cat in the woods. Yeah, that’d be easier.

As he pondered his next kill, practically salivating, a yearling whinnied in the barn, catching his attention. He knew he should focus on his chores and schoolwork, though, especially after his early run-in with Pa, so he turned back toward the door, went in, shut the door behind him, and placed the hammer back on the wall. Then he hurriedly returned his freshly fired gun to its rightful place in his bedroom.

Clean stalls, happy Pa, he sang as he skipped back to the barn.

He pitched the stalls one by one as he thought about the upcoming chill. As far as he was concerned, Old Man Winter couldn’t come soon enough, and he couldn’t wait for the snow. The hills that surrounded their farm were steep and fun to sled down, and school closed often due to icy roads. He cleaned in a hurry, then grabbed a broom and swept the cobwebs off each stall front, hoping his father would notice the extra effort and appreciate a job well done. When finished, he returned to the house, plopped down on the couch in front of the television, ate a bowl of Frosted Flakes, and worked on his vocabulary words in between each bite.

• • •

Billy Joe Jr. yawned as he climbed in his truck after a hard day’s work. He dreaded going home to introduce the yearlings to their saddles, but it had to be done. The sale was coming up, and a saddle broken yearling would yield a higher price. His first destination was Bourbon Feed Supply, to pick up some rat poisoning. He strolled through every aisle, until he reached the last one, which held the pails bearing pictures of the rodents. The thought of rats creeping through his barn made his skin crawl. Even worse was the embarrassment of checking out at the counter, for everyone would then know he had a pest problem. He clasped his hands together as the clerk scanned the bucket of poison.

She smiled pleasantly. A lotta people have been buying this stuff.

Yeah, it’s fall, he said, rattling off the excuse like clockwork. Every pest needs a home.

That’ll be $26.95 please.

Billy Joe Jr. handed her the exact change. Thank ya, ma’am

You’re welcome, she replied, as Billy Joe Jr. headed out the door.

He set the bucket of poison in the bed of his truck, climbed behind the steering wheel, and headed home. When he arrived, he backed his truck alongside the barn, next to the feed room door. As he approached the feed room, he noticed the bird, face up on a rotted fencepost he’d replaced weeks prior, its wings spread as far as they could reach. How odd, he murmured as he entered, squinting in the dimness. Musta flown into the window.

With the rats weighing heavily on his mind, he forgot about the bird as he pulled the lid off the plastic bucket that contained the poison. He filled the scoop full of poison and dumped small piles under the feed bins and tack boxes throughout the barn, making sure the lethal stuff was out of reach of the dog and cat.

Billy Joe Jr. then opened the first yearling’s stall door. It didn’t take long for him to notice that Marcus had cleaned stalls and dusted the stall fronts. He was pleased to see that the boy had finally obeyed him, done as instructed. He took a hold of the sorrel yearling and hooked her halter to a tie down at the corner of the stall. He brushed her gently and left her stand tied so he could groom the others. He worked each yearling one at a time, placing the saddle on their backs and pulling it off repeatedly, until they realized it wouldn’t hurt them.

Dancer was the last horse he had to work with. Billy Joe Jr. didn’t know much about Standardbreds. He stood in front of the gray colt’s stall, shifting from foot to foot, with his thumbs tucked in the front pockets of his jeans. At that moment, he wished he’d have spent more time on his father’s farm. He wished he’d have learned more about the breed and how to train them properly. Dancer came from high-dollar breeding, the cream of the crop.

Nice-looking fella you are, he said as he reached for the halter and tied the horse to the corner of the stall. He placed his left hand on the withers and swept the brush across the colt’s back, causing the animal to nearly jump out of his own skin. Billy Joe Jr. had no clue that there were painful BB’s embedded beneath the yearling’s dusty hide, and he thought the horse was just particularly nervous.

Dancer’s eyes widened as Billy Joe Jr. swept the brush down his shoulder with a more cautious lighter touch. He jerked away from his owner with such force that he nearly broke his halter.

Billy Joe Jr. stepped out of Dancer’s way. What’s gotten into you? he asked, baffled, as he’d never had a problem with the colt.

He didn’t want to get hurt, so he left Dancer tied, went in the tack room, and filled a syringe with tranquilizer to calm the uneasy colt down.

Dancer stood still during the injection, then gradually lowered his head as it took effect.

Billy Joe Jr. laid the syringe on a shelf in the tack room and waited patiently outside the stall while the medication worked its magic. Fifteen minutes later, Dancer appeared relaxed, almost half-asleep. Billy Joe Jr. gently brushed the colt for twenty minutes before the medication wore off, but Dancer’s skin still flinched with each stroke of the brush.

The entire situation had Billy Joe Jr. scratching his head, for that horse had never refused the brush. In fact, Dancer usually enjoyed a good grooming. Oh well, Billy Joe Jr. thought with a shrug, too tired to fight with the colt. I’ll just tend to you tomorrow, he said. He then turned Dancer loose, dumped the evening feed, and went inside the house.

I see ya got yer chores done, he said to Marcus, who was sitting on the couch, with a math book in his lap. Billy Joe Jr. laid his keys on the chestnut-stained console table next to the door.

Yeah.

Musta had a burst of energy, I s’pose.

Huh? Marcus asked, peering away from the cartoon.

Ya even got them cobwebs.

Oh. Yeah.

Billy Joe Jr. stepped closer to the couch. How about pizza for dinner?

Pizza? Heck yeah!

Is all your homework done?

Marcus stood up, proudly waving some paper around in his hand. Yep.

Billy Joe Jr. nodded and offered a proud smile. Let’s get goin’, so we can shoot that gun before dark.

Marcus excitedly pulled his shoes on his feet and chased his father out the door. When he realized the truck was parked behind the barn, he became nervous. The bird, he thought to himself. As they approached the truck, his father on the driver side, Marcus begged to drive to the end of the driveway. He hoped Billy Joe Jr. would give in and get in the passenger side, as that would prevent him from seeing the bird, if he hadn’t caught sight of it already. It was some ten feet away, so Marcus hoped Pa had simply overlooked it.

As they drew closer to the truck, Marcus became numb with fear, certain that he was about to get busted, but Billy Joe Jr. just grinned and tossed him the keys. She’s all yours, he said. Just don’t go slammin’ the brakes like last time.

CHAPTER 3

Rodney, a scrupulously honest farmer from Philadelphia, had been involved with Standardbred racehorses since he was able to pitch a stall and sit on a cart. He thought of the past as he sat, waiting for his doctor. Rodney’s father was a successful trotting horse trainer, but Rodney had fallen in love with the pacers and traveled to the small town of Pumpkinville in Ohio, where he purchased a small horse ranch. On that fifteen acres, he started his own training stable, taking with him twenty-three years of inherited horsemanship. He boarded and trained his four-legged friends at the county fairgrounds, and it was there that he’d met Colette, the beautiful young woman who would become his bride. In time, they became parents to a son they named Gregory.

Rodney and his wife spent years trying to bring a champion pacer to the public racetracks. Though they had a few breadwinners, none were in the public eye. It hadn’t really taken long for him to become a leading driver at all the major tracks in Ohio, but that wasn’t good enough. What Rodney really wanted was a racehorse worthy of the Hall of Fame.

He missed Colette horribly, and sometimes he even held a grudge; in a way, he blamed her for leaving before they had a chance to live out that dream. As a widower, he felt quite alone, until Gregory married Savannah, who came from a long lineage of Standardbred trainers and had acquired a talent from her father of getting a pacer gaited. This added an element of speed to Rodney’s stable. Although his son had thrown in the towel on the Standardbreds and taken a job as a salesman in a local steel company, Savannah continued training for her father-in-law, and the two of them grew very close. Her daughter, Krickett, was quick to follow in her granddad’s and mother’s footsteps. When Savannah passed away, Krickett was the only horse-lover Rodney had left in his family. Sadly, all those years of hard work and dedication seemed to be pointless, coming to an end, but now that was least of his worries.

He’d been ignoring small pains in his arms and chest, but they were growing more frequent and intense, and he had begun to fear the worst. He couldn’t bear the thought of telling his beloved granddaughter something was wrong after all the pain she’d already endured in losing her mother. Krickett had spent four years making sure Savannah made it to hospitals for every conceivable test and surgery to save her life, to the cancer center for chemo, to the neurologist for back surgery, to the Dairy Bar for orange sherbet shakes, and to the garden center to pick out flowers to plant. She knew her mother loved flowers but was too weak to plant them, so Krickett did it for her, with a smile on her face, acting strong and pretending the end would never come. That positivity and attempt at normalcy seemed to make the rotten situation better for all of them, but the grim underlying reality was still there. Her mother’s cancer progressed, but even when death was upon her, Krickett spent day and night with her. She never left the woman’s side, for she feared her mother would pass without her being there to hold her hand, to share her last moments. In the end, Krickett was there when Savannah took her last two breaths and reached for Heaven.

Rodney was proud of his granddaughter. She was amazingly strong, resilient, and tenacious, and he wondered where she found the energy to groom and jog horses and keep her sanity intact at the same time. He smiled at the thought, but he also worried that his own pain would be yet another burden for her to bear. He had tried to hide it, but it had become so annoying that something had to be done.

As he sat waiting for his follow-up with the cardiologist, he glanced through an outdated issue of Men’s Health. All this waiting is the worst, he thought. They give a man too much time to think about life and everything that could go wrong. For a moment, he felt like leaving, but then he heard the doctor’s tap on the door. .

Dr. Busch entered the room and shook his hand. How are you?

You tell me.

The doctor smiled but only halfway. Well, I’ve got your test results here. I do have…a few concerns.

What’s wrong? Rodney asked, nervously tapping his feet on the footrest of the bed.

You have two clogged arteries. I can fix those with stents, but you also have a large amount of plaque buildup in those same arteries, severe enough that it can’t be dissolved with medication. The plaque must be removed surgically.

Hmm. That isn’t what I was expecting to hear. What caused it?

Are you a smoker?

Rodney laid the magazine aside and sighed, then reluctantly spoke the truth: Yep.

Do you eat a lot of red meat?

Don’t you, Doc? A man’s gotta have his steak, doesn’t he?

The doctor chuckled. Well, you might want to quit smoking and cut back on fats and red meat.

I’m already sixty-five. What’s the point now?

You have a lot of life left in you, Rodney. He flipped some papers on his clipboard and read through his notes. About the surgery… It will require a week stay in the hospital and another week of rest at home. Do you have insurance?

Yep.

The doctor flipped through the clipboard again, perusing the medical charts. Ah, I see you have Medicare and a supplemental policy. That’s good. It should cover it all. Dr. Busch stared Rodney in the eye. Do you have a family member to help you at home, during recovery?

Rodney nodded. My son and granddaughter. He rubbed his hands together nervously. How soon do you wanna do this, Doc?

Honestly, the sooner the better. You could have a heart attack anytime. Those pains you’ve been feeling are warning signs.

Hmm... Rodney stroked his beard with his left hand, then glanced around the room. Right away then, huh?

I understand if you need more time, the doctor said. It’s up to you, but I wouldn’t put it off too long. We can get you in as early as next week.

Rodney stood up. Let’s push for the middle of the week.

"Good choice. I’ll have my secretary schedule your appointment, and she’ll call with all the details and instructions for pre-op. I will talk to you again just before surgery.