Broken Spirit

By Rex Barton

Describe the word Tough in one word. HEATHER! A beautiful five foot six well-endowed 30-year-old woman who just happened to be, one hell of a kickass sniper. Her employer none other than the CIA as their #1 go-to assassin.  

As beautiful as she was her specialty, was to sneak in, make the hit and sneak back out without so mu

• Language: English
• Publisher: Hawk Tales Publishing, LLC
• Release date: Nov 5, 2021
• ISBN: 9781956696608

Rex Barton

Rex Barton was born June 24, 1944, in Santa Barbara, California, USA. Raised by his loving grandparents on a walnut farm in Ventura, California, he learned to be an avid horseman and care for all animals big and small, from an elephant to a hummingbird.In the summer of 1962, he joined the United States Army and completed his basic and military occupational specialty (MOS) training at Fort Ord Army post on Monterey Bay in California. Subsequently, he was stationed in Berlin, Germany, a cold war zone, and assigned to the 287th Military Police Company as a Military Policeman (MP) for almost five years. The duties were to guard military and civilian train passengers through dangerous zones, conduct routine patrols in the sectors, boat patrol Wannsee Lake and surrounding waterways, and assist with working on cases in the Criminal Investigation Division (CID). His stories are captivating and intense.In March 1967, Rex became a Deputy Sheriff/Deputy Coroner with the Santa Barbara County Sheriff's Department where he served over seven years until he retired in 1974 due to a service-related disability. He worked in numerous divisions, including patrol, detention, courts/civil, juvenile, and investigations. After relocating to the Channel Island area near Ventura, Rex became a licensed, independent Mortgage Broker/Realtor for many years.In 2013, Rex moved with his wife to the Pacific Northwest where he enjoys writing novels in various genres.

Book preview

ISBN 978-1-956696-59-2 (paperback)

ISBN 978-1-956696-60-8 (digital)

Copyright Rex Barton

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods without the prior written permission of the publisher. For permission requests, solicit the publisher via the address below.

Hawk Tales Publishing, LLC

P.O. Box 2386

Sequim Wa. 98382

Printed in the United States of America

Cover:

On the cover is Aysia, a 17-year-old Arabian mare that arrived at the Olympic Peninsula Equine Network – OPEN, a nonprofit 501(c)(3) horse rescue, rehabilitation, and placement organization. Her story resembles Isha’s story, the horse referenced in the novel, Broken Spirit. They are part of the inspiration for the book.

Olympic Peninsula Equine Network - OPEN

251 Roupe Road

Sequim, WA 98382

[phone]

https://www.olypenequinenet.org/

https://www.facebook.com/Openolympicpeninsulaequinenetwork

(Cover Photo by Kryztina Ross)

Dedications

Thank you to my wife, Toni, for your encouragement, initial proofreading, and valuable feedback about my writing. Allowing me the time and space I need to be creative and complete so many manuscripts. Who would have known, but you…I love you!

A special thank you to Paul Gookins for your honest reviews, encouragement, and support. You are a true friend.

Thank you to Jodi Pappas who helps make it all possible. I am truly grateful for all your time and effort navigating through the writing industry and seeing each novel through to completion. Your dedication and hard work inspire me to become a better writer.

Acknowledgements

My appreciation to Diane Royall, Ranch Manager at Olympic Peninsula Equine Network – OPEN. Your dedication and labor of love for the animals in your care are truly inspirational.

To all my readers, I encourage you to support your local animal shelters however you can.

My appreciation to Kathy, Heather and Jefferson at First Editing in Tallahassee, Florida. I’m grateful for your dedication and expertise to help edit the manuscript.

Author’s Note

To all of you who have ever suffered with a broken spirit, I encourage you to keep the faith and don’t lose hope. You are not the only one. Reach out to others you trust. Communication is the key to getting better!

Resources:

• Veterans Crisis Line: 1-800-273-8255 and Press 1

• National Suicide Prevention Lifeline: 1-800-273-8255

• Mental Health Hotline: [phone]

For God so loved the world that he gave his one and only Son, that whoever believes in him shall not perish but have eternal life.

(John 3:16) NIV

Quote

A great horse will always change your life. The truly special ones define it…

- Author Unknown

Rex Barton was born on June 24, 1944 in Santa Barbara, California, USA. He was raised on his grandparent’s walnut farm in Ventura, California where he learned to be an avid horseman and cared for all animals big and small.

In the summer of 1962, Barton joined the United States Army and was subsequently stationed in the cold war zone of Berlin, Germany. He was assigned to the 287th military police company and served as a military policeman (MP) for almost 5 years performing duties such as guarding military and civilian train passengers in route to west Berlin through dangerous cold war zones in east Germany. Other duties included routine patrol, MP boat commander for Wanssee Lake and criminal investigation division (CID). Barton retired from the military in late 1966 and moved back to Santa Barbara, California.

In March 1967, Barton became a Deputy Sheriff with the Santa Barbara County Sheriff’s Department where he served over 7 years until he retired in 1974 due to a service related disability. He worked in numerous divisions including patrol, detention, courts/civil, juvenile and investigations. Barton moved to the Channel Islands, California area and later became a licensed, independent Mortgage Broker/Realtor.

Most of the material in Barton’s books comes from the incidents in his Military Police work and that of Law Enforcement. His autobiography will be released in the near future. The book reveals some of Barton’s true-life experiences which profoundly influenced him and provided the necessary foundation for him to be a surviving protagonist. Barton was mentally and physically tough, able to take charge and to fight for life, justice and freedom for all.

For everything good in Barton’s life, he knows that it was the trials and tribulations that gave him the strength he would need to endure. His failures were turned into successes and were all part of God’s master plan and blueprint for his purpose.

In September 2014, doctors discovered that Barton has a large brain tumor which forced him to change the course of his life and priorities. His faith and family are most important to him and he now spends his time living out his passion for writing. Barton prays that the good Lord will enable him to continue writing for years to come.

Contents

Chapter 1 A Time to Cry and a Time to Bond

Chapter 2 Broken but Not Forgotten

Chapter 3 Miles and Miles

Chapter 4 The Bucket List Start

Chapter 5 Alone with Feelings

Chapter 6 Tears and Cheers

Chapter 7 Quicksand

Chapter 8 Dakota (Bend in the Trail)

Chapter 9 Trouble Coming

Chapter 10 Reunion

Cast of Characters

CHAPTER 1

A Time to Cry and a Time to Bond

It was only 4:30 in the afternoon, but darkness was ascending quickly, and the shadows streamed in front of my feet like scampering rats. Both dogs were ahead of me, hoping I would hurry to open the barn door to get out of the biting chill in the December air—no doubt about tonight freezing the ground and everything else in its path as hard as cement.

As I neared the barn, both dogs began to bark in unison. Hurry, Dad, they said. It’s too cold out here. Every moment seemed like an eternity as my legs and feet seemed to freeze more with each step. Then I noticed that the shadows were now racing in front of me like an icy, raging river, carrying with it all the rats, which were nothing more than dirt clods. I shivered inside and grabbed my shoulders and rubbed furiously up and down a couple of times, hoping to feel a little searing heat. Something?

I reached out for the barn door handle and nearly fell because both dogs decided who was going through first. The dogs stepped on my boots at the same time, almost knocking me over. Luckily, my left hand caught the other barn door, stopping me from landing on the ground headfirst. Suddenly a strange feeling of sadness struck my brain like a bolt of lightning. Only, there were no clouds in the sky, so what the hell was that? I shuddered. This is crazy. I grew up here on this land and know every inch of dirt, every tree, and all the animals. Shake it off, cowboy. Everything is fine. Just a little colder than usual. Tomorrow will be another sunny day in the low thirties.

As soon as I fed Isha, four sheep, two goats, and the chickens, I turned on the nighttime barn heaters, which would keep it at a comfortable fifty-five degrees. I pet Isha once between her ears without saying a word. It had been a long time since I had touched her or even communicated anything. As I was leaving, I glanced back at her, and her look of sadness broke my heart. It was cold out, but I could swear I saw tears streaming from her eyes.

I hurried to leave the barn. I couldn’t take it anymore. I had to choose between Isha or Sandra, my wife. The daily arguments over finances and Isha’s costs were coming between us. I was the first out the door this time, and both dogs followed me up to the house. As soon as I got inside and closed the front door, I started the fire and turned on some lights and the TV. Sandra and the kids would be returning from shopping soon, and a warm house was always inviting. I was secretly hoping that maybe Sandra would feel a little better after shopping with the kids. For a while now, her heart had been as cold as it was outside tonight.

Making a new pot of coffee and opening a can of soup, I was just about ready to turn the stove on when both dogs started barking at a knock at the front door. Who the hell would that be this time of night? People in this little iceberg of a town didn’t visit after dark, and it was too early in the season for Christmas carolers. I opened the door, and there stood my old friend. We’d known each other since as far back as the first grade.

Hey, Sheriff John. What the hell brings you out here this time of night? What, no more bad guys in town, so you got to come and harass us poor folk? I started to laugh, but John wasn’t smiling nor laughing at my lame jokes. Instead, I noticed tears rolling down his cheeks. He seemed all busted up inside. What’s wrong, John? Come on inside and tell me what’s going on. Are you and Vicky having a spat again over the size of this year’s Christmas tree?

You had better sit down, Shiloh. I have some bad news to tell you.

I slowly began to turn to take a seat on the sofa, and then I heard the word dead. That was all it took, and I knew that Sandra and both of my children were gone. The feeling that had overtaken me at the barn roared out of me like a lion struck by a hunter’s arrow. No, no, no! I screamed as John began to describe the events of the horrific accident that had occurred not more than four miles away from the ranch.

Two Years Later…

Maintaining the ranch while being grief-stricken was all I could handle after losing Sandra and the kids so tragically. Slowly the depressing fog that hung over me began to lift. April 2, 2000, started off well, indeed. Three days before, I’d driven my new three-quarter-ton, quad-door Ford truck and doublewide horse trailer into the busy metropolis of Riverton, Wyoming, population two hundred people, not counting the Arapaho Indian Reservation folks. This trip was going to be one of my life’s dream vacations, which I had been planning for twenty-plus years. I guess you could say it was one of those bucket list ideas that I wanted to do, just one of my many dreams, one that had taken a little longer to bring into focus.

Having a wife and two kids, a job, and such a busy schedule left little time for my own pleasures, such as riding my horse. My favorite horse was languishing in the pasture without so much as a pat on the rump anymore. Finding any extra time to ride on weekends was next to impossible. After all, there were lawns to mow, things to fix, cars to maintain and clean, you name it—a barn to paint or new boards to set, crops to tend to, and irrigation problems. Somehow I always had broken pipes that required my attention. I was never short of things to do but always short of money to do them. That was just the way it was on an old California ranch. It had been a prosperous business when my dad and I had run cattle to markets for many years. We’d also grown fifty acres of grain, not just for our animals but for the many granaries in several counties.

My wife, Sandra, kept asking me, Why, why on earth don’t you just sell that damn horse and plug up the gaping hole in our finances? Every time that thing needs half a barn full of hay and oats, shoes, or medicine, it costs us. Shiloh, for God’s sake, you spend more on her than you do on the kids or me.

She was right. I did spend a lot of time and money on one of my beloved pets. Along with our two dogs, cat, and two goats that help manage the back-forty lawn care and trimming of lower branches on our fruit trees and bushes. Isha, my horse, was getting older. I had chosen her sixteen years ago, long before I had married Sandra and had children. That had never been part of our marriage vows or agreement, to just get rid of my beloved horse. Or my dogs. No, sir, not part of the plan. The problem was tight finances, and we fought too much over them. Sandra just always seemed to make the problem about Isha. Later on, I learned that Sandra had been suffering from postpartum depression after our second child was born. It had gone unchecked for too long.

Isha was dapple gray and one of the most gorgeous Quarter Horses around. She was a gift from an old Indian friend of mine. I met Chief Cloud when I was only a little boy of about six or seven. I remember my grandparents inviting my mother and me to their Lone Pine cabin near the Shoshone/Paiute Indian Reservation. It was there that Chief Cloud allowed me to pick out my new Indian pony. It was his gift as a longtime friend of the family.

Chief Cloud drove over to the main herd of horses a couple of miles away from the reservation village. As soon as I saw her color, size, and form, I knew I was in love with this beautiful horse with character and grace. I loved the way she stood, tall and proud, her ears forward, listening to what was all around her. This was a sign of her intelligence. As other horses came around her, some would nudge her or bite at her rump. Her ears would go back, and she’d kick with her hind legs into the chest of the menacing horse. It didn’t take long for the other horses to learn that this gray mare was the alpha of the group, the one in charge of all the ladies and young boys.

Chief Cloud, I said, I would like that gray girl right over there, the one looking in our direction. I think she is looking right at me.

Yes, Chief Cloud said, you picked well, Shiloh. Her given name is Isha, meaning she will rescue you from the brother coyotes. Isha is three years old and barely broke. You will need to work with her our way. Are you ready to do that?

Yes, Chief Cloud. I would be greatly honored. Breaking a horse in the old Indian manner requires patience, a little courage, and a lot of trust between horse and trainer. No rough stuff or bronc riding. It’s all about trust and bonding. The Indian bonding method is one of reward, familiarity, and the trust of man and horse, which has to be earned by both. It takes a lot of time. Depending on the horse, breaking one can take an hour or all-day. Then you might be able to put a saddle on and ride. Would you put any less time getting to really know someone?

I never cared for the old cowboy way of breaking a horse: handling them roughly, yanking ropes, tying them up, and riding them hard until the animal is utterly worn out and ready to drop dead. It doesn’t matter much one way or the other to most cowboys. The play is who is boss and who is dominant. Cowboys always win. Horseshit, I thought. It would never be my way since I’d learned from the best teacher of all—a real Indian chief named Cloud. I would watch him for hours as he spoke gently to the horse and felt him all over, usually with part of an Indian blanket. The cowboy way is to steal the spirit of the animal, whereas the Indian approach is to leave the horse with its dignity and high spirit intact.

To understand this way of training, you would have to watch how Indians learn from the wild mustangs on the upper plains. Horses are flight animals, meaning they seldom stand and fight unless cornered. They run away and are always in a group. In a group, if a horse is ill-mannered, for instance, the alpha mare will turn and look straight at the offender as an outsider, her ears out to the side or straight back as a warning not to join up. Stay outside the circle. Don’t you dare walk forward until I tell you to. Go piss up a cactus if you can find one but don’t walk towards the group. The outsider will paw at the ground as if to say, Please, please, let me in. Or he may nay and bite the air with his lips, hoping to show how sorry he is for whatever he did that offended the group. It takes time, and as soon as the alpha mare sees the outsider horse bow his head and move it up and down while nibbling the air, she knows he’s ready to join up. It can’t be phony, and that is why it takes time. When the alpha mare sees this display, she will ready herself and the herd and turn her rump to the pompous outside horse. That is his sign to stroll slowly back into the herd. Now the alpha mare will continue to warn the butthead by keeping her ears pinned back to show him that she will kick the daylights out of him if he does anything disruptive again. Mind your manners or stand alone outside of the herd. In other words, Fend for yourself if you remain an agitation to the rest of us, and fight your battles with the wolves and lions by yourself. Run away from us and get your own reward, even if it is death.

That was how Isha came into my life, and she would never leave it. Our bond was forever and not to ever be taken lightly or broken up by a marital dispute over money, of all things.

When I mention that the herd of horses that Chief Cloud showed me was outside the reservation housing and general store area, you must understand that it was just an open range. No fencing for miles, if any at all. So, walking up to a herd of semi-wild horses was no easy trick. You don’t just walk up to them. It usually takes hours of moving slowly and stopping to see where the alpha horses are. There is always more than one, and the lead stallion will be standing alone somewhere, watching over everything.

In my case, he and the other alphas were making noises, and their ears were moving in every direction as I slowly approached. With me was my rope, and I might have just one chance to swing it around the head of Isha. It would be a lucky hitch-up if I managed to do it, and then I prayed I could stay upright on my feet and not be dragged across the prairie. Isha was not as wild as I thought she might be; in fact, she didn’t really muster too much fight at all. Yes, my boots might have needed a new pair of soles afterward, and I was as dirty as could be from being dragged across an acre of dirt, rocks, and small cactuses. But all in all, she gave in rather quickly, as if to say, Hey, this may not be so bad after all. If this guy was willing to hold on, maybe I can trust him. He hasn’t hurt me yet.

From the time I left Chief Cloud’s truck and walked down the little sloping trail toward the herd to when I spun my rope over Isha’s head, only two and a half hours passed. I strolled over to her, talking to her as I approached in a soft, reassuring voice. I stopped about twenty yards from her, circled the remaining rope into loops in my gloved right hand, and yanked the rope, and her, to my left, wanting to lead her out in that direction. As she trotted left, I turned with her and kept her in that circle. If she tried to slow down, I would raise the rope over my head, letting her know she was not to slow or stop. Sometimes it took more tugging on the rope to teach her that I was in charge of the circle and the speed with which she trotted.

We kept this pattern up for a good fifteen minutes. Then I noticed that her head was moving up and down and her lips were nibbling the air. After a few minutes more of this behavior, I knew she was getting tired and wanted to mend up. In her mind, she had had enough of running in a tight circle around an outsider such as me. I could see it in her eyes, the way her ears pointed and the nodding of her head. Who does this sidewinding cowboy think he is? she was saying.

I stopped her by gently pulling back on the neck rope. She slowed, and after another tug on the rope, she stopped entirely and turned and faced me. Good girl, I said. Good girl. I dropped the lead rope and turned so my back was facing her. That meant the same thing as in the herd. It was now ok to come close. I said nothing but prayed she would understand and take a few steps toward me.

It took her a couple of minutes to figure out that I was talking her language and wanted her to join me. I trusted that I had made the lesson long enough that she wanted to see what else there was, and she walked toward me, trusting that I was not going to hurt her in any way. After all, my ears were not long enough for her to see the direction they were pointing. Still, her slow walk indicated she was leaving herself two options: run away or charge me. The second option wasn’t really an option at all. Remember, horses are flight animals, not fighters unless cornered. There were no corners. We were in an open desert with nothing more than cactuses and windblown grasses for miles and miles.

I could feel her approaching, and I was getting excited. I had to stay calm and not move even an inch. Then I felt her hot breath on the back of my shirt. She was still moving her head up and down, smelling me and learning about me. When she was satisfied that I was safe and would not startle her, she nudged my back, pushing me slightly forward, testing my response. Would this man person buck at me, try and kick, or turn and face me and get to know me? All good questions, ones that I would answer.

That was what I had been waiting for. That was the actual bonding that put us together. I turned and gently moved my gloved hand toward her nose and then her neck. I was safe, and she allowed my touch. It was necessary at this point to take my gloves off and reveal to her my hands and fingers, how they moved, what they smelled like, and how much warmer they were than my gloves. I told her over and over what a good girl she was.

Isha took all of me in, my movement, voice, smell, clothes, shiny belt buckle, cowboy hat, and hair. I slowly reached up, grabbed my hat, and threw it on the ground. It seemed to amuse her that I had so many things that smelled so different and how, when I removed them, it was still me. I was complicated to her; I was sure of that.

In my back pocket was an old t-shirt that I had worn the day before and had all my smells on it: my sweat from working in the fields, my underarm deodorant, a little gas and oil from my tractor, and probably a few unknown smells from other animals. I slowly took the t-shirt out of my pocket and began to rub her neck, shoulders, front legs, and head. All the while, I softly spoke to her, letting her know how wonderful she was and just how beautiful she was. I even used the rope in