A Millionaire's Dream: A Novel

By Bret Wonnacott

Can the pure love of a dog change a boy’s destiny?

Life is cruel to James Crockett. He has lost nearly everything he has ever known, and at seventeen, that isn’t very much. He is lonely, broke, and mourning the death of his mother on what is left of their 1950’s farm. His future looks dark and empty until he meets a gifted English setter puppy and an unlikely mentor who competes in field trials. James deals with the struggles of life, love, and growing up while helping his mentor attempt to fulfill the dream of competing for the highest honor on the western field trial circuit—The Western Championship Field Trial.

• Language: English
• Publisher: TouchPoint Press
• Release date: Oct 13, 2021
• ISBN: 1952816793

Book preview

Chapter 1

Even the flickering light of the fire couldn’t cut the darkness of the night. Seventeen-year-old James Crockett sat hunched over in his mother’s rocking chair with his head in his hands, and a racing mind. His body felt paralyzed as if he was in some sort of trance. The electricity was out, and other than the crackle of the fire, the constant drips from the leaking roof hitting the tin pail were the only sound. The drip, drip, drip, was hypnotic and relentless. He was exhausted and hopelessly alone on the night of his mother’s funeral. His short life started flashing in the dancing glow of firelight that showed through the gaps in his fingers. Tears were dripping uncontrollably off his knuckles as random thoughts about his mother raced through his mind.

His Mother, Anna, had been his whole world. He had spent the last two years caring for her as cancer slowly bested her. The fracture in James’ heart grew a little larger each day, and he sometimes felt as if he was dying inside. He was only fifteen years old in 1953, when the doctor told them she would be lucky to make it six months. No one thought she would live this long. The burden was more than any teenager should have to bear, and James was forced to drop out of school. There was just too much work to be done, and only he to do it. His mom was so beautiful before she got sick, and he could almost hear her voice singing while she went about her daily chores. She always had a song in her heart. Every morning she would gather the eggs and then make breakfast. He could almost see the smile on her face as she carried the basket back to the house with the early morning sun behind her, making her image almost angelic in his mind. She always knew how to time the morning meal just right so that it would be hot and ready when he returned from milking. Just thinking about it, he could almost smell the bacon. In her last coherent moments at the hospital, she smiled at him and was worried more about James than herself. She was joking with him. Joking!

His head rolled back and forth in his hands as the tears flowed heavier than before. No! No! No!

He couldn’t remember his mother ever getting upset. Even when her oldest of two sons, Bob, had been killed in action in Korea just two years before she was diagnosed, she somehow knew how to deal with it. She knew how to push forward even though she must have been hurting inside. James wished some of that ability to cope had rubbed off on him as he sat, wondering how he could possibly take his next breath. He had secretly cried for weeks when Bob died.

Oh, how James loved spending time with his older brother. He remembered when they used to go fishing in Rock Creek down below the lower pasture together. What a proud moment it was to bring home enough trout to provide dinner and how delicious the fresh fish was when their mom would prepare it. Those were some of James’ happiest moments. He wondered what Bob would say if he saw his younger brother weep like this. Bob had taught him that men don’t cry! They have to be tough. They have to carry the load. Only women and little girls cry, and Bob was the closest thing James had to a father. Their father was taken from them in WWII, and James had no memory of his father, only that his middle name, Jonathon, was after his dad. James was so little when the news came that he wasn’t sure if the memory was real or if it was only the shadows of being told about it. His mom would tell him stories of when she and his dad were dating. She would tell James what a great man his father was and all about how they fell in love. James grew suddenly angry that his dad wasn’t there to help with this. Rage began to stir and bubble inside him.

A flash of lightning lit up the room, and thunder rattled the house, waking him from his trance. He lifted his head and noticed the fire was dying; he stood and moved like a shadow across the dark room to put more wood on it. The house was cooling down, and he thought about firing up the stove but decided that it was only October, and the fire would keep the house warm enough as long as he kept it going. He sat back down on the couch and tried to relax. His mother had spent much of the last year on that very couch. It was close to the warmth of the fire, and the heat on his face felt comforting as it got going again.

Rainwater was still continuously seeping through the roof, and the drip, drip, drip, was wearing on his nerves. He wondered if this night would ever end as he noticed it was one o’clock in the morning. On the wall next to the clock, there was a picture of his mom, Bob, and himself. He got up to get a better look. The image had been there a long time, but he had never really given it much thought until now. They looked so happy, posing together. He and mom were in their Sunday best, and Bob was in his Marine Corps uniform. The day it was taken was the last time they were all together. Bob left for the last time the next morning. James felt his eyes fall to the floor, noticing that the wood was slightly worn and dirty. He was suddenly ashamed that he hadn’t been able to keep up with everything.

Her final two weeks in the hospital had been the toughest of his life. Watching his mother give in slowly to death was the most unbearable thing he had ever witnessed. He hated having the picture in his mind of her so broken down and bedridden. She was just a shell of herself by then. He was afraid that he wouldn’t be able to remember her the way she was before. They didn’t have a car, well not one that worked anyway. His dad’s old Ford truck had sat ever since Bob left. Uncle Harold had to drive them forty miles back and forth to the hospital. For James, keeping up with the most basic of chores and feeding himself was about all he could handle, and sometimes the later suffered.

As he looked around the room, he noticed what a mess the place had become. There was just too much to catch up on. He couldn’t help but feel overwhelmed. The dishes in the sink, the dirty laundry, the dust and dirt, the leaky roof, the broken latch on the door, and so much more for which he was responsible.

Mom has got to be so disappointed in me, he thought as the dripping from the ceiling snapped his last nerve. He couldn’t take it anymore and exploded with rage kicking the half-full bucket across the room splashing and spilling water everywhere.

WHY! WHY! WHY! he yelled, stomping his feet on the wet floor and shaking his fists before plopping back down in the rocking chair only to feel worse.

Now, the water was everywhere. It had splashed on the old shotgun that had been leaning against the fireplace for as long as James could remember. His mother said it had belonged to his father. Just for an instant, he felt like grabbing it, putting it to his head, and pulling the trigger to put an end to his suffering. But before the thought could go any further, the calming voice of his mother popped into his head. He could hear her singing the song Give Said the Little Stream, an old church hymn that she always said was his father’s favorite. He fell to his knees, praying for strength as the tears again poured from his eyes. I can’t do this! he cried, It’s too much! I CAN’T! He sat down on the dirty hearth and stared into the fire, desperate, alone, and bleeding from his soul.

A fire can be soothing company, and after a time it began to comfort him as he watched and listened to the pop and crackle of the flames dancing under the rising smoke. The drip from the leaking roof that was now splashing on the floor once again gathered his attention. He went to the kitchen and found an old shirt that he used for a rag, then methodically began to sop up the water. The simple work of cleaning helped to clear his mind. When he had finished mopping the floor, had wiped down the walls, and had picked up and hung the rug to dry, his eyes again went to the old shotgun leaning against the fireplace. He picked it up and carefully looked it over. It was heavy, solid, and felt strong in his hands. He wondered if it felt the same to his father. The parallel rings around the forearm gave him a slip-free grip as he pushed the release and slid the action back and forth, showing an empty chamber. It was silky smooth. The bluing was worn off in places on one side, exposing the slightly pitted silver of the steel. The wrist was stained from handling, and it had many dents and scratches all over the stock. He ran his fingers across the stain, wondering if it was oil from his father’s hand. He ran his hand down it until a finger found its way to one of the deeper marks. He had been told that his father did some hunting and James wondered what stories the old gun could tell. He oiled a rag and gently wiped the gun down so that it wouldn’t rust before returning it. The boy then put the now dented pail back under the drip and found his way back to the hearth to keep the fire company.

He gazed into the fire until his mind got lost in the smoke and drifted into visions of yesterday’s funeral. He wished he could have done more for her. Uncle Harold, his mom’s brother, paid for most of it. Some of the town’s people pitched in, and the ladies from the church put together a lunch after the graveside service. They were all so nice, he thought. He wished he had the strength to speak at the church service. There was so much he wanted people to know, but he knew that he couldn’t keep it together long enough to say it. The funeral was short but beautiful. He thought about the graveside service and the small group of somber souls with bowed heads standing over the casket. He could still see the bishop doing his best to dedicate the grave with the dark line of sinister-looking clouds hanging over his shoulder. The distant report of thunder from the swiftly approaching storm overpowered his words from time to time, forcing long pauses in the prayer. Tears again flooded James’ eyes and spilled out onto his cheeks.

Though he knew this day would come and had tried very hard to prepare, he was not even close to being ready for it. He had no idea how hard it would be and had not considered the loneliness of tomorrow. She was his best friend. They had been through so much together. Why did she have to go so soon? I love her, Why her? he mumbled as he fell on his side putting his shoulder on the solid brick hearth. He grabbed the jacket that had been drying by the fire. With one arm, he pulled it under his head and covered his eyes with his arm. Why? Why? Why? . . .

James’ body was shivering when his eyes opened to darkness. He had somehow dozed off while lying on the hearth. The fire had all but died, and there were now only a few remaining embers glowing in the fireplace. How long have I been out? He said to himself as he sat up and rolled his head back and forth while trying to rub the stiffness out of his neck. He got up and felt his way to the light switch, but the power was still out. He grabbed several split logs, and with the aid of some crinkled-up newspaper, worked to stoke the fire back up. He got a little dizzy from blowing on the fire, and as it got brighter, he had to turn away to keep the smoke out of his eyes. It was now 25 minutes after four O’clock. He warmed his hands and face by the fire as he noticed the rhythmic drip, drip, drip, of the rain into the pail had slowed a bit. The storm must be letting up, he thought. Soon it would be dawn, and he was exhausted. He told himself, If I can just make it until morning, the daytime will be better. He was cold, and his mind was continually racing with clouded visions of the past.

Still shivering, he went to the kitchen, got out a jar of Postum, put a kettle of water on the stove, and stared out the kitchen window into the early morning darkness. He could make out a part of the clothesline that stretched from the side of the house near the kitchen window to a pole anchored out back. He could picture his mother hanging out the clean clothes while the mid-morning sunshine warmed the world. He stood fighting back the tears when the whistle of the kettle blew, breaking his train of thought. He went back to the stove, got a dirty cup from the sink, and rinsed it out before pouring in hot water. He then stirred in the Postum mix with a spoon full of sugar before returning to the couch. James put on his jacket, sat back down on the sofa, threw a blanket over himself, and sat with both hands cupped around the hot drink, trying to warm up as the fire went to work heating the house. As he sipped the hot, slightly bitter beverage, the taste took him back to childhood memories of sledding with his cousins out on his aunt and uncle’s farm.

The only family James knew was his uncle Harold and Aunt Rose’s family, who lived about 12 miles away near Thatcher. James used to go out there every Sunday after church with his mother and brother before Bob died. In the spring and summer, James, Bob, and their four cousins would play all kinds of games. In the fall, they played football, but in the wintertime, they would go sledding. James loved this the most. Uncle Harold would pile the kids on the tractor and drive them to the top of a snow-packed road that in the winter would be closed because of the deep snow. They would ride the sleds down in pairs, clear to the bottom near the house.

The older kids would always get the front so that they could steer, and the younger ones would ride in back. It must have been a half-mile down. They would get going so fast that their eyes would be watering from the wind by the time they got to the bottom, and everyone would be laughing and screaming. Uncle Harold was so much fun. Sometimes one of the kids would crash into a snowbank, the snow would fly up in every direction, and everyone would yell and cheer. Even if sometimes they wrecked on purpose, no one would admit to it. By the time they had their fill of fun, they would return to the house, cold and wet. Aunt Rose always had Postum and hot chocolate for everyone to drink by the fireplace. It had been a long time since James laughed like that, but he was able to smile slightly, thinking about it. He wondered if he would ever have that much fun again. After Bob died, they didn’t go up to Uncle Harold and Aunt Rose’s very often. They had gone a time or two since James’ mother had been sick, but it wasn’t the same. He longed for the old times when everyone was happy, and life was fun.

Chapter 2

He took the last sip of his now lukewarm beverage before looking up. The clock showed 5:15 am. He was exhausted, but it was time to get up and moving. He had to bring the cows in for the morning milking. James sat on a kitchen chair and tied his boots. He was searching for the strength to start the daily tasks when there was a loud pounding on the door. There’s Willie, he thought. James opened the door to Willie Thompson standing on the porch in the early morning darkness.

Willie said, You gonna get the milkin’ done on my cows this mornin’?

James tried not to show his anger, and sheepishly hung his head while he nodded and said, Yes.

Willie shouted, You better, as he walked back to his dented old pickup. Well, they ain’t gonna milk themselves, ya know. I had to do it yesterday. You know you ain’t gettin’ paid for that. He got back in his truck, and James watched as it slowly rattled down the road toward town.

It would go without saying that James didn’t care for Willie. He was a short, husky, dark-haired lifelong bachelor with a greasy beard, an alcohol problem, and poor personal hygiene who lived alone in the next farmhouse down the road. Old Willie loved to wheel and deal. If Willie did a favor for you, he would expect you to pay it back double on his whim. When he sold something, he expected more than it was worth, and when the boozer bought something, he planned to pay less than market value. Willie could be found at the town’s only bar almost every day after dark. James was employed by Willie, who had leased the lower pasture from James’ mother to graze part of his dairy herd. James was paid very little to milk those cows as well as the ones over at Willie’s place. It was also the boy’s responsibility to care for Willie’s pigs and chickens.

James somehow managed to get through the morning milking and the rest of his chores over at Willie’s farm. He started the walk back home around mid-day. The distraction of work had helped him to keep his mind off his mother, but walking home, James began to think again. He remembered some advice his mother had given him. She told him to take time to stop once in a while and drink in the moment because you would never see that moment again. With that in mind, he stopped on the side of the road and looked around, trying to comply with his mother’s wisdom. James walked this road every day, but he attempted to take in the moment as if he had never been there before. His eyes watered up as he studied the mountains to the east and then gazed out to the south, where he could see the mostly leafless trees and small buildings of Clear Valley. It was the only place James had lived. He looked out west over the valley to see where Rock Creek sliced its winding path through the center of the valley marked along the way by the trees, willows, and brush that the creek fed with its waters. His eyes wandered beyond the small stream and studied the outline of the distant mountains to the west. He noticed that the sun was high, and it felt warm on his face while it was busy drying up the water from last night’s storm. The air smelled of wet manure like it always does after a rain.

Two distant gunshots came from somewhere out west, not startling in the least but they disrupted his moment.

I wonder if it is hunting season already? A few people from around town were hunters, and a lot of folks from the city would come to Clear Valley to hunt deer, and pheasants in the fall. He couldn’t blame them; it was such a beautiful little place. It’s a lot nicer here than in the city.

James had forgotten to eat breakfast. He was starving as he started walking toward home again.

Soon he was within sight of the farm. Uncle Harold and his second oldest boy Paul were unloading some lumber, feed, and other supplies. As James approached, Harold yelled, Just some extra stuff we had laying around the place. We thought you might be able to use some of it.

James knew that his uncle probably bought the stuff for him. He was touched. He tried to keep from tearing up, and he said, Thanks, I really could. What do I owe you, Uncle?

Uncle Harold smiled, knowing James didn’t have any money and said, Don’t worry about it. Catch me later or something.

James looked at his cousin, bewildered, and said, Hey Paul, why aren’t you in school today?

Paul started laughing and said, It’s Saturday, ya goof.

Gosh, I lost track of the days, I guess, James mumbled while cracking a half-smile. I can’t believe it’s Saturday.

After an awkward silence, Uncle Harold sat down on the tailgate, Aunt Rose made up some sandwiches. Are ya hungry?

James didn’t want to sound too eager, so he casually said, A little bit.

His uncle passed out the sandwiches and some cold bottles of pop from the cooler. After a long silence, while eating, Uncle Harold said somberly, Anna’s service was real nice. He paused for a moment as if to gather his thoughts and then continued, Are you okay, James? You look real tired. Your aunt is, well, she’s worried about you.

James didn’t know what to say, so he just looked at the ground for a minute in silence, Um . . . I don’t . . . um, I’m not sure. Last night was hard. I guess I didn’t sleep much. Ya know, up all night thinkin’. It’s going to take some time they say.

If you would like to come out and stay with us for a while, you would be welcome.

James, still looking straight down at the ground, mumbled, I can’t. Who would take care of the farm?

The young man’s dedication moved Harold. You are young James, but ya have the makin’s of a good man. I want you to know that I have a lot of admiration and respect for the way . . . Harold was choking up a bit, and his eyes were swelling with tears as he struggled to express his emotions. He paused, swallowed hard, and then continued, You know . . . The way you handled your mother’s illness and everything. That would have destroyed most guys your age. You are a very strong young man.

With those words coming from the man that he most admired, James burst into a flood of tears and covered his face with his hands in embarrassment. He sobbed, I don’t feel very strong.

Harold pulled him in close in an awkward sort of side hug and just held him there. It’s gonna be all right, Kiddo. Somehow, it really is . . .

James calmed down after a time and Paul said, Maybe I could come back later and spend the night if you’d like some company.

Uncle Harold added, Maybe it would be good if Paul spent the night tonight. What do you think, James?

James, still looking at the ground, nodded in agreement.

Good then, Harold said, in a slightly brighter tone. We gotta get going, Paul. We have a lot of work to do.

Paul started toward the passenger side of the pickup, We sure do, and I was hoping to walk down the ditch behind the house to see if I could jump a pheasant after, if I have time. I will be back after dark, James.

Those dang things! Harold laughed while closing the truck door and, through the open window, yelled, They are beautiful birds, but I don’t know why someone would waste time on that foolishness when he has a whole coop full of plump chickens ready to be slaughtered, and cooked up for supper. See you later, James.

James yelled, Thanks so much, Uncle Harold! and watched them drive away. He, too, was feeling better that Paul would be back later to keep him company. The young man contemplated his uncle’s words and appreciated how much these supplies would help. It felt good to know that his uncle thought so highly of him, and at least for now, he didn’t feel all alone in the world.

James focused his attention on getting the