I took a five minute shower while Rusty loaded the Explorer and we took off on a long, dark drive to the ranch. Mom and Dad left the front door unlocked and we got to the ranch at nearly three a.m. We slipped in, locked the door behind us and went quietly to my old bedroom. I set the alarm for nine and we fell into bed.
I heard the door open a crack and gently close early in the morning. My mom checking on me. Rusty stirred, too, pulled me close and we went back to sleep.
Long before the alarm went off I woke up. It was funeral day. The day I had to say good-bye forever. I’d have to keep my emotions in check, so it was going to be a tough day. I tried to figure out how cops did it. How did they set their feelings aside and just deal with the task at hand? I’d never know.
I let Rusty sleep and wake up with the alarm. I showered and dressed and went to meet my somber family. My mother and Martha were in the kitchen.
“When did you get in?” my mom asked with a sympathetic hug.
“About three. It was a rough search. I had to catch a ride with the ambulance and ended up in L.A. I didn’t get home until ten.”
“I’m glad you could make it.”
“What have you got to eat? I just did a four day search on three days of rehydrated backpacker food. I’m ready for some real food.”
“Now that’s what I like to hear,” said Martha. “Usually it’s a job just to get you to eat.”
My dad came down stairs and stood in the doorway. Things were a little strained between my dad and me, but it was unnecessary.
“Welcome home, Cassidy,” he said.
“Thanks dad,” I answered.
“How long can you stay?” he asked, surprisingly. Usually it was my mom who asked.
“I don’t know, Dad. I got home from the search and we just jumped in the truck and took off. We haven’t even talked about it. I could use a few days off. I would love a walk on the beach and a ride in the hills.”
“Did you know your tracker friend is here?”
“My tracker friend? Chase?”
“Is that his name? He just asked where he could find you. When we said you weren’t here he asked if you were coming. We said we expected you before the service. Then he asked where he could find Patrick. I informed him that Patrick was only seven years old and I’d have to get Jesse’s permission before I sent him down there. Last I saw him Patrick rode up to the house and led him back down to their house. Patrick was real excited. What is it about that guy to get a young ‘un so worked up?”
“He thinks like Patrick does. They understand each other.”
“It’s a rare thing to see a kid respect an old man like that. Patrick was the same way with Old Frank. They played chess and dominoes. Patrick would drill Frank with questions and Frank answered them with the patience of a saint.”
“Did you notice that both men have a respect for Patrick, too? They see something in him worth encouraging. Whatever it is, they nurture it. It was important to Old Frank. It’s important enough to Chase to bring him all the way from San Diego. Chase came to pay his respects, but he also came here to see how Patrick is doing. They met when I had to take Patrick with me to San Diego at Christmas.”
I found Chase exactly where I expected to, in the tree house beside Jesse’s house. Chase wouldn’t stay in a hotel and he’d feel like he was imposing on the family to be put up for the night. He had been awake a while and he slid down the rope when he saw me walking down the road. He stood there, hands in the pockets of ragged cargo shorts. His t-shirt was from Tacky T-shirts where Rusty’s brother, Cody, worked. It showed a guy carrying a surfboard and said “Life’s a beach.” His hair was tied back in a ponytail. He wore sandals. I winced inwardly wondering what my dad had thought when Chase came to the door.
“You ready for some breakfast?” I asked.
“It was a short night for you,” he pointed out. “I saw you pull in this morning.”
“Yeah, it was. I had to finish a search before we took off. I didn’t know if I was even going to make it. Come on up to the house.”
“Can’t. I promised Jesse I’d stay with Patrick.”
“No problem,” I told him. I climbed the rope to the tree house and there was Patrick, sound asleep. “Real trackers get up with the sun,” I told Pat.
“Aunt Cassidy!” He yelled, instantly awake. “Oh boy! Oh boy! Mom said you might not come and you came! I knew you’d come. I asked you to, just like I ask the deer and you came!”
“You knew I’d try. Chase and I are going to the ranch house for breakfast. Go ask your mom if you can come, too.”
He slid down the rope and ran into the house on silent moccasined feet.
“I can’t decide if he’s an adult trapped in a kid’s body or seven going on twenty,” Chase said.
“I know how you feel.”
Patrick rushed outside and grabbed my hand. “I have to show you something first,” he said. He dragged me into the house and into his bedroom. There he pulled a shoebox from under his bed. “I’m collecting tracks!” he said excitedly. In the shoe box was a plastic tub of plaster of Paris. He pulled out a few solid plaster lumps. On the back, in sloppy first grade printing they were labeled: Jimbo, Bandit, jackrabbit. “The cotton tailed rabbits like to stay on the grass so it’s hard to get their tracks. So I only have a jackrabbit. It took me a while to figure out how to mix the powder. If it’s too stiff the plaster squashes the track and if it’s too thin it falls apart when I pick it up.”
“This is really cool, Pat! What made you think to do this?”
“Mom was making sand candles and when I saw her making the mold for her candles I thought about tracks in the ground. So I asked her if I could use some of her wax to try and get paw prints from the ground. She said I should use this stuff instead so I wouldn’t have to heat it.”
“Bring it up to the house and show Uncle Rusty. Maybe we can find more tracks for your collection.”
He brought the box along and we headed to the ranch house knowing Jesse and Wyatt would catch up soon and James would show up with the rest of the ranch hands. Patrick reminded me of Shadow, running twice the distance in his excitement as we walked back to the ranch house.
“You should really take a room in the ranch house,” I told Chase. “It’s no problem for them. They don’t mind you staying there. All the rooms have their own bathroom, so you don’t even have to wait for a shower. It’s handy, if confining.”
At breakfast Patrick was running off at the mouth.
“Chase said we could try and find a deer track. I told him where the deer are and we’re going to go see if we can stalk them. And I want to get a horse’s hoof print but they are so big. And I want to get a hoof print of a horse without shoes on.”
“Try the colts. They don’t wear shoes until they are a couple of years old. While they are out in the paddocks growing, they go without shoes. How’s Snoopy?”
“He’s great. Chase, can you ride? I can only ride in the hills with an adult but I bet my mom would let me go with you.”
“Yeah, I can ride. I grew up riding Indian ponies.”
“Oh cool! The Indian ponies on TV look like my horse. Were they pintos too? Snoopy is a pinto.”
“Patrick! I swear, you’re monopolizing the whole table,” my mother said. “Let other people talk too!”
“What’s monopolizing mean? That’s a cool word. Monopolize. It sounds like it takes talent. What’s it mean?”
“I swear, one of these days you’re going to talk so much your jaw is going to seize up and you’ll get lockjaw,” Mom said.
Just then Rusty walked into the room and that started Patrick on a whole new victim. He was just excited to see everybody but his excitement came out his mouth. He showed Rusty his small track collection and told him about his plans to add to it. At least with Patrick around nobody had a chance to be really sad. His enthusiasm was contagious.
The ranch hands were not nearly as enthusiastic about the day. They dragged in from their early morning chores, ate a joyless breakfast, and left to get ready for the funeral.
“Come on, Pat,” Jesse said. “No playing until after the service.”
Thus, with all of us now thinking of the hours ahead we all went somberly to our rooms to get ready.
“Chase, do you want a room? There’s plenty. Go get your things.”
He went outside and returned with a small duffle bag. I led him to a room a couple of doors down from my room, a smaller room with a view of the hills.
“You’re fine the way you are as far as I’m concerned, but if you want to freshen up there’s a bathroom in here. You’re welcome to stay as long as you want.”
“That’s a nice little tree house Patrick has,” Chase said.
“Thanks,” I replied. “I built it. Did you notice the bullet holes in it? Just a souvenir from a bout of trouble.”
“Patrick wasn’t in it was he?”
“No, just me.”
“Figures.”
I changed into the western outfit Rusty had packed. It was a turquoise and red plaid western shirt. I tucked it into jeans and pulled on my cowboy boots that lived in the closet at the ranch. I curled my hair and put on makeup. I looked in the mirror and a fifteen year old high school kid looked back. In fact, I thought, didn’t I get this shirt in my junior year of high school?
Rusty put on a blue and red striped western shirt. It was still new, not a wrinkle on it. He’d bought new jeans too. If he brought out boots and a hat I was going to laugh. He rolled up a kerchief and fastened it with a western slide. Okay, I was laughing now, boots or no boots.
“What’s wrong?” he asked.
“Nothing, it’s just strange to see you dressed like that. You don’t need to change in any way. My family likes you just fine in your regular clothes.”
“But your mom said…”
“And she wouldn’t have said a thing if she thought you would go out and buy new clothes just for this. She just knew Old Frank wouldn’t want his funeral to be black and dreary.”
“Should I change back?”
“Wear what you want. Just be prepared for some strange looks from Steve and Randy.”
Steve gave Rusty a lopsided grin, “After the service I’m going to teach you how to rope and tie a calf.”
“Steve, leave him alone.”
“Cassidy can do it,” Steve told him.
“What?”
“Rope and tie a calf.”
“You can?” Rusty asked me. “Is there anything you don’t do?”
“I don’t make fun of people just because they dressed nicely for a friend.”
Randy poked Steve in the ribs and said, “Rusty, are you applying for Old Frank’s job? You need a bigger belt buckle and where’s your hat?”
“You don’t wear a hat.” Rusty pointed out.
Steve handed over his black, beaver felt Stetson. Rusty put it on his head just as Jesse walked in the front door.
“Whoa, you look like you just stepped out of a Sheplers catalog!”
The cemetery was spring green. Birds flitted from one oak tree to another. A large crowd was gathered to see Old Frank off to his final resting place. He hadn’t wanted a fancy memorial service. In fact, we were told, he wanted a backhoe to dig a hole and he wanted to be buried with the horses in the field. Since it was illegal to do that he had to opt for the little backhoe at the cemetery. His casket was placed in the ranch buckboard and Old Frank’s horse pulled it to the gravesite. Steve, Randy, Zack, and James were pallbearers along with Old Frank’s two close friends from the barbershop, Hector and Bert. Hector and Bert weren’t much help with the lifting, being nearly as old as Old Frank, but they were honored and touched to carry their old friend’s casket.
A minister addressed the crowd and I wondered if Old Frank approved. He wasn’t a religious man but neither did he scorn religion. He thought there must be a god and he thought that god must be nuts to create someone like me. He’d told me when I was a kid it would take a whole host of guardian angels to keep track of me. He pondered whether there would be horse racing in heaven but he doubted it, at least until God created a new earth and people got greedy and started betting again. He seemed to think people in general messed things up, but he conceded he rather enjoyed messing things up more than working hard at perfecting them.
When the minister asked us if we’d like to share a few words about Old Frank we all rolled our eyes when Patrick jumped up. The minister looked at Patrick with surprise. The whole ranch family knew Patrick would say anything, any time, but to have a seven year old take the platform for an eighty-eight year old man took the minister by surprise.
“You want to say a few words?” the minister asked.
Always taking things literally Patrick confessed, “I doubt it ends up being just a few.” Then he stepped up to the microphone and stood on tiptoes. He looked at the arrangement and lowered the microphone before an adult could stop him and surprised everybody again when he did it right. “I think you all need to look around you,” Pat said, his voice breaking a little. “You see lots of old folks, because Old Frank was around long enough to know people a long time. When you see old folks, think of what they have to give. They have special gifts that they can only give to young folks but young folks don’t want to receive those kinds of gifts. They should. Old Frank gave me time. An’ he gave me stories. He didn’t see a no good mischievous kid. He figured out which way my mischievousness ran and he ran with it. He showed me how to do things the right way so’s I wouldn’t get in trouble trying to figure out the wrong way. He played games with me, partly because he was bored, but partly because, he said, it kept our minds sharp. He liked games with numbers. Easy games like dominoes. We played a lot of dominoes because he said it was good for my math. I got an A in math every time. Maybe it was Old Frank that got an A. Old Frank didn’t get to finish school. That’s why he made me work hard at it. He said you’re stuck with your brain as long as you live. The more information you stick in there the more useful it is as time goes by. So he spent hours stuffin’ my brain. Old Frank was smart, even if he didn’t finish school. All you young people… let some old folks help stuff your brain. An’ all you old folks find a young person who appreciates you an’ do like Old Frank.”
He stepped down and the minister wiped a tear from his eye.
“Well spoken, young man, well spoken. You should have my job.”
Jesse was crying now, whether for Old Frank or because of Patrick I wasn’t sure. Mom was on the verge of tears, too. Several people got up and said that Old Frank was a great guy and he sure would be missed. I felt an invisible nudge. Rusty wasn’t going to prod me but he knew I had things to say. I stepped up, reluctantly. I was used to getting up in front of people. I spoke to school classes regularly. But I wasn’t used to getting emotional in front of a large audience and I didn’t trust myself to stay on guard.
“Most people saw Old Frank as a grumpy old cowboy out of place in sunny California. Maybe he was, but there was more to Old Frank than meets the eye. My generation at the ranch called him Old Frank because I’m the oldest and Old Frank was sixty-two when I was born. So I always thought he was old. He was younger than many middle-aged people I meet, in his heart. He was devoted to finding the good in a person and nurturing that thing. In my case he taught me to think. I wouldn’t be able to do my job today if it weren’t for Old Frank. Those of you who went to school around here know I’m a tracker. None of you know it was Old Frank who encouraged that in me. Twenty four hours ago I was on a mountain outside L.A. finding a man who would have died had I not gotten there in time. His chances are still iffy. He led me on the toughest search of my life and I would have given up if it wasn’t for Old Frank. His wisdom echoed in my brain. His stubbornness pushed me when I couldn’t see the way. And now a man lives who might have died. Old Frank saw something to nurture in me. If you knew him for any length of time he saw something in you, too. Think. What was it that Old Frank encouraged in you? When you find it, continue to nurture that in yourself. You’ll be a better person because Frank chose wisely what he helped along. He did it with horses. He did it with people and he had an open mind. Who would have thought to encourage a young girl to be a tracker? Nobody. Nobody but Old Frank. When you see something good in a person, encourage it. Nurture it. Help it along. Continue what Old Frank started. And don’t try to nurture people into society’s molds. Sure the world needs doctors and lawyers, corporate CEOs. But Old Frank didn’t let money get in the way of what a person was truly meant to be. The world needs people to follow their own set of tracks out of the mold society places on them. Old Frank saw what people really wanted to be and he helped them be that. Artist? Ditch digger? Tracker? It didn’t matter to Old Frank. The world needs ditch diggers, too. Take up Old Frank’s mission in life and find some good to encourage. The results will surprise you.”
Dad got up and gave a big long speech about Old Frank’s talents with the horses, how many horses Old Frank had trained to be winners. If there was someone from the society page to write about Old Frank’s passing, they would quote Dad and I thought that was sad. Sure Old Frank loved the races. He’d won and lost his share betting and he’d spent a lot of time in the barns, getting horses ready for the races. People all over the west would miss him in the barns and winners circles. But when all the hoopla was over Old Frank didn’t go for a champagne dinner and celebrate. He’d be found in the barns with a patty melt in one hand, a horse trying to take it from him. He’d push the horse away and switch the sandwich to the hand with horsehair all over it and keep eating, talking to the grooms like he was one of them.
Several other people got up and spoke. Hector joked about their barbershop days. Randy spoke about being raised by Old Frank. Dad would have taken the credit for that but Randy didn’t give it to him. Sure, Mr. Gordon had done his share but he hadn’t been down there with the boy showing him how to muck out a stall. He didn’t sit in the bunkhouse and help him with algebra. Old Frank did that.
When everybody was either talked out or tired of listening, the group moved to the next phase of the day, which was food. There was a reception in town, which Frank would have loved to go to. Anywhere with people and food was a place for Old Frank. I wasn’t hungry. As everybody filed away I found an out of the way place and I sat. Watching. Watching a wooden box with a blanket of flowers on it. A winner’s blanket. The service wasn’t where I wanted to say goodbye to Old Frank. This was it. One on one. I wanted to be left alone. I wanted my tears to be between Old Frank and me. I wanted him to see that it was just him that mattered to me, not all the speeches and the food and the society page. Rusty came and sat with me. Chase stood at a respectful distance.
“Babe, they won’t bury Old Frank while people are watching.”
“I don’t care. I’m not here to watch him get buried.”
“Then what are you here for?” he asked kindly.
“Minutes,” I answered, “just sharing minutes.”
“Hon, Old Frank’s been gone for a week. He doesn’t have any minutes.”
“But I do,” I cried. “I haven’t used them all up yet.”
He sighed and stuffed down his emotions.
“Come with me, you’ll feel better once you get back in the swing of things. Let’s go to the reception, get some lunch, go riding out in the hills.”
“Rusty, I don’t want to feel better. It feels wrong to feel better. Please, just let me be sad for a little while. Go on to the reception. Tell them I’ll be there soon.”
“I can’t stand to see you like this. It tears me up. I can’t go to a reception and smile and talk to a bunch of people I don’t know, when I know you’re out here miserable.”
Chase walked up and laid a hand on Rusty’s shoulder. Rusty looked up and followed Chase a few steps away.
“Come on,” Chase said quietly. “She just needs some time to mourn her own way. You can’t make her mourn like everybody else. She’ll never be like everyone else and you know it. Take a walk and talk to me about Patrick. Tell me what Mr. Gordon’s plans are.”
Rusty looked to me. He didn’t know what Dad’s plans were but he could talk to Chase.
It was just the two cemetery workers and me now. I sat there for a few minutes, then got up and spoke to them.
“I have a silly request,” I told them. “This old man taught me to follow people’s tracks. He practically raised me. All I want to do is leave my tracks for him. Just two boot prints in the bottom of the grave. Can I do that?”
“How are you going to get out?”
“I thought maybe you could give me a lift with your backhoe.”
“No. We’d be fired.”
“If I accidentally fell in you’d have to help me out, right?”
“I guess so.”
“So I’ll accidentally fall in. If you’ll help me out I’ll let you get back to work.”
They took the fake grass cloth away from the grave and I jumped in. I walked to where I figured Old Frank’s heart would rest and I put two plain boot prints in the dirt. His tracks would forever be in my heart. It was the closest thing I could come to it being the other way around. I don’t know why it mattered for me to do that. But I felt a little better for it. The younger guy gave me a hand up out of the grave and I looked down at my boot prints, plain as day even from up on top. I kept my promise and got out of their way. I heard the machine lower Old Frank’s casket into the grave and as I walked away one of them called out to me, “Ma’am?” He held out a shovel. I walked back and took it. I was only going to throw in a shovel full and leave, but one shovel full led to another, and before I knew it the men were sitting under a tree and I stood there shoveling dirt. In my mind I was mucking out stalls in the barn and Old Frank was standing there shaking his head saying, “Trouble, what’d you do this time and how long are you in for?”
And I answered, “Two weeks. I back talked a teacher. She said Matthew Rogers started a fight but I could tell by the tracks that Matthew was barely involved. It was Barton Fartston who hit Randy. She won’t believe me but I know Barton’s tracks. And Matthew was just part of the group. Barton pinned it on Matthew but they won’t believe me. Now me and Matthew are both in trouble and Barton’s off scot-free.”
“Some things just ain’t fair,” Old Frank told me. “Why didn’t you tell your dad? He put you to this, right?”
“It was the talking back that did it. I doesn’t matter if I was right. I still back talked the teacher.”
“Well, I guess you’re right there.”
And so we were all right except Barton Fartson and I was mad at Barton so I kept shoveling. And I was sad about Old Frank so I shoveled harder. The two men sat there shaking their heads watching me work, not realizing it was therapy, just thinking I was nuts. They got out their lunch and settled in with their sandwiches. Rusty came back and looked over the situation. Chase stood there hands folded over his chest, smiling, glad I found a way to work off my sorrow. Rusty came up behind me and gently grabbed the end of the shovel when I brought it back. I stopped. He released the handle when he saw that I was focused on the present again and I dropped the shovel full of dirt in the grave, then jabbed the shovel into the dirt pile. I looked over the pile and saw that I’d put a good-sized dent in it.
We drove to the reception arriving half an hour late. Fortunately, it was a buffet. We chose our lunches and looked for a place to sit down.
“Cassidy! Where have you been? And just look at you!” My mother said.
“It’s okay, mom. Old Frank would approve.”
“Old Frank would approve of a lot of things I wouldn’t.”
I looked around. There were a few open chairs here and there except for the head table. Only my dad sat at the head table. Everybody else was seated with the town folks talking and swapping stories about Old Frank. Dad looked lonely but I wasn’t going to put myself at the head table either. Old Frank wouldn’t have sat there. Head tables were for people of status and Dad was the only one who counted status in that way. A woman walked up and talked to Dad. Mom shook her head.
“That woman has to be everywhere!” she said with disdain. “I swear; she’s on the hunt.”
The woman leaned low over the table. Dad pretended not to notice as he spoke to her. He pointed out Mom, Jesse, and me to her. When she turned to find us I saw who it was, Misty Montague! She turned back to dad, he said something, and she looked back our way. Oh man, I was going to have my work cut out for me now. I quickly found a spot in amongst the people making sure there were only three chairs. I led Rusty and Chase that direction and we sat down, moving used plates and a few wrinkled napkins out of the way.
Chase saved the day, distracting Rusty by asking me about this really tough search I just returned from. I was glad to have the distraction and went into all the detail I knew Chase was interested in. Rusty rarely heard about my searches in detail. I thought it would bore him, but he listened intently. Chase interrupted me a few times asking pointed questions. I think he was trying to assess the scope of my tracking skills. Only hearing about the intricacies told him how my brain worked as I tracked.
“Well, well, if it isn’t our little woods elf,” said a voice behind me. I looked up and there stood Misty Montague in all her sequined, spaghetti strapped glory. “Welcome back, Cassidy.”
“Thank you,” I said and then I had to be polite so I made introductions. “Misty, this is my husband Rusty Michaels and a friend of the family, Charles Downing. Guys, this is Misty Montague. We went to school together.”
“Pleased to meet you,” said Chase as he gave me a strange look.
Rusty just looked at Chase and said, “Your name is Charles?”
“You knew that,” Chase said.
“No I didn’t. I’ve never called you Charles. Cassidy, how did you know his real name was Charles?”
“That’s how they introduced him to the class at police academy,” I answered; glad they weren’t paying much attention to Misty.
“Ooo, police academy. Our little woods elf is getting more citified.” Chase just laughed. Then to Rusty she said, “I can tell by your outfit that you are a cowboy,” and Chase laughed even louder.
Misty didn’t like being laughed at, especially by a sixty year old beach bum. Even in jeans and a collared shirt you couldn’t take the beach bum out of Chase.
“What?” she asked.
“Ma’am, I’m afraid you’ve got it all wrong,” Chase told her.
I smiled as Misty became indignant. I didn’t really want her to know what we did. It would only encourage her. If there was one thing Misty liked it was a challenge, particularly a handsome challenge. Chase would be too old for her. Rusty was definitely in the danger zone here but he knew Misty’s reputation. She might be beautiful and rich but she was basically not a nice person. At least Rusty didn’t have enough money to be a successful investment, but at this point Misty didn’t need money. Misty collected husbands. She was one year older than me and had married and divorced three men. And that was after high school. In high school she was worse.
“It was nice of your dad to do this for Frank,” Misty said. “He must have thought a lot of Frank.”
“He was like family,” I answered. “I never heard if Old Frank had any real family. In all the years I’d known him he never talked about ever having a family.”
“I heard he was worth millions,” Misty said.
“That’s silly. If he was rich he wouldn’t live in a bunkhouse with two other guys and nothing but a pool table and some poker cards,” I answered. But in the back of my mind I was thinking it would be just like Old Frank to sock away his money and live the life he liked, in a bunkhouse on a ranch, just an old cowboy.
“You never know. I had one husband who was rich and the only way you’d know it was he had a penchant for Mercedes,” Misty said.
“But Old Frank never even bought himself a car! He borrowed the ranch pickup to go to town.”
“Why fork out twenty thousand when you can keep it plus interest?”
“Misty, don’t you have something better to do?” I asked, tired of her greedy thinking.
“Oh, yes!” she exclaimed looking at her watch. “I’m late for a pedicure!”
Only Misty would put her toenails over a funeral. Of course I was sure she wasn’t really there to mourn Old Frank. She was scoping things out. Funerals, weddings, store openings, beach volleyball tournaments… anything that drew the community drew Misty.
When she was out of earshot Chase leaned forward, “Okay, I’m curious. Why’d you use my real name?”
“I didn’t want to give her any ideas,” I answered.
“What kind of ideas?”
“Misty collects husbands. If I introduced you as Chase it would pique her interest. Believe me, you don’t want to be chased by her.”
“Why? She looks like fun. I’m single. Can’t a guy have any fun?”
“Sure,” I answered. “Just ask any of the local guys how fun Misty can be. Then come back and thank me.”
He changed the subject. “When do you figure it’s safe to talk to your dad about a horse trainer?”
“It’s never safe to talk to my dad about anything he didn’t think up first.”
“What are you saying?”
“Can you think of a way to put the idea to him so he thinks he came up with it? You know he needs another hand. The trick is to make him think he came up with the idea of also finding a tracking teacher for his grandson. I’m not sure he wants Patrick to be a tracker. Since I’ve become a tracker he’s only seen one dangerous thing after another happen to me and so far Patrick seems to have gotten the trouble gene, too.”
Chase looked at Rusty who nodded.
“You both probably got it from him,” Chase said.
“Trouble never happens to Dad. He’s led a charmed life.”
“He’s a carrier.”
“That’s not a bad idea, let him think we got his inquisitive mind. Who knows where it really came from, but if you build up his ego he’s more likely to see that wonderful brain he handed down needs fine tuning.”
“When?”
“How long are you going to be around?”
“I hadn’t set any time limit. I know I’m likely to overstay my welcome shortly after the funeral. They don’t see any reason for me to stay and visit.”
“Tomorrow then?”
“Should I talk to Patrick first?”
“Talk to Patrick about what?” Patrick said behind us.
“No, you shouldn’t.”
“Shouldn’t what?” Patrick asked.
“Talk to Patrick first.”
“Why?” Patrick said. “I’m always the last one to hear about everything.”
“And you tend to get overexcited about things before we even know for sure if anything is going to happen,” I told him. “Now let us talk.”
Patrick ran off, looking like he was going to find Wyatt so we resumed our conversation.
“Is he willing to hire someone who is a little different from what he’s used to?”
“If they show promise, he is willing to hire anybody who will accept the conditions and do their best to fit in with the guys. The ranch hands have to work closely together so it’s important that they get along. If they live in the bunkhouse the fit is even more important.”
“Okay, then, will the guys accept someone who is a little different?”
“Sure, as long as they try to get along, the hands will do their best to keep things running smoothly. Why?”
“Because this guy is a little different. The ranch hands aren’t really that different to him. He’s used to the dress and the talk. But they aren’t used to people like him. His name is Elan. He calls me Demothi. It means talks while walking. He calls me that because when we first tracked together I would tell him what the tracks said to me. He was amazed that the ground told me stories but eventually he showed some talent in tracking. I taught him. His grandfather taught him. He isn’t as good as you but he has a feel for the earth and for the way animals think. When he tracks people, he generally finds them but he doesn’t think like most people, therefore, he takes the tracks very literally. In some cases it helps because he doesn’t assume anything, but sometimes some speculation is a good thing. He has a lot to teach Patrick, but Patrick has a lot to teach him, too.”
“What!” we heard from under the table along with a big thump as Patrick hit his head on the underside.
“If you’re going to learn stealth. It’s got to start with your mouth,” Chase admonished him.
“But you didn’t know I was down here,” Patrick said defensively, “Or you would have stopped talking about me.”
“He’s got a point,” said Rusty.
“Do you know Elan wants to train horses?” I asked.
“He knows horses, grew up with them. He knows how they think and how to get them to learn. His home for the past 25 years has been a three room house twenty miles from town. He’s ready to try anything new. The thought of living just like his family has for the last five generations grates on him. He wants to see the world. Here he can stretch his wings, see a different side of life, try a different environment and do some good at the same time. He’s never drawn a paycheck, never had to. His family is pretty self-sufficient.”
“When can he come?”
“He’s there now. He came with me but he didn’t want to intrude on a time of grieving.”
“Where? Why didn’t you invite him into the house?”
“That’s your father’s job. Your father is the head of the house. It’s his job to protect the people under his roof. If your father invites him in friendship he will gladly come in. But, in respect for your family, he’s stayed away to give you space to grieve. He was fine last night. He slept in the Bug. He’s probably spent the day wandering the hills. While he knows we are gone maybe he’s ventured onto the ranch to see if the horses are well cared for. He wouldn’t work there if the horses were neglected. It’s just common sense things. He comes from a different culture so he comes to you a little differently.”
I was beginning to see why Chase was a little different, too. My mood had brightened considerably with new possibilities. Patrick had sat quietly trying to figure out what we were talking about and who he could possibly teach anything to. I didn’t want to get his hopes up. There was still the possibility that my father would not hire Elan and Patrick would be devastated. If Patrick knew what we were talking about, he could accidentally spill the beans to my dad and that could make the whole thing backfire.
“This can’t wait until morning,” I decided aloud. “Elan cannot spend another night in the Bug. Dad would be angry to think we left a guest to sleep in the car. We, at least, need to invite Elan in to spend the night in the house.”
Our discussion seemed to have come to an end but my mind was going a mile a minute. A teacher for Patrick! We had to make this work.