He crawled out of bed, a wreck in a storm of passion. The dogs greeted him on the porch to escort him to the barn. Dozer ambled at his side, tall enough to have his head scratched without a bend from Jesse. Blizzard scooted ahead.
He was reaching for a saddle when the tack room phone rang. “Jesse Burrell.”
Larry Littlefield said, “Butch Logan told me they ran your video at the magazine. Said it’s real good. Congratulations, boy.”
“Thanks.”
“Holly Bassett did a good job for you, huh?”
“She did a helluva job.”
“So everything is looking pretty shiny.”
“Everything is looking pretty shitty.”
“Why? What?”
“She was here. We had a fight. She’s gone. It’s over.”
“What did you fight about?”
“I hear you got a colt.”
“Where’d you hear that?”
“I hear everything. Some folks have a pacemaker, I have a telephone. Hear you got a good one.”
“He’s a wild little bugger. If I can just stay out of his way and let him do it, he’s got a lot of natural ability.”
“I want you to win that damn Futurity this year.”
“I want me to win that damn Futurity this year.”
“Well, good luck, son. I’ll see you. Hey. I was you, I’d patch it up with that little gal. She’s a dandy. You were probably an asshole. Adios.”
Like patches of black crepe tossed in the wind, the ravens swirled as he stepped from the truck. Holy Rood had been recently groomed. Flowers formed in clusters against the moist green lushness. The gray stones sparkled in sunlight.
He looked at the name carved in stone and knelt on the yielding sod, feeling the wet come through to his skin. He bowed his head, closed his eyes and began to pray. He hoped, when he opened his eyes, to see his son. He wondered if he’d ever be there again. The thought scared him and the emptiness within grew quickly vast and desolate. He breathed deeply and slowly let it out as he lowered his face to the cool wet grass and wept into the earth.