Bo woke at his usual time and made his way into the kitchen to start the morning coffee. The light was already on in the barn, and he could see Clint standing in front of the chalkboard, black cowboy hat in his hands. No doubt he was wondering why Whisky was not to be saddled for his regular morning ride. Bo had decided to spend the day ruminating over what to do about Elijah Waters. The time he’d spent with Pastor Clover the day prior had left him with many questions that he struggled to answer.
The coffeemaker completed filling the first morning pot. Bo poured a steaming cup and brought it with him into the living room. Lifting the cup to his lips, he gently blew over the edge of the mug in an attempt to cool it. He took a sip, then hacked and grimaced in protest of his own coffee-making abilities—or inabilities.
“It still tastes like warm cow piss. If I don’t figure this out, I may never drink a cup of Joe again. Honey, I wish I knew what you did to your coffee to make it taste so incredible,” he mumbled as he placed the cup on the corner of the desk.
His thoughts drifted back to the many mornings he’d hurried out of the house and into the barn to start the day’s work. Mary Beth was always up before him, preparing his coffee along with a small sack lunch that he would carry in his saddlebag or on the front seat of his truck. They were little things that he’d taken for granted and, of course, were now remarkably missed.
Bo also wished he had indulged himself more in Mary Beth’s smile and pleasing company. It was their conversations that he missed the most, at dinnertime usually. He looked forward to his daily greeting upon entering their impeccable home at the end of the day—impeccable because of Mary Beth—and the warm smells coming from the kitchen. Yes, it had been their favorite time together when the workday came to an end. Bo would remove his boots on the back porch, and Mary Beth would offer him a cool glass of iced tea or a hot cup of coffee, depending on the season. She was always sensitive to the needs of her hard-working, rancher husband.
“I wish I could see you again, Mary Beth, and kiss your warm cheek. And in that stolen moment, I would ask you: what is your secret for making coffee taste so wonderful?”
Leaning over his coffee, he reached for a manila folder and opened it—gently, as it contained precious information. He stared intently at the data he’d requested from his son, Clay, who’d been glad to help with the research. Laid before him was information on Elijah Waters: his address, phone number, and history. All the intelligence that Bo needed to contact Elijah was there, neatly organized, waiting to be put to use—a decision that was Bo’s alone. Paper-clipped to the sheets of Elijah’s history was a handwritten note on yellow legal-pad paper: “Dad, if there is anything else I can do for you, please let me know. If this is something you would like the firm to handle for you, we can make it happen. Clay.”
Of course, Clay would have an inkling of what his father was up to, surely having read the history himself, as any prudent lawyer, or son, would do. But Bo had never shared with him the more tragic side of his involvement with Elijah Waters. Bo removed one of the sheets of paper and studied it, leaning back into the soft leather of his chair. He reached up and pulled the lamp closer to him. The slumbering sun had not yet produced enough light to fill the room, but he did not want false light. So he studied the text with some strain on his eyes, which was ironically quite appropriate. As he read, the words pulled like chains, dragging across a floor of cold and dirty concrete, creating a horrific symphony of despair and agony. And he was doing the draggin’, those chains tightly affixed to his soul.
Lies. Preserved on paper, stored in a filing cabinet, and archived permanently for historical reference. This was an injustice that needed reversal, and Bo knew he was the only person who could right the wrong. Even though Elijah Waters had been found not guilty of the theft, for four decades, Bo had harbored within himself the arrogant belief that he was the victim of this innocent man.
Bo rose from his chair and headed out the door toward the barn. Time for a change.