Mary Beth Kelso sat in the kitchen with her husband, both of them quietly thumbing through the newspapers. An ad caught her eye.
Two chestnut cutters for sale, one saddle-broke mare and her two-year-old, needs training and a good home. Free. Bring your own trailer.
Mary Beth’s eyes widened with excitement, and she quickly removed the page from the paper.
“Now what are you doing there?” Bo asked his wife, curious because she looked as if she were up to something.
“Now never you mind, and don’t pry either. You know your birthday is coming up, and you’re so hard to surprise, so don’t go snooping,” she said as she stood and worked her way around the table to him. She placed her hands gently on each side of his face and gave him a kiss as she said, “I’ve got to go check on something. I should be back in about an hour.”
“Don’t I even get a hint?”
“No! And you just leave it right there. No questions,” she instructed, waving her index finger at him on her way out the door.
It was a very short drive for Mary Beth as she took the bridge that crossed Clear Creek and cut through the back pasture to their gate on the backside of Clover Town. She was in a hurry. She knew a good deal when she saw one and was not about to pass it up. The directions in the newspaper were perfect, and she was relieved to see there was only one truck in the driveway of the seller’s house. She saw an old horse trailer parked on the side of the house, but it was not hooked up to a truck.
“Good. I bet I’m the first one here. It’s only eight o’clock in the morning,” she said to herself as she stepped from the truck and started toward the front door.
“Can I help you, ma’am?” Clint asked as he peered around the corner of the house, holding two buckets of feed.
“Yes, you can. I am here about the two horses, and I assume from what I read, you are giving them away.”
“Yes ma’am, that’s correct, but I didn’t think that ad would be out ‘til tomorrow.”
Mary Beth walked over to Clint and extended her hand to introduce herself. He was a horrible sight to see. His eyes were sunken and surrounded by shadows; his skin was almost ash-gray in color. He reeked of liquor, and his clothes were wrinkled. He had on a cowboy hat, but Mary Beth could tell by the way his hair hung down in greasy strands that he had not been taking care of himself. She had a sixth sense about people, and she could tell that Clint was in distress. She observed that he had no wedding ring on his finger nor was there a tan line from the absence of one. His eyes were yellow, and his hand shook ever so slightly as she took it in hers and introduced herself.
“I’m Mary Beth. I hope you don’t mind me coming over so early, but it looked like such a great deal, I just had to get here and be the first one to see these horses.”
Mary Beth was from a family of horse breeders before she married Bo. She knew her horseflesh, knew what to look for in the shoulders, back, and legs of a fine horse. As she shook Clint’s hand, she peered over his shoulder at the two horses in a corral. The mare was breathtaking, a shimmering blanket of brown. Her colt was the same, his chestnut body chiseled with fine lines and long muscle. She sensed immediately that these horses could be worth thousands of dollars.
Clint escorted her to the fence, and they leaned over the top rail as they spoke. He shared the story of his brother and how he came to own the property and the two horses. When she noticed his limp, she inquired as to how he came by it. In short time, they spoke with the ease of good friends.
Through it all, Mary Beth could tell that something was not quite right with this young man; however, she did not pry. Instead, she gracefully enticed the stories from Clint, one after another—about the horses, the property, his family, his life.
A short time later, another truck drove into the driveway. Two men exited the truck and made their way to the back of the house—another response to the ad in the paper. Clint excused himself as he approached the two men. They met him halfway between the front of the house and the fence, where Mary Beth patiently waited. She crossed her fingers and gave silent prayer.
Only moments later, the two men were heading back to their truck, and Clint back to the fence. He smiled at Mary Beth.
“Ma’am, I hope you enjoy them. I have the papers in the house. I’ll go get them for you.”
“You do know that I’m not going to let you get away with giving me these two horses without paying you for them. They’re not some kind of derelict animals you just give away. They’re fine horseflesh; as a matter of fact, they are some of the finest horses I’ve seen in a long time. We will discuss a price, and I’ll pay it.”
Mary Beth was very firm in her tone, but Clint had other ideas.
“I don’t want any money for them, ma’am. They just need a good home. I have no emotional attachment to them; I don’t even know their names. I don’t have the time or inclination to take care of them. They’re much better off with a family who can love them and ride them.”
Clint lowered his head, his eyes hidden beneath the brim of his cowboy hat. His voice, though rough and gritty like sandpaper, never cracked, but Mary Beth knew he was suffering. There is something more to this, she thought.
Clint decided to kick it up a notch, all the while trying his best to avoid eye contact with his visitor. “You see, ma’am,” he said. “I will be heading back out on the rodeo trail shortly, and I can’t take care of the horses.”
Mary Beth saw clear as glass through his mediocre lies and wondered what he would say if she pressed for his date of departure or other details. Instead, she remained silent.
Clint invited her into the house while he retrieved the papers for the two horses. While she waited in the main room, she marveled at how clean the home was; in fact, it smelled of fresh lemon. She saw no dust or dirt. The kitchen on the far side of the open floor plan was just as neat. No pots and pans were left out. In the rack next to the sink, fresh clean dishes dried in the soft breezes that blew through the open windows. This home does not match this disheveled man.
Clint returned with papers in hand, and they sat at the kitchen table. Mary Beth eagerly traced back the bloodline of the mare.
“I knew the lines on the mare looked familiar,” she finally said, her excitement palpable. “She is from a bloodline that once belonged to my grandfather. Your brother kept outstanding records, and the colt, Whisky by the Drink, has a bloodline filled with every quality necessary to be a world champion.”
“What’s that you say? What is the name of the two-year-old?”
“Whisky by the Drink,” she repeated, pointing to the name on the papers.
“Well, I’ll be.” Clint said as he stood and walked into the kitchen. “Ma’am, you must excuse my manners; could I interest you in a cup of coffee?”
Upon hearing the name of the horse, Clint knew that if there ever was a sign, that was it. His brother had named that horse, and the name had meaning. Whisky was what he had loved the most, his best friend, and it had led him to his grave. For the first time in more than a year, something made sense to Clint. And for the first time in more than a year, he wanted coffee more than a whisky.
Clint turned on the coffeemaker at the far corner of the kitchen counter. Within a few minutes, the coffee was trickling down into the glass pot. Mary Beth was going on about how she wanted to purchase the two horses for her husband’s birthday and how important it was to train Whisky by the Drink because of his bloodline and potential.
Then she said something that snapped Clint to attention. “. . . and you’d be the perfect man for the job.”
She went on about how the ranch needed someone like Clint to manage the barn and the livestock, reassuring him of the rightness of it all. Mary Beth was in her element; it would be useless for Clint to attempt a rejection of this fine opportunity. She prided herself on being a professional when it came to recognizing when someone was in need. By the time Clint had returned to the table with the two cups of coffee, she’d laid out the entire future of the two horses—with Clint as no small player in the story.
She paused long enough to take a sip of the coffee and give the young cowboy time to try to create an objection. He reminded her of his responsibilities to the rodeo, that he would be moving on; but she took that as seriously as if he’d said he’d grown wings. She began discussing wages, working hours, and even benefits to a trainer of his caliber, for she could see attributes to his accomplishments scattered along the walls and shelves of the house. Clint was stifled and sat quietly.
It was then that she switched gears from horses and business to life.
“Don’t let the weeds have it, Clint,” she said in a much softer tone than before.
“Beg your pardon, ma’am?”
“Have you ever planted a garden, Clint?” she asked.
“No, ma’am, can’t say I have.”
“You see, life is like a garden. We place it in not just the best, but the very best spot, where it can bathe in full, radiant sunshine. We feed it only the best—plenty of water along with the perfect mixture of soils and nutrients. Then we diligently fuss over it with constant maintenance, weeding out those things that rob our plants and smother their growth.
“We clear a spot in our hearts for the things we want to grow in our lives,” she added gently, “the same as we do for a garden. We plant love, joy, happiness, and all the things that make life worth living. Then we try our best to keep out the bad things, so they don’t choke out the good. If you don’t constantly tend your life like a garden, the weeds will surely creep in and take over. They are relentless and many. If you let them take over, you will never be able to enjoy the sweet taste of fulfillment that a well-maintained garden, or life, can offer.”
Clint drew in a deep, sobering breath as he looked in Mary Beth’s direction. Over her shoulder, through the kitchen window, a breeze lightly blew through the drapes. She seemed like an angel to him at that moment. His mind cleared as his subconscious took hold of her words.
“Happiness has a way of catching up to you, if you let it. You know that, don’t you, Clint?”