Clint sat straight up in his chair and placed his feet on the floor. Reluctant to rise, he peered out his door and could see Bo tying Whisky to the hitching post.
“Back so soon?”
“Yep; change of plans.”
“Just leave Whisky. I’ll get to him. Is everything okay?”
“Yep.”
“You sure?”
“Yep.”
Clint recognized a tone of heightened excitement in Bo’s voice. Curious, Clint walked to the edge of the barn door, where he saw Kevin and Leonard closing in fast, their fishing poles swinging wildly back and forth as they ran.
“You sure everything is all right?”
“Yep, why do you keep asking me that?”
“That’s the first time I’ve seen you run Whisky in years, and you got those two youngsters choking back your trail dust. Everyone’s in a hurry, except the cats and me. So I guess maybe I should be asking ‘What’s going on?’ instead of ‘Are you all right?’”
“Oh I’m fine, just fine. I’m going fishing.”
Bo was more charged up than Clint had seen him in years. There was a time years ago, before his wife had become ill, when his smiles and laughter were more common. He was happiest when the whole family—Mary Beth, kids, grandkids—would ride the pastures together. All the saddles and tack were utilized to outfit every horse in stock for those day-long trail rides. Sometimes, especially in the fall, more than twenty riders would leave out from the ranch and ride into Pearland some twelve miles away for a rodeo or fair. They would return before dark, worn out and tired. The grandchildren, some of them only four or five years old, rode double, hanging onto their parents’ backs, sound asleep. Bo and Mary Beth would trail their riderless horses behind. Just looking at Mary Beth and Bo during those times, anyone could see the signs of pure and unconditional love.
And here Clint was seeing that excitement again in his old boss, in a new way.
“Fishing!” he hollered out in disbelief. “You don’t fish.”
Without offering a reply, Bo stretched out his steps and rushed out the other end of the barn to get in his truck. He started it and drove around the barn to the end of the bridge where he intercepted the two boys just before they started to cross. Clint was awestruck. He’d not seen Bo do anything that wasn’t a planned event. And this little excursion was most certainly anything but planned. It was . . . spontaneous. A word rarely used to describe Bo Kelso.
Clint watched as the boys jumped into the back of the pickup truck, first tossing in their poles and gear and then, with the agility of youth, their bodies. Their leap from the ground to the bed of the truck was as if they’d popped off a trampoline, barely touching the sides. Once they settled in, Bo took off, almost spinning the tires.
Still standing next to Whisky, Clint removed his hat and scratched his scalp, perplexed and happy at the same time. Not sure exactly what had just happened, he turned to Whisky.
“Do you know what’s going on?”
Whisky jerked up his head slightly and shook his bridle.
“Well, whatever it is, I like it.”
Whisky snorted in agreement, turning his head in the direction of the bridge.