The morning light found Bo still sleeping in his leather chair. He stood, made his way into the kitchen, and turned on the coffeepot. He was usually up by six fifteen, admiring the sunlight as it began its glow through the tree line just beyond the barn, the orange and red slowly expanding into brighter and brighter yellow and gold. By now, he would have had his shower and a second cup of coffee, and would be about to walk out the back door, down the porch, and across the strip of grass that lead to the barn. There he would saddle Whisky by the Drink and make his morning rounds of the property. However, on this particular morning, everything was out of sorts, and he was late. For the first time since Mary Beth’s passing, he broke his routine—but not by design.
From the kitchen window over the sink, Bo could see that the barn light was on. Clint’s truck was parked on the left-hand side of the hitching post.
Clint worked for Bo’s oldest son Clay. He was paid by the family estate, set up by the Kelso boys when the family had sold the majority of the ranch property so Bo could retire. Clint was in his late forties with gray hair and bursts of tight wrinkles around his pale-blue eyes. Tall and wiry, he stood six foot two and weighed just over one hundred seventy pounds. Bo was sure that Clint would blow away in a strong Texas breeze. The job seemed to suit Clint to a tee, though, and he was as reliable as the rising of the sun.
Waiting for the coffee to finish its brew, he looked again out the window, soaking in the inherent beauty of the dawning day. He noticed Clint now just inside the barn, staring intently at the large chalkboard nailed to the wall by the tack room, reading the chore list for any given day. Clint always had a cowboy hat on his head—sometimes black and sometimes brown— but always a cowboy hat. The only time Bo ever saw him take it off his head was when he read the chores written on the chalkboard, and at those times, he would massage his fingers through his gray hair as he contemplated the day’s work. In his usual wobbly gait, caused by a bum knee from rodeo days gone by and bulldogging steers, Clint worked until noon seven days a week. The remainder of each day was his own.
The smell of freshly brewed coffee cleared the cobwebs from Bo’s head. He poured himself a bit, caressing the cup as he lifted it to his lips.
“It doesn’t taste the same,” he said aloud. “Three years of trying and I still can’t make it taste the way you made it, Mary Beth. I am using the same coffee, the same coffeemaker, everything, and it doesn’t taste the same.” In a dramatic, beseeching tone, he looked upward: “Please tell me, honey. What am I doing wrong?”
His words dangled in the air, unanswered.
He finished a second cup of coffee as he listened to an early-morning talk show on the radio. He left it on as he showered, shaved, and then dressed. It was now almost seven o’clock as he turned off the radio, exited the house, and locked the door behind him. He started his walk to the barn with some trepidation. This was the beginning of a day he had been dreading.
He was on his way to the neighborhood on the far backside of his property to speak to Samuel Clover, the preacher of the Clover Town Pentecostal Church—the church attended by Elijah Waters and his family, the church that had helped raise the money for Elijah’s attorney. Bo had spoken to Pastor Clover by phone the day before and arranged to meet on that morning.
The warm colors of a rising sun peeped through the tree line on the other side of Clear Creek. Bo stopped a few hundred feet short of his barn to take it all in. There was no wind, and the stillness was hypnotic.
“Thank you, God, for this day,” he said in a low voice. A short prayer—it was one he repeated often.
He stood there long enough to see the sun creep above the roofline of the barn, flooding the horizon with the richness of morning. As if on cue, an orchestra of songbirds began their morning serenade to all who would listen.
Bo bowed his head in deference to the moment. Surely, he thought, this is the best time of the day for an old cowboy like me.
As he entered the barn, he was almost run over by Clint, who strolled past with a wheelbarrow full of feed almost overflowing its edges. He also balanced a five-gallon bucket and a small shovel on top of the feed, stopping at each stall along the west wall of the barn. The twelve horses, six on the west side and six on the east side, poked their heads out over the stall doors. They anxiously awaited their breakfast. Some whinnied, others stomped their hooves, while others rattled their stall doors.
“I see you got your hands full this morning,” Bo said as he passed Clint on his way to Whisky’s stall.
“Yep, like always.” Clint replied.
Then he asked, “The boy?” referring to Matt, a nineteen-year-old hand who had just started working at the ranch three months earlier and had not made it into work on time yet.
“Sooner or later he might show up. We could use some reliable help around here,” Clint replied as he entered one of the stalls to feed Stopper. Stopper’s full name was Showstopper because of his muscular lines and tall stance. One of the finest cutting horses in Texas, he could outmaneuver any calf and slice through a herd like a needle pulling through cotton.
With the birds singing, the sun rising, and the animals demanding breakfast, the sounds and sights of the morning were a live symphony to a cowboy. Conversation was unnecessary— everything that needed saying was on the chalkboard or could wait.
Bo walked to the end of the barn to Whisky’s stall. Nailed above his stall was an oak board, upon which Whisky by the Drink was meticulously carved. Underneath the horse’s name was the horse’s birthday, April 17, 1969. It was a special day to Bo, and for more personal reasons too. Each horse in the barn had the same introduction nailed above each stall.
Unlike the other horses, Whisky was transfixed on the back of the house, where Mary Beth had so often made an appearance at this time of day. Three years now and this magnificent horse is faithful to her memory, Bo thought. It was a source of great pride to him, that his horse was so loyal and heart-driven. After all, if not for Mary Beth, man and beast may have never been united. Another reason to love that woman. Bo reached inside his jacket pocket and produced an apple, which glistened red, reflecting the overhead lights. He removed his pocketknife, opened it, and halved the apple. He now had Whisky’s full attention.
“Good morning, old friend. Here. You may as well have it all since we’re not riding today.” He gave Whisky one half and then the other, then moved away from the stall so Clint could feed him.
“I don’t need his tack out this morning, Clint,” Bo said. “I’m going over to Clover Town to see someone. I should be back after lunch, so shut the house gate for me please.”
“Figured,” Clint responded. He followed up with, “Got on your best boots, fancy white shirt, and your best buckle on your belt. Figured.”
“Yeah, can’t get much by you,” Bo said as he walked out the back of the barn toward his truck.
At the sound of the unmistakable crunch of gravel, Bo looked up. A young man had just pulled up to the front of the barn and jumped from his truck. He ran into the barn as if he were finishing a race.
“Sorry I’m late, Mr. Kelso!” he shouted as he passed, ranting all the while about the reasons and circumstances and why-fors and whatnots that kept him from being on time.
Bo nodded and replied with great earnestness, “You don’t say,” but kept walking toward his truck.
With Matt’s arrival, the serenity of the morning was irreparably broken. Bo knew from experience that it would take awhile for a young wannabe cowboy like Matt to learn two of the most important cowboy lessons of all. First was how to gain the most from a conversation by using as few words as possible. And the second lesson was that early mornings should be allowed to wake up easy.