The Long Road Home. Lynn Patrick
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When Priscilla assumed Pop was his reason for returning to Sparrow Lake, he’d let her. Despite his reservations, he had wanted to check on the old man, but he had other reasons, too. He couldn’t go back to rodeoing, not after what had happened to him. Something he would never forget. But he didn’t owe Priscilla big explanations. Not about that. Not about the past. He’d always done what he’d thought he had to. Now he was starting over. And he’d known Pop had retired and was done with the land. He’d had to find a new way to make a living, but he was no dairy farmer.
He pulled up in front of the farmhouse, a white two-story with a wide porch, and parked in front of the steps. Not knowing what to expect, he entered the front vestibule with a sense of trepidation.
“Pop?”
“In here.”
Though nearly seventy, Dwayne Larson had a voice that was as deep and strong as it had ever been. Sam followed it into the dingy front parlor that looked exactly like it had fifteen years ago. Too crowded with old furniture, most of which was stacked with newspapers and magazines that his father refused to throw away. Why he still wanted to read Midwest Dairyman and keep years of back copies when he was retired was a mystery to Sam.
Ensconced in his favorite recliner, the casted leg up, Pop grumbled, “About time. What took you so long?”
Sam refused to respond to the bait. “What do you need, Pop?”
“For you to be responsible.”
Uh-oh. What new crime had he committed in his father’s eyes now?
“You’ll have to be a little more direct.”
“The boards you left lying around the parking area!”
“What boards?”
“The ones with big nails in them. Do you want to ruin your client’s tires?”
“This afternoon, the parking lot was fine. No boards with nails or otherwise.”
“You calling me a liar, boy?”
“No, of course not.”
Though Sam wondered about his father’s medication. If he was taking those pain killers he said he wouldn’t touch, they could be making him imagine things. How would he have seen the parking lot anyway in his condition? Or had someone put this particular idea in his head?
Sam tried to cool down the confrontation. “When I leave here, I’ll swing by the parking lot on my way back to the cabin.”
But Pop wasn’t having any conciliation. “A horse ranch in Wisconsin is a silly idea anyhow.”
Not a new sentiment. Sam knew his father didn’t approve, even if he had rented the land to Sam and had signed a contract agreeing to the business.
“It’s not the only ranch in Wisconsin, Pop. There are several west and north of here. It’s just the only one in this area, which gives me an edge in making it work.”
That’s what he was counting on, that people who weren’t dedicated riders with their own horse properties or who couldn’t afford to go to fancy riding schools, would like a less expensive, less demanding alternative.
“Met up with Will Berger at the bank this afternoon, and he gloated about the stupidity of my letting you start a dude ranch here.”
Berger being an old rival of his father’s, he would say anything to make Pop mad. “Wait a minute. You went out? Who drove you?”
“Drove myself. A broken leg’s not going to stop me.”
Pop couldn’t drive his truck with a broken leg, not with its clutch, but he could drive the old Chevy one-footed, since it was automatic. A broken leg should stop the old man, at least until the cast was off, but Sam wasn’t going to start yet another argument. To no surprise, his father did it for him.
“Why can’t you just get a normal job?”
“I’m good with horses. Great with horses.” Pop had no idea of how great—he’d never seen Sam rodeo. “That’s all I’ve been doing for fifteen years.”
“Not for the last six months, you haven’t.”
Pop never wasted an opportunity to remind him of how his life had gone off the rails. Again, he refused the bait. “If anyone can make a go of a dude ranch around here, it’ll be me. Just believe in me for once, would you?”
Pop waved a dismissive hand. “You might be good with horses. Doesn’t mean people around here are interested in riding ’em.”
“This whole area between Kenosha and Milwaukee gets a lot of tourism. A whole other potential for more clients.”
He knew it was useless to try to convince Pop, however. No matter what he did, the old man would disapprove. Being retired and getting around on crutches wasn’t improving his habitually cantankerous personality.
“I’m going to go check out that parking lot. Before I go, do you want me to get you anything?”
“I got a broken leg—I’m not an invalid!”
Sam started to say something, then clamped his mouth shut and turned on his heel to leave. He wasn’t out the door before he heard Pop yell something negative after him, but Sam just closed his ears to the probable insult.
Throwing himself into the truck, he headed for the barn and the parking area beyond. Why did the old man have to be so mean? He hadn’t always been like this. Sam remembered a time when he’d thought Pop was the best father in the world. That had all ended on his thirteenth birthday.
He didn’t want to think about that again, so he was relieved on arriving at the modest visitors’ parking area that could hold a dozen or more vehicles. Cutting the engine, he left the truck and scanned the area. Sure enough, there were some loose boards with protruding nails. Looked as if someone had pulled down a building or shed and this was the product. But why toss them here? On closer inspection, he realized boards weren’t the only things dumped here. Scattered throughout the lot were dozens of nails and screws.
Where on earth...?
The midnight visitor again?
The thought came to him unbidden: What if it hadn’t been a kid? What if it had been someone trying to hurt his business before he even got it off the ground?
But who?
He’d been a reckless teenager, had made enemies in high school, had gotten into more trouble than any other kid in Sparrow Lake, but that had all been small potatoes. And that had been a long, long time ago. Time usually tempered bad memories. People he’d run into in town when buying supplies for the ranch had been friendly enough. Even Cooper Peterson, his most bitter rival who’d hated him for being the better, faster rider when he’d challenged Sam to motorcycle races that Sam had won every time.
Had Peterson been playing him? Or someone else who held a grudge?
The idea threatened the possibility of him making a fresh start here. He couldn’t let it happen. He had to make it work. Had to make things right if his past misadventures had caught up to him.
He couldn’t fail.
Couldn’t start over again.
He had no place else to go.
* * *
TO PRISCILLA’S RELIEF, her nieces seemed to settle down when they returned to her apartment. At least for a while. After a light supper of chicken and leftover salad, they watched some television—well, she and Mia watched television. Alyssa was back to texting as she lounged in a chair.
Mia yawned for the third or fourth time. “I feel tired. And it’s not even late.”
“Your body clock is one hour ahead of central standard time,” Priscilla pointed out. “Plus the fresh air and exercise could have