“But you were gone before.”
“I was not gone. I was here and I will always be here.”
“How can you be so sure?”
She kisses me again before answering. “Because,” she says, her voice tender, “I am always with you, Ira.”
6
Luke
G
etting out of bed had been painful earlier in the morning, and as he reached up to brush Horse’s neck and withers, he felt his back scream in protest. The ibuprofen had taken some of the pain’s sharp edge away, but he still found it difficult to lift his arm any higher than his shoulder. While he had been checking the cattle at dawn, even turning his head from side to side had made him wince, making him glad that José was there to help around the ranch.
After hanging the brush, he poured some oats in a pail for Horse and then started toward the old farmhouse, knowing that it would take another day or two before he recovered fully. Aches and pains were normal after any ride, and he’d certainly been through worse. It wasn’t a question of if a bull rider got injured, but rather when and how badly. Over the years, not counting his ride on Big Ugly Critter, he’d had his ribs broken twice and his lung collapsed, and he’d torn both his ACL and MCL, one in each knee. He’d shattered his left wrist in 2005, and both his shoulders had been dislocated. Four years ago, he’d ridden in the PBR World Championships – Professional Bull Riders – with a broken ankle, using a special-formed cowboy boot to hold the still-broken bones in place. And of course, he’d sustained his share of concussions from being thrown. For most of his life, however, he’d wanted nothing more than to keep riding.
Like Sophia said, maybe he was crazy.
Peering through the kitchen window above the sink, he saw his mom hurry past. He wondered when things would get back to normal between them. In recent weeks, she’d nearly finished her own breakfast before he showed up, in what was an obvious attempt to avoid talking to him. She was using his presence to demonstrate that she was still upset; she wanted him to feel the weight of her silence as she picked up her plate and left him alone at the table. Most of all, she wanted him to feel guilty. He supposed he could have had breakfast at his own place – he’d built a small house just on the other side of the grove – but he knew from experience that denying her those opportunities would have only made things worse. She’d come around, he knew. Eventually, anyway.
He stepped up on the cracked concrete blocks as he gave the place a quick scan. The roof was good – he’d replaced it a couple of years back – but he needed to get around to painting the place. Unfortunately, he’d have to sand every plank first, almost tripling the amount of time that it would take, time he didn’t have. The farmhouse had been built in the late 1800s, and over the years it had been painted and repainted so many times that the coating was probably thicker than the wood itself. Now, it was peeling pretty much all over and rotting beneath the eaves. Speaking of which, he’d have to get around to fixing those, too.
He entered the small screened-in mudroom and wiped his boots on the mat. The door opened with the usual squeak, and he was struck by the familiar aroma of freshly cooked bacon and fried potatoes. His mom stood over the stove, stirring a pan of scrambled eggs. The stove was new – he’d bought that for her for Christmas last year – but the cabinets were original to the house, and the countertop had been around for as long as he could remember. So had the linoleum floor. The oak table, built by his grandfather, had dulled with age; in the far corner, the ancient woodstove was radiating heat. It reminded him that he needed to split some firewood. With cold weather coming, he needed to replenish the stack sooner rather than later. The woodstove warmed not only the kitchen, but the entire house. He decided he’d get to it after breakfast, before Sophia came by.
As he hung his hat on the rack, he noted that his mom appeared tired. No wonder – by the time he’d gotten Horse saddled and ridden out, his mom had already been hard at work cleaning the stalls.
“Morning, Mom,” he said, moving to the sink, keeping his voice neutral. He began scrubbing his hands. “Need some help?”
“It’s just about ready,” she answered without looking up. “But you can put some bread in the toaster. It’s on the counter behind you.”
He dropped the bread slices in the toaster, then poured himself a cup of coffee. His mom kept her back to him, but he could feel her radiating the same aura he’d come to expect in recent weeks. Feel guilty, you bad son. I’m your mother. Don’t you care about my feelings?