Page 33 of Double Bucked

“Oh?”

“When we were in London, I asked you what you missed most about America. You said hamburgers. With American cheese.”

A small smile touches my lips. “I did say that. But I don’t think I can eat.”

“Not even a burger?”

I shake my head. The edge of his mouth pinches downward, but he nods.

“Come downstairs if you change your mind.”

He rises to his full height. His large fingers sift through my hair as he cups the back of my head, and his lips touch my forehead. Then he pulls away, steps out, and closes the door behind him.

I’m alone, but I don’t feel alone.

My father’s office space was always the scariest room in the house. The only time I was invited in was to have a “frank conversation” about my grades or my posture or my competition rank. The velvety red walls are lined with bookshelves—all rare books, many first editions. He has a standing bar in the corner of the room. A coffee table for casual conversations.

And then there’s the desk. Flanked by the gruesome grandfather clock, his desk is pure mahogany and exquisitely hand carved. An onyx, horse-shaped paperweight marches on top of a stack of in-progress papers. The desktop is impeccable—my father was nothing if not orderly—with his ledger in the center and a fountain pen lying neatly beside it.

The chair is practically a throne, with carved animal feet and a soft padding that matches the wall color. Even empty, there’s a heaviness there.

I swear, I can see him sitting in it now.

A creeping feeling crawls up the back of my neck. I get up and go to the bar. I fix Daddy’s drink—two fingers of scotch, neat—and take the drink to his desk. Maybe to clear the dust or shake out the negative energy, I sit in his chair.

It’s harder than I imagined. I lean into it, trying to make myself comfortable. I sip the scotch. It burns, and I wait for the unpleasantness to subside before I take another swallow.

If you’d told me a couple of days ago that someone had planned to burn the Preacher Ranch down, I would’ve provided the gasoline.

But now, faced with the very real prospect of losing the ranch, I surprise myself with a strange pinch of nostalgia.

The booby traps, the strange donations to strange foundations, the way he let the house go to rot…

Is it all my fault? Did I push him to it? Depression, drinking, paranoia?

Did he lose it all when he lost me?

I twist in the chair and tilt the glass to my lips, finishing it off.

Through the arched windows, I see a sky streaked with reds, oranges, and pinks. From this chair, Daddy had a perfect view of his kingdom. The various houses on the property, as well as the large, open training rings and the well-groomed, expansive garden.

A light catches my eye when it flickers in the stables.

Everyone should be home by now. The horses should be resting.

So who’s pulling the all-nighter?

I have my suspicions, but curiosity gets the better of me. I put my glass down, pick up the rest of the bottle, and leave the office.

I walk down the hall, passing my bedroom. The door is cracked open. I can hear James’s voice inside.

“Yes,” he says. “I know what indefinitely means. I just don’t know what it means in this context.”

He goes quiet. I glance in the crack of the door. His tall body paces the length of the bedroom. He has his earbuds in, and he’s talking to someone on the other end. He stops pacing to run his fingers over a stuffed horse that sits in the window shelf.

“Yes, sir. I understand.”

His voice is low, and there’s an intense edge to it I’m not familiar with. I get the strange feeling I’m witnessing something I shouldn’t.

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