Page 12 of A Reckless Memory

“I know better. You weren’t raised like that. Listen, I could talk to—”

“I’m good. It’s fine.” I didn’t know if he was going to mention his boss or my brother, but the answer was no. I wasn’t a charity case unless my brother was waiting for me at the end of this drive, but Archer had never mentioned opening a horse rescue in his life.

If he was the one behind this bullshit job offer, I’d leave. I didn’t need a handout or a hand up. I didn’t do anything wrong, but this was what I got for sticking to my principles for once.

“Okay,” he drawled. “I’ll let you go. You know you always got a bunk here.”

Dad barely had a bunk where he worked. He had a good job and a tidy place to live, but it was fit for a bachelor who just wanted to work cattle and be left alone. I’d get to ride horses, but none of the land would be mine, the horses would have someone else’s brand, and I wouldn’t be training horses but using them to work cattle.

All in all, not much different than my life had been. Dad shouldn’t have to help out a son who was in his thirties.

“I’d better get going. Talk to you later, Dad.”

“Take care, Ansen,” he said almost wistfully before he hung up.

Guilt chewed at my gut and it wasn’t from keeping the details of my life from him. He disconnected because he thought I didn’t want to talk. That wasn’t the issue. I just didn’t know what to say.

I tried to be a good man, and it ruined my career.

Hey, I took a job really close to the town you left and never returned to. I’m almost there.

No, I haven’t told Archer I’m within miles of him.

Turning off the interstate farther west of where I’d been stopped earlier, I headed north on a tighter highway with steeper ditches but more cattle and fields. A shit ton of windmills scattered the horizon, some immobile, some with their gigantic blades lazily turning.

There were worse things that could pepper a view, but I wished I could’ve seen this area unblemished by the occasional oil well and fleet of windmills. I passed a well, its big hammerhead sitting still. Oil wells always brought back memories I’d rather forget.

Was there a period in my life I didn’t want to erase from my mind?

I pulled myself into the present. I was close to my destination, and questions I would’ve normally been insistent on getting answered before I wasted one gallon of gas crowded my brain. Specifics on the accommodations had been sketchy. Same with the low salary offer. And who I was actually working for.

My contact person, Christie, had said the rescue was brand new, that paperwork was being filed as we exchanged emails, but I’d be in charge of the animals rescued. Mostly horses to rehab and train for sale, but the rescue could accommodate other types of animals.

Since it was a new business, I couldn’t find information on the owner. Christie’s emails said the owner was also new to town but experienced in country living and had raised horses and other farm animals. She’d also mentioned structures around the place would need work.

So worse pay and more duties than what I was used to.

While some pertinent details were vague—like the owners’ names—others had been specific enough that I’d accepted the offer and the shit pay it came with.

There’d been nothing but firings and rejections for months.

I’d be back to fixing fence like when I was a teen, breaking my back for Dad’s old boss.

Following the directions on my GPS, I didn’t have to go into Crocus Valley. The turnoff to AKA Horse Rescue was an unmarked gravel road. At least it wasn’t some dark warehouse in the middle of town with a bunch of guys waiting to jump me. So far, the surroundings tracked with the job description.

After driving two miles on gravel, I slowed to inspect road signs. All the green markings I passed were numbered. “Crocus Lane, Crocus Lane,” I muttered as I passed each one.

A narrow wooden sign on my left made me skid to a stop and back up. I rolled down the window like I’d see better. Was I getting that fucking old?

Burned into a wooden plank cresting across the top of the road and secured to two vertical posts was Crocus Lane—a long driveway, not really a lane.

The house was a brand-new build. The lawn was covered in green fuzz with straw on the short inclines. Freshly seeded. The structure itself was a sprawling, modern farmhouse with two stories and three garage stalls. Something was vaguely familiar about it, but I’d been seeing all sorts of farm and ranch houses my entire life all over the country. A sizable new shop sat adjacent to the house. Behind the buildings was a different story.

A beige chicken coop that needed new doors had a penned-off portion with several hens running around inside. A large red barn that might’ve been picturesque at one time now had paint flaking off, but it looked more usable than a second old, brown barn with a dipped roof by a weed-filled riding ring. A small pasture with five grazing quarter horses was next to the better of the two barns. The fence had some shiny wire where it’d been recently repaired, but the rest could stand to be replaced. Another riding ring was behind the barns with its uneven rails. A definite DIY job. The pens lining the big barn were an eyesore, but perhaps they were still functional.

The horses were in the same condition as their surroundings, grazing on any green grass left, and it hit me. These quarter horses were basically given away—or taken away—while just months ago, I’d been working with stock that would earn more in their lives than this property likely sold for.

How the mighty had fallen.

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