A Memory Worth Dying For (24 page)

A bright yellow sticky-note stuck to the wall beside the office door caught his attention. His name was written across the top.

He moaned. Another chore. This had to stop. Max thought he was the owner of the place—adding more chores to the already long list—as if he didn’t have enough to do.

Zach stepped back to the office door and yanked the note off the wall. He read the note and frowned. It was signed “Max.” Of course.

According to the note, Mr. Rushing wanted him to go to the ravine pasture first thing this morning and check on the four-year-old fillies grazing there for the summer. He was supposed to check the printed list and record each filly’s condition and progress. Hot dog! Something besides mucking out stalls. But, it would take him at least an hour to record the information for the four-year-olds.

The rest of the note said he should also take the backhoe and bring back a couple bales of hay. Irritation deepened the wrinkles between his eyes, and he wadded the note up and threw it into the trash. Didn’t Max know they were having trouble with the brakes on the backhoe? How was he supposed to feed hay with no brakes?

He stood there and thought for a minute. There was no other way to pick up a bale of hay without the forks attached to the front of the backhoe bucket—the other tractor with the loading fork was in the hay field. He shrugged. The extra weight from the hay bale might help stop the tractor. He’d check it out. If the weight helped, he’d use the backhoe anyway.

He pulled the clipboard with the filly’s chart off the shelf in the office and stomped to the equipment shed. After filling the backhoe with diesel, he cranked the cantankerous machine. It spit and sputtered but finally settled into a rough rhythm. He climbed up on the seat and lifted the loader bucket in the front of the machine until it was well above the ground. The dipper bucket in back groaned as it lifted off the hard dirt. When both buckets were two feet above the ground, Zach backed the machine out of the shed and let it slide to a stop in the driveway.

Man! Warren was right. The brakes were as soft as sheep’s wool. The pedal went plumb to the floor. He twisted the steering wheel until the machine was turned toward the back pasture. It was a straight shot. If he was careful, he could make the whole trip without brakes.

Humming to himself, he drove the five miles on full throttle and arrived at the ravine pasture in twenty minutes. He slowed the motor and parked it under a stand of maple trees and away from the fence edging the ravine. The fillies were grazing a short distance away, so he stepped down off the backhoe and turned toward the horses. He took his time, marked each mare down on the clipboard, and recorded size and approximate weight.

A bay filly munched on grass a few feet from him. She was as round as a wooden water barrel. He double-checked her records and saw she’d been grazing in this pasture for a while now. Her bloating was probably caused by over-eating. He remembered Daniel saying too much of the fresh spring grass causes bloating. That’s a fact he needed to remember if he went to the Welsh outfit.

Yep, this filly needed moving to the corral at the stable so her feedings could be monitored. He noted it on the chart and made one final check of each horse’s overall condition. The rest of the horses were active and seemed to be in good health.

He strolled over to the backhoe, propped the clipboard on the seat, and pulled the honeybun out of his shirt pocket. The morning sun had risen just above the ravine and red light shimmering in the morning fog made the ravine look blood red. What a beautiful place.

When he heard the crack of a broken stick behind him, he turned to see who was sneaking up on him. No one was there. That was odd. He was sure he’d heard a footstep.

He took the last bite of his honeybun, threw the plastic wrapper down in the pasture, and stepped over to a wild stand of blackberries. Luscious berries covered the bushes, and he washed down the last bite of his honeybun with the juice from the berries.

When he’d had enough, he wiped his hands in the grass and walked back to the maple trees. He lifted his foot to climb up onto the backhoe when he felt a hard blow to the back of his head. His last conscious moment was hearing the words, “Sorry about this, man, but you were in the wrong place at just the right time.”

FORTY-FOUR

MARTI SAT DOWN ON THE
metal bench of the portable picnic table and glanced around the ranch. She couldn’t believe how the place had been transformed in the last twenty-four hours. Especially for the occasion, square bales of hay decorated corners of the yard, and pots of blooming geraniums and petunias hung from trees and posts located around the picnic area.

Silently, she watched women arrange desserts and salads on the long tables set up for food. Smoke from grills full of hamburgers and hot dogs filled the air with tantalizing aromas and made her stomach growl. Embarrassed, she crossed her arms over her stomach to hide the sound and spoke to Stella standing beside the table.

“Can I help with something, Stella?”

Stella gave her a lost look and grinned. “If I knew what to do myself, I’d be happy to let you help, but since I don’t know what I’m doing either, it’d be like the blind leading the blind.”

They both laughed.

“Just relax, honey, and let Mr. Gerald be the big boss of this shindig. In the kitchen, he knows I’m the boss, but at this picnic every year, I let him tell everybody what to do, and I stay out of it. It’s all right if the women let the men be in charge once a year.” She grinned and ambled back toward the kitchen.

Marti caught sight of a golden retriever on the outskirts of the crowd. He lifted his nose in the air, smelling for something familiar. Then suddenly, as if he’d found what he was looking for, he squeezed through the crowd of children and adults and made a beeline for the tables. His tail twirled around in circles in his excitement.

Marti jerked back as huge paws plopped in her lap and a bobbing head propped on her knees.

“Samson!” a woman yelled, running toward them.

Marti stared at the dog. Samson?
Her
Samson? Instantly she rubbed her cheeks in the fur on the dog’s face and put her arms around his neck. “Oh, you sweetie. You remembered me!”

She buried her face in the soft strands of reddish-gold and held back the tears. The golden retriever had been a birthday gift from Skyler only a month before Marti left the ranch. The day she left, she called Skyler and left a message on her answering machine to please take the dog home with her to live. Through an abundance of tears, Marti had left him sitting forlornly outside the ranch house, believing she would never see the affectionate pup again.

Skyler, out of breath from chasing the dog, picked up the trailing leash and rubbed her hand on her forehead. “Man! I figured he’d remember you, but I had no idea he’d react that way.”

Marti looked up into the face of her friend. Three years had turned her into a beautiful young woman. “Skyler! Oh, it’s so good to see you again.” She set the dog’s paws on the ground and stood up to give her friend a warm hug.

“Yeah. This is great. Cynthia and I saw Gerald in town last week. He told us you were coming for a visit, but he didn’t know when or how long you’d be here.”

Marti felt a twinge of discomfort. “He told you I was coming? But, I didn’t even let him know I was coming for sure. How did he know?”

Skyler’s mouth widened into a circle. “Oh, I’m sorry. I wasn’t supposed to mention that he told us. He was at the craft store, and the sales lady let it slip that he was stocking an art studio. We were nosy, and I guess we sort of dragged it out of him. But, he gave us strict instructions not to tell anyone, and I promise, we didn’t tell a soul.”

Marti felt a knot in the pit of her stomach. “We?”

“Cynthia and me. But, don’t worry. Gerald swore us both to secrecy.”

The revelation that Gerald was so sure she would stay and paint the portrait was something Marti wasn’t expecting. He said he’d prayed about her staying. His prayers must have been potent.

She smiled at Skyler. “Where is Cynthia, anyway? Best I remember, you two were inseparable.”

“She’ll be here in a little while. She’s having her hair done. Don’t ask me why. It’s not like there are tons of men around here to impress.” Her laugh tinkled in the morning air. “Oh, there she is now. Hey, Cynthia!” Skyler yelled as Cynthia got out of her car, which she had parked on the side of the driveway. Cynthia waved her hand in greeting.

“Man, I’m glad she’s here. We have something we wanna ask you.”

Marti tilted her head to the side. She wasn’t sure she wanted to hear what the two young women had dreamed up. She had a feeling she wouldn’t like it.

Cynthia came bounding over to the table with a brown grocery sack in her hands. “You found her, Skyler. Have you asked her yet?”

Skyler looked guilty. “Not yet. I thought I’d wait on you.”

Cynthia scowled.

“Ask me what?” Marti asked warily.

Cynthia dropped her bag on the table. “For the last three years, the Chamber of Commerce has been sponsoring a fundraiser for a deserving orphanage. They charge money for touring the antebellum houses and churches in Carson, and the Carson Artist Group helps out by holding a plein air painting competition. We paint the beautiful houses during the day, and then they hold an auction late in the afternoon and sell the paintings.”

“Yeah,” Skyler interrupted, “And this year, we were wondering . . . well . . . if you’d be interested. I mean, you’re such a good artist and everything. We thought you might like to—”

“Enter a painting in the auction?”

“Exactly. Would you? Please, please, please? It’s for a good cause, and if we can get you on board, other artists might join as well. You know, there’s nothing like a good friendly competition.” Skyler grinned.

“When is it?”

“Saturday.”

“I’ll think about it, but I can’t promise. I might not be here that long.”

Cynthia pouted. “You’re not leaving already.”

Marti shrugged. “I’m not sure. I may have to go back.”

“Please think about it, Martha, won’t you?” Skyler gave her a hug.

“Okay, I’ll think about it, but only if you agree to call me Marti. I dropped the name Martha when I left here three years ago, and, uh . . . it might be confusing . . . if you know what I mean.”

Cynthia jumped up. “Yeah, that’s right. You mean because of Daniel, of course. Will do. Oh! I gotta run. I promised I’d help slice cakes and brownies, and I can’t do that until I get rid of these chips and buns. Come on, Skyler—you can help.
Marti
, I’ll get you a copy of the application form, and we can talk to you later about the auction, okay?”

“Sure.” Marti smiled and gave Samson one last hug. “See you later, Samson.”

Tears burned the back of Marti’s eyes. She stood up and walked closer to the water’s edge. She’d lost so much when she left here three years ago. She rubbed the tears from her eyes and listened to the ripples of water making splashing sounds when tiny waves washed up on the shore.

“Miss Marti! Miss Marti!”

Marti turned to smile at Chris as he bounded across the grass and wrapped his arms around her legs. She picked him up and leaned back as he thrust something toward her.

“See what I got?” He held several sticks and a colorful wad of paper.

“Hey, Chris. What do you have there?”

“It’s a kite. Unc’l Dan’l bought it for me. He’s gonna help me. You wanna play?”

Marti looked up to see Daniel standing beside her. Her heart did a little dance in her chest. Man, he looked good. His dark hair ruffled in the cool breeze, and the smile on his face made her heart flutter. She tore her gaze away and back to Chris.

“I’d love to play kites with you, Chris. Thank you for asking me.”

Daniel patted Chris on the head. “Let’s wait until after we eat, buddy.”

“Ohhhkaay.”

Marti heard the disappointment in Chris’ answer and had an idea.

“Why don’t you go see if you can find some unusual pebbles on the beach?”

Chris’ head perked up. “Hey, I’m gonna look for shells.” He squirmed until Marti put him down, and then he grabbed Marti’s hand. “Come help, Miss Marti.”

“Well, Chris, I don’t think—”

“There’s one, Miss Marti. There’s one!” Chris pulled his hand out of Marti’s clutch and ran to pick up something on the ground. His little face lit up and he ran back. “I found one. I found one!” He showed a dark pebble to Daniel and Marti.

He handed it to Marti. “It’s a shell.”

Daniel looked at the pebble. “I don’t think this is a shell, Chris, it’s a pebble.”

Chris stood up straight and shook his little brown head. “No, Unc’l Dan’l. It’s a shell. I know. Ronica said shells are always on the beach.”

Daniel looked at Marti and winked.

“Whatever you say, Chris.”

“Look! I see more.”

Chris was off running down the beach trying to pick up all the pebbles his tiny hands would hold.

“Don’t get your clothes wet!” Daniel yelled.

“He’s as cute as a button,” Marti said as she watched the little boy kicking at the waves.

“Veronica will kill me if he gets his clothes wet.”

“Oh, they’ll dry.”

Chris’ laughter sounded like music, and she sighed. One day maybe the Lord would answer her prayer for a child of her own.

Daniel turned to Marti. “I’ve been thinking about what you said about why the Bible is God’s Word. Are you ready to argue with me a little more?”

Marti laughed. “Okay. Let me tell you another reason we can know the Bible is God’s Word. It was written by more than forty writers who were from different backgrounds—anywhere from fishermen to politicians. They wrote the Bible in three different languages, and they all came from three different continents—yet the Bible sounds like it could have been written by the same man. None of their writings contradict each other, yet they were written over a span of fifteen hundred years. Don’t you think that’s amazing?”

“Yeah, I guess it is . . . if it’s all true.”

“Of course it’s true. Research it for yourself.”

“I just might do that.” He laughed at the assured lift of her head.