Steve’s shorts: Your Past Will Find You, Part One of Three…
[This short story is a bit different than my usual—call it a bit of mystery (but not a cozy) and a bit of romance (but not erotic) and a bit of a bow to the great Midwest. Enjoy.]
Your Past Will Find You
Copyright 2016, Steven M Moore
Part One
Will Richardson spotted the woman across the street before he had to close his eyes.
“Who’s the newcomer?” he said to his barber, Leroy, who was trimming his eyebrows.
“Rena Edmunds,” said Leroy. “She bought the old Sullivan place. Know where that is?”
Will opened his eyes and smiled. “Yeah, just beyond Curly Bonner’s ranch.”
He was new to the town five years ago, so people assumed he still didn’t know where things were. It’s not like finding an address in the Village. But he had always spent a lot of time at Curly’s.
“She’s a good looking filly,” said the barber.
Will ran a horse business. He bred and sold horses, stabled them for people, and was the only one left in the area that could take a young horse and patiently train it for riding, what was once called breaking, a term he didn’t like. He had worked for Curly and learned the trade, but the old man was now retired and out to pasture himself, so Will had taken the business over. Most people said he was better than Curly ever was at training a horse, but he didn’t think so—the old man could look a horse in the eye, calm him, and become his friend.
“But she might be a bit high and mighty for you, Will. She’s from back east. An artsy type who paints them fancy, high-priced works no sane person can understand.”
“Have you seen her paintings?”
“Well, no, but I heard they’re weird. She’s even on that worldwide web!”
Will smiled. “I wonder what brought her here to our little piece of heaven.”
“You’ll have to ask her.”
Will watched her look along the street with an apprehensive expression and enter the hardware store. What’s her story?
“I think I will. How much do I owe you today? No beard trim should make it a bit less.”
***
“I hope you’re not scratching my car,” Rena said to Will when she exited the store and saw him sitting on the hood of her Land Rover.
He jumped down. “Let me help you with that.” He hoisted bags of seed and fertilizer from a dolly into the back of the SUV. “Looks like you’re going to try to grow a lawn at Pat Sullivan’s old place. Have you broken up that hardpan yet?”
“Mr. Bonner’s going to use his little tractor to break it up for me.”
“Place has some good pastureland, but Pat let that lawn die out years ago, I’m told.”
“And you are?”
Will wiped his dusty hands on his jeans and held out his right hand. “Will Richardson. I raise and train horses. I took over Curly’s business.”
She nodded. “I’ve seen you working there. I thought you worked for Curly.”
“He lets me run the business and keep the horses there. I can’t afford to buy his place. Any other for that matter. And he likes to watch me work with the horses when he can.”
“Some of those horses look pretty wild. They won’t let me get near them.”
“Do you ride?”
“Not really. I’d like to get a few riding horses, though, and learn. I have space for them. If I’m going to adapt to my new home, I should have a horse or two.”
“You’ve come to the right person, then.”
“And here I thought this was a western come-on.”
Will laughed. “Business and pleasure, ma’am. The business is letting you know about mine. The pleasure is introducing myself and welcoming you here.”
“Thank you for that. And for putting those heavy bags in the back.”
“Give me your number and I’ll give you a call.” The apprehensive look returned followed by a raised eyebrow. “When I’m out to Curly’s working with the horses. You might want to try out the tamer ones. I have a few that are nearly ready for inexperienced riders. There’s a big demand. Kids are always asking their parents for a horse, you know.”
“Do you work with young riders?”
“All ages. Kids are just adults without all the problems.” Will tilted his sweat-stained cowboy hat. “You have a good day now.”
“Wait!” She handed him a card. “Give me a call.”
“Will do.” He shut the Rover’s door for her. “Curly has a spreader for that sad little tractor. Pay him extra, and he’ll spread the seed and fertilizer too, I bet. If he can’t manage it, I’ll do it. All you need do, then, is water it and watch it grow.”
Will sauntered off.
Rena looked after him. That was interesting!
***
That night in his room at Mama Dora’s boarding house at the edge of town, Will studied the business card. It said: Rena Edmunds, Acrylics and Oils. There was a website URL and 212-area code phone number. He opened his laptop.
Phew! Leroy was right. The paintings on the website were out of this world. It was as if some alien had merged Van Gogh with Picasso and asked the resulting golem to paint his landscapes. And what landscapes and colors! He was sure the laptop screen didn’t do the paintings justice either, but you could still feel the sweet savagery of it all.
Some paintings were for sale and had exorbitant prices. Others were in galleries, two in the MoMA. At those prices, he wondered if Rena had paid for the Sullivan place by selling only one painting. But that led to the obvious question: why had she chosen to come here?
The same phone number was on the website. He dialed it.
“Hello.” He gave a fake name and the name of a gallery he remembered in lower Manhattan. “I’m trying to contact Rena Edmunds. I have a client interested in one of her paintings.”
“I’m her agent, Harry Branson. Ms. Edmunds no longer lives in New York City. I’m afraid you can’t speak with her directly. I can pass your message on to her, or personally help your client with the painting.”
“I’ll talk to my client. I understand Ms. Edmunds is in the Midwest somewhere. My client is from Kansas City. Maybe she can visit Ms. Edmunds out there.”
“That’s not possible. Your client will have to deal with me. I’m sorry.”
Will hung up. He was being rude, but he didn’t like the guy’s tone, even factoring in the traditional snippiness of denizens of the Big Apple’s skyscraper canyons. Of course, I’m snarky too, which is why I hung up. Rudeness meets rudeness.
It was clear that Rena Edmunds wanted a private life rather than a public one. But why?
***
That night Rena Edmunds used Google to search for Will Richardson. He hadn’t bothered to change Curly’s website or create his own; Richardson only figured as Curly’s employee. The website wasn’t very up-to-date either. She remembered seeing a lot more horses in Curly’s pastures, for one thing, and he looked many years younger. Of course, people just keep using the same pics on their sites. DMV photos are more up-to-date.
The information at the site confirmed the services once offered by Curly and now presumably offered by Will. She decided to talk to Bonner the next day about the seeding and about Will.
Sleep always came slowly. There were no city noises on the Sullivan ranch, nothing like Neil Diamond’s “A Beautiful Noise.” At first, she had found it soothing. Now the quiet caused loneliness…and sometimes fear. She tried to hug herself to sleep. Sometimes it worked, but mostly it didn’t. She heard noises and shuddered.
He’s probably looking for me.
There was a crash. She ran to the bedroom window and looked out. Raccoons! The cute little bandits showed no fear. I need a watchdog. She watched the animals for a bit and then went downstairs to her study.
An unfinished painting was on the easel. One could see the hills and hollows between her studio and the boundary with Curly’s property amidst the riotous streaks of blues and grays and silvers. I think I’ll call it “Moon Madness.” There was little moonlight that night, so she had to use her imagination.
She began to paint.
***
Rena knocked on Curly’s kitchen door.
“It’s open,” said Bonner. “You don’t expect me to get up, do you?”
She entered. Bonner was unshaven and in his pajamas. He motioned to the stove.
“Help yourself, Rena,” he said. “I’m a bit too arthritic today.”
She smiled, served her coffee, and sat at the table across from him.
“I met Will in town. He said you could use your spreader to spread the seed and fertilizer I bought.”
“That’ll cost you. I’ll mix the two so it will only take two passes, though, one for the tilling, the other for the seed-fertilizer mixture. You’re in charge of everything else, young lady. Watering mostly, but there might be weeds.”
“The fertilizer supposedly has something to kill the weeds. I don’t know where they’d come from, though. The seeds are supposed to be weed free.”
“They come from the ground. That hardpan only had weeds, so they’ve gone to seed, which can last awhile. You’ll be planting them too—no seed is 100% pure. Good choice on the fertilizer. That’ll help keep them down.” He coughed into a Kleenex. “Will might have to do the plowing and so forth if this damn arthritis doesn’t let up.”
She eyed the spots of blood in the Kleenex. “Maybe you need to see a doctor, Curly.”
“Last time I saw one—two years ago maybe—he did a lot of breathing tests and then said I had sleep apnea. I looked that up. He’s crazy. What I have is a hole in my heart because my Jenny left me three years ago. I haven’t had a good night’s sleep since. They call that insomnia, not apnea.”
Rena could empathize. “I guess I’m OK with that. I’ll talk to Will about doing it. I want to talk to him about buying a couple of horses for riding too.”
Bonner brightened. “Will’s the man! He sold one the other day to the parents of a four-year-old. The little tyke looked like a fly on the back of that mare, but that horse is as gentle and patient as the little girl’s mother. What people won’t do for their kids these days. Back when, horses were working animals, from plow horses to cattle-herding quarter horses. Times have changed.”
“Those same parents today might own two cars and a plane,” Rena said with a smile. “As well as a menagerie of pets that eat better than a lot of people in the world.”
Bonner nodded. “That’s the New York progressive talking, but my Jenny used to say the same thing. Do you ride?”
“I need to learn, but I’m here, I have room for horses, and it sounds like good and relaxing fun.”
“Hmm. I’d start with just one animal and see how it goes. Then go for the companion. Horses get lonely too, just like people.”
***
Two days later, after Will had plowed and spread the seed and fertilizer mixture, she was looking at horses with him.
“I like that one,” she said, pointing to dark brown horse with a black mane and tail. “Obviously a male,” she said with a smile. “Is he tame enough for me?”
Will smiled back. “Name’s Max. You picked the most docile one here. I’ve been trying to sell him. He’s a big fellow, though, and eats like a Clydesdale. Parents like smaller ones for their kids. I’ve been shopping him around nearby towns figuring a rancher might want him for his own riding.”
“Ranchers can be women, you know.”
“You’ll be growing grass—that’s more farmer than rancher, but point well taken. I need to learn to be more politically correct. Your legs are long. Want to try him? Only if you have the time, of course. There’s a warmup period.”
“Warmup period? What for? Doesn’t he get warmed up by riding him?”
“He has to get used to you. That kind of warmup. It’s a process. You warm up to him; he warms up to you. Horse meets rider. Either you fall in love or you don’t.”
“That almost sounds like a romance novel.”
“Wouldn’t know about them. I read mysteries and thrillers, some sci-fi. The only fifty shades of gray you’ll find are in the debris in my pickup.”
“That’s erotica, not romance.”
“All the same to me. Let’s get you and Max acquainted today. I’ll then take you into the barn and show you the gear. Tomorrow we’ll saddle him up.”
“Do I need to buy a saddle and all that for him?”
“I’ll lend you the gear until you get your own. I have some spares.”
***
When Rena returned to her place, she noticed the answering machine in the kitchen was blinking. She listened to the message from Harry Branson.
“Hello, Rena, I hope things are going well. I’ve sold three paintings and sent you the proceeds, less my commission, of course.” He laughed. “Should be arriving today. I thought I had another client—someone out in Kansas City—but her agent hung up on me when I refused to say where you are.” She frowned. “He said he knew you were in the Midwest somewhere, so maybe his client could meet you. Maybe he’ll get back to me. If you need anything, give me a call.”
She decided to change her priorities after that message. Right now I need a gun more than a horse.
She could use the money Harry would be sending. It would arrive at her PO Box in town, implying another trip to town was required. She’d buy the gun then.
***
The next morning Will was waiting for her at Curly’s. “Ready for the first riding lesson?” he said.
Rena opened her purse and showed him the gun. “I want some shooting lessons too.”
“How do you know I can teach you how to shoot?” he said, his smile changing to a frown. What does she know?
“Don’t all people here know how to use guns?”
“I know this will sound sexist, but not necessarily women. There are a few ladies who go hunting or go to the range, but I’m not sure many carry a weapon in their purse. ‘Course I don’t make a habit of snooping in purses either.”
“So, you won’t teach me?”
“I didn’t say that. Living alone, it might be a good idea that you have a gun handy. But let’s get you riding Max first. We can then think about going someplace where we won’t disturb old Curly’s nap. Maybe your place, down by that creek.”
She nodded. That was as far as she could get from Curly’s place.
She and Max had become friends the day before. The big horse seemed bored when she swung into the saddle. She took the reins and rode him around the pasture.
“OK, Rena Edmunds, you lied to me,” Will said when she returned to where he was standing. “You ride just fine. What’s the story?”
“I didn’t want to admit it. I’m very rusty. I haven’t ridden for years. I learned in Spain.”
“In Spain? What were you doing there?”
“Sharpening my artistic skills with a Spanish maestro. People do that all the time.”
“Wow! I would have just stayed there. I love Spanish food. Tapas and Riojo—can’t be beat.”
“They also have quite an artistic tradition,” Rena said with a smile. She patted Max. “Max and I are already friends. Name your price.”
“I’ll have to check with Curly. He owns most of Max. Ride a bit more, and then we’ll see about the gun lesson. I’ll talk to Curly tonight.”
***
The gun lesson didn’t go so well. It took Rena an hour before she even hit the target on the tree down by the creek. The main problem she had was the distraction caused by Will grabbing her hips and her arms to position her and steady her aim. She was angry with herself for feeling like a teenager awaiting a prom night kiss. But the last man who touched her had been Jake who had caressed her cheek when she gave him CPR as he lay dying on the sidewalk.
“Relax,” said Will. “Here. Give me the gun.” He put it down on a rock. He shook his arms and rolled his head. “Get loose. You can’t be tense. Don’t try to copy those Hollywood actors who don’t have a clue about how to shoot. Keep your balance and keep your eyes open.” He picked up the gun, sighted, and pulled the trigger, all in a smooth motion.
“You missed!” she said with a laugh.
“No, I hit the bulls-eye.”
She ran toward the tree to check. She saw the small hole exactly in the center of the target. She returned, shaking her head.
“I’ll never be able to do that.”
“Maybe not. It takes some practice. How long did it take you to learn to ride?”
“A few months, I guess.”
“You’ll be shooting well enough at the end of a few months too. Practice. If the range weren’t so far away, I’d take you there. I’m a bit rusty myself.”
“You’d never notice.”
“Because this is a short distance. Hand guns aren’t very good for long ranges, but we can easily triple this distance with your weapon if you get set right. We’ll work on it a bit here, and then maybe you can hit the range on your own. But tomorrow I want you to go on a cross-country ride with me. Horse riding over rough terrain is a bit more difficult than in a pasture. You probably haven’t done that.”
“No, I haven’t. Just around the orange orchards in Spain.
***
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