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“Give me twenty minutes. I’ll call you.” With a warm smile, she leaves for the kitchen. She reminds me of my first mom. She always has. Same concern, same tenderness, same ability to love without saying a word. I remember when I was eleven and still struggling with my transition to the ranch, she pulled me aside and set an album in my lap. We looked through the pictures of my family, and she let me explain every single memory. At the end, she closed the book, and with tears in her eyes, she said, “I can’t replace them. I could never hope to be as good as her, but I like to think, Everett, that your Mama picked me from heaven to take care of you while she couldn’t. I’ll do my best to do exactly that.” She pressed a kiss against my head and hugged me tight before she said, “I can’t be your Mama, but I’ll be proud to be your Mom.”
I close out the computer and lay back on my bed to stare at the ceiling. When did life get this complicated? It feels like Sunny caused everything, but that’s not the truth. Her arrival may have been the event that set some of this in motion, but if everything had been fine, there wouldn’t have been anything to trigger. Our problems have been festering beneath the surface for years. She was just the catalyst that released the dam.
“Rhett, lunch is ready.” Mom’s voice takes me back, making me feel like a kid, like she could make it all right again. Maybe if I unload some of this on her, she’ll know how to fix it.
“That was great, Mom. Just what I needed. Thank you.”
She steals my plate before I have a chance to clear it. “You needed that, and it looks like a three-hour nap, or an early bedtime might be in order too. I heard your truck come in at well after midnight last night. Better than Carl coming in at nearly three, but you wake up so much earlier than him. You have to take care of yourself, Sweetheart.”
“I went out with the guys,” after a second, I tack on, “and Sunny.” I wait, watching for her reaction, but she’s smarter than to let on that easily. “We had a good time.”
“Carl said he ran into you all out partying. It might have been nice to have invited him, don’t you think?”
I shift in my chair, hating the way the creak gives me away. “I was barely invited. It’s not like I could drag him along too.”
Her mouth tightens, but she says nothing. Within seconds, she’s pulled her newest knitting project from the bag she keeps near the table. The click clack of the needles is the one sound I’ve always associated with her. She does it to keep her hands busy, so her mouth won’t get away from her. At least, that’s what she’s always told us.
“How are things with Sunny?”
I could answer a handful of different ways, but if I want help, at least some version of the truth will be necessary.
“It’s complicated.”
“Can she do the work?”
“Yeah, she’s the best groom we’ve had in a long time. She’s taking better care of the horses than we ever have.” Her needles work faster, like watching Mom’s mind run on high speed while I talk. “Actually, she’s taken to massaging them and working on their backs as well. Cricket acts ten years younger after Sunny gets through with her.”
“That’s a specialized technique, isn’t it?” She acts like she’s not fishing for information, but I know she is. I have to admit, I hadn’t thought of searching with that as a parameter. After all, it was Sunny who refused to tell me her specialties when she arrived because she was afraid it would give her away.
“Somewhat. Not rare, but sometimes hard to find a good one.”
“And she’s a good one.” The needles never cease in click-clacking. “Seems like someone might miss someone that good, don’t you think?”
I lean back in my chair, watching her work. “What are you saying, Mom?”
“Oh,” she bats the question away, “I’m just a silly old lady. But, it seems like if one of my sons were searching for information on our mystery groom, he might try using that bit of information.”
“I’m not sure it’s something that would come up on an internet search though.” Equine massage and chiropractor don’t seem like something a journalist or police officer would include in a report or article. They’d likely lump it into some other title, call the missing person a vet or a cowgirl.
“If only we knew people who knew people.” She looks up from her work, but whatever message she’s trying to give me without words, it’s not coming through. Sighing, she says, “If I were looking for a missing masseuse, I would start with that vet your Dad used to bring in twice a year. He ran that school out of his property teaching just this sort of thing. These people all know each other. He’s bound to have heard something. You know what a bunch of gossips these old ranchers can be.”
I immediately think of Dad reading the paper every night to see who died and from what. He gloats that he knew they’d die from this or that and then go on and on about how he’s gonna live forever. It’s his most judgmental part of the evening. She’s right. Looking on the internet might be too wide of a net. I need to start asking around the ranching world. Someone has to know something. If I can get ahead of it, figure out what she’s dealing with, then I’ll have a better chance at keeping her safe.
I rise to my feet and plant a quick kiss on Mom’s gray hair. “Thanks, you helped a lot.”
“Anytime, dear.” She catches my hand before I leave “And, Everett?”
“Yeah, Mom?”
“Be careful.”
I nod, not loving the concern in her eyes. She’s one to let us run after our passions, but she never stops worrying about where it might take us.
I find myself headed for the barn. I don’t think it’s a conscious decision to see Sunny. The days I take off, I tend to spend them in the yard if I find myself with spare time. That’s the joy of doing a job you love, even on your days off you’re seeking the work.
Chance nickers as he sees me for the first time. He’s probably wondering why he’s back in the corral with Mom’s slackers. I stop at the rail to stroke his neck. As hard as I work him, he needs a day off. In fact, I should ask Sunny if she’d be willing to work on him. First one out and the last one in most days, I’m almost positive he’s missed the treatments she’s offered the others. Granted, I don’t think she knows that we figured out her special talents. If I ask her outright, she might spook and stop.
“I’ll figure it out, don’t worry,” I say to my old friend with a pat to his shoulder. Pausing to listen, it doesn’t take long to figure out she’s still in the barn cleaning stalls. I grab a manure rake and walk down the center runway. Soft cursing catches my ears. I didn’t know she was the type, or maybe her day is just that bad. I know I’ve been there.
