I walk toward the end of the truck where the horse trailer is hooked up. “Kiddo, I can do this by myself if you need to go lie down.”
I take a breath, ignoring his use of ‘kiddo,’ something I haven’t been called in years. I used to love hearing him call me kiddo, but that was when was still my father, not a stranger I barely know anymore. I try to stretch my back as much as possible without moving too much since my arm is stuck in a sling, and the pain is radiating down said arm. “I’m good. This shouldn’t take long. He’s usually good even after a long haul. But I want to be here in case he decides to act out.”
“All right then,” he concedes and starts opening the trailer door.
As soon as Whisky hears us opening the door, the trailer starts to rock. I roll my eyes heavenward, not surprised he is making a ruckus. He does this every time after a haul, be it a fifteen-minute or a ten-hour haul. He probably just wants to make sure I don’t forget about him. Like I ever could.
Once the door is open, Wayne—I can’t bring myself to call him “Dad” even just in my head, the pain is still too visceral—vanishes into the trailer and the ruckus stops abruptly. Curious, I step around the door to see Whisky standing there relaxed like a stranger isn’t scratching his neck. He was calm when they loaded him into the trailer earlier this morning, but I assumed it was Bob’s presence keeping him relaxed.
While my father slowly unfastens the quick-release tie, I watch Whisky. I know him too well, and he’s caught me one too many times not to pay attention. It’s then I notice his ears and tail twitch, and for a second I debate whether or not I should warn my father.
“Watch out. He’s about to—” But I’m interrupted by my boy reaching over to nip Wayne’s underarm while he’s distracted untying him. I wince, knowing from experience that hurts like a bitch.
“Motherfucker,” he yells and rubs at his arm with the lead still clutched between his fingers. Which turns out to be a good thing since the next second Whisky decides to behave even worse and starts backing out of the trailer, dragging my father with him.
“Shit,” I mutter. Instead of moving out of the way like everyone else would have done, I move farther around the door to the other side so Whisky can see me in his peripheral vision and yell in the commanding voice I perfected with him, “Whisky, enough!”
Just in time, he stops dead in his tracks and turns his head to look at me right before he drops it to seemingly sniff the floor, relaxing his previously tense body again.
The little shit.
“Sorry about that,” I say and glance at my father, only to notice his jaw drop and awe enter his eyes, making me uncomfortable.
“No worries,” he replies. “Let’s get him settled before he decides to act out more than he already has.”
He starts backing my stubborn red dun out of the trailer without further incident. I hold out my hand for the rope, knowing I can’t open the heavy wooden doors without crying out in pain. When he hesitates, a real smile forms on my face for the first time since the accident. “He won’t try anything with me.”
After one more second of hesitation, he hands over the lead while Whisky continues to stand quietly next to me and nudge me to pet him. I throw the lead over my healthy shoulder while I stroke his forehead and scratch him between the ears.
“You know, I don’t see this often.” At his words, I look at my father standing in the open stable doors. Inside I can see rows of stalls on either side of the aisles running down the length of the stable to what I assume is the tack room in the back.
My eyes connect with his once more when he continues speaking, “The trust between you two isn’t something you see often anymore these days. Did you start him after y’all moved to Seattle?”
Ignoring the sting his reminder of the past sends through my heart, I make sure my walls this little encounter has fractured are back in place. “Yeah. Bob helped where he could, but I wanted to be the one to build the relationship.”
“It shows.” That same smile he had in the truck is back, like he’s happy about something he didn’t think he was ever going to experience. “Do you want to lead him inside? He’ll probably behave for you. It’s the second to last stall on the left.”
“Thanks,” I mutter and lead Whisky past him through the doors and into the stall he indicated.
I pull off his halter one-handed while Wayne fills a bucket with water and makes sure he has hay. Once I’ve made sure Whisky is settled, I close the sliding door and walk back toward the truck.
The drive back to the house is quiet, neither of us speaking a word until we’re parked. I stare at the house in front of me, one filled with many happy memories, and just as many bad ones, and anxiety starts running through me at what will happen once I step foot inside the house. This house isn’t the one I remember though. It’s filled with new memories—a new wife, a new family.
I take another breath, fighting back the tears threatening to spill, only for it to get stuck in my throat as pain shoots through my body. I reach into my bag for the painkillers I know will probably knock me out for another eight hours, but it’s better than putting up
