Her pen skidded across the page when a semi-truck blasted its air horn at her as it passed. The Ford rocked in the slipstream and her heart thudded in her throat. She slipped the notebook back into her bag and pulled back onto the narrow road.
It was lined with farms. Barns set back in fields lush with summer grass. As Billie passed, she saw horses grazing, flocks of goats and sheep, and ducks and geese drifting on ponds. Wherever the roads intersected, antique shops alternated with diners and gas stations on the corners. Farm stands, laden with produce, hand-lettered signs advertising ridiculously low prices begged her to stop. But she drove on by until she found the narrow road leading to Bell Buckle. When she’d mapped the walking horse farms, she had found a concentration down this road. Her plan was to start here, just drive up to barns, get out and say hey.
By the end of the day, she’d have a list of places scoped out, maybe even a few interviews to report on to Frank. Preliminary for sure, but she’d be oriented at least. He’d always liked her to check in with him when she was on staff at the magazine, let him know what she had found out, who she’d spoken to, and what she had planned. He was one of those editors who liked to be involved. She’d known writers who hated Frank’s style. They wanted independence and lots of space to work in. But she liked his involvement. Conversations about their work that started early in the day continued in the taxi on the way home, through dinner, and went to bed with them. She loved it.
“Saves me a shit load of time if I keep my writers on track as they work,” Frank said. “Otherwise I’ve got to fix copy later and redirect them.”
She wanted to be sure that things were going to work the same now.
Trees, thickly covered in kudzu vines, grew close to the road. Their branches arched overhead, throwing deep shade. Ahead, she spotted a farm sign and slowed until she could make out the logo—white letters inside a gold oval: Angel Hair Walkers. Home of the Best Ever Walking Horses. Dale and Eudora’s farm. She squinted down a long drive toward neat rows of barns in a wide field. A wooded hill rose behind the barns, creating a scene of bucolic peace.
A half dozen media vans were parked on the side of the road. Billie pulled over and sat with the engine idling. She’d planned to interview the Thorntons last, but here she was at their farm, along with local reporters and even media vans from Nashville and Knoxville. She could back up to the gate, ring the buzzer, and see if they let her in. Now that Dale was in trouble, they could make her life difficult by letting everyone know who she was and what she was doing. There’d be no sneaking into barns for clandestine interviews under false pretenses. On the other hand, if they were helpful, they’d make everything so much easier for her. Dale might talk to her about the charges against him. That would be a coup. Dale and Eudora were exactly the kind of people Frank would want her to interview and use to get her to the highest levels within the industry.
While she debated what to do, another heavy livestock trailer stuffed full of hogs passed her, its slipstream rocking her car, trying to pull her along. She steered onto the road and followed it for a mile or so until it turned into the driveway of an agrifarm like those she’d seen earlier. She wondered if it was bringing animals to the farm, and from where, and for what.
She decided not to risk an early meeting with the Thorntons and drove on until she came upon another farm. Its weathered barn stood close to the road, a large Simeon Wilkerson’s Walking Horses for Sale sign teetered at the foot of the drive. She turned in and parked in front of the open double doors. A pregnant calico cat licked her belly on a pile of manure speckled straw. Pigeons fluttered in and out of the barn doors, and a one-legged rooster hopped up onto a bench that tilted against the barn wall.
Billie lowered her window. “Hello?” she called. When no one answered, she got out of the car and slammed the door to draw attention, but no one came. She knocked on the open barn door and shouted, “Hi?” Then she stepped into the barn, allowed her eyes to adjust, and called, “Anyone here?”
She heard a door at the far end of the barn open then close, and a man lumbered toward her. The barn reeked so badly her eyes watered, but the tools had been picked up and leaned against the walls. A manure cart was heaped with soiled bedding and parked in the middle of the aisle, but she saw rake marks in the aisle dirt, and the stall fronts had been swept clean.
“Help ya?” The man was sloppy fat, his face whiskery, head bald. Pouches under his eyes spoke of ill health.
“This your place?” she asked. “Are you Mr. Wilkerson?”
“Simeon,” he said. “And you?”
“Billie Snow.” She extended her hand.
He gasped and coughed. He took her hand in his and squeezed, fleshy and moist. “Can I do for you?”
“I think I might want a walking horse to show. I’m driving around to see what I can find for myself.
