Page 6 of Dirty Ginger

Nash gave his classic smart-ass grin and cupped Becketts’s shoulder. “Now get to work. I don’t pay you to stand around.”

Beckett chuckled as Nash strode away and said to Callie, “Now, sweetie, you need to sleep more for your mama.”

Beckett’s smile faded when he looked back to the mare. Determined to introduce himself to the horse, Beckett headed over to the gate and once through, shut it behind him before facing the mare again. Quarter horses were all Beckett knew growing up. Jefferson Duncan, his grandfather on his mother’s side, was a champion calf roper, and Beckett followed in his footsteps for a time. He’d learned the tricks of the trade from his grandfather from the time he was four years old, atop a Shetland pony. He’d even been considered to compete professionally. Until one night changed the direction of his life.

On his way toward the horse, he kept his eyes cast downward, but stayed aware of exactly where the horse was in case she acted aggressively. The mare took a small step back but didn’t run when Beckett reached her, offering his hand out for the horse to smell. That feel of warm air brushing against Beckett’s hand brought him right back to the fatal car crash that killed Beckett’s mother, grandfather and beloved horse, Smokey, all because a trucker fell asleep at the wheel. His mother was pronounced dead at the scene. His grandfather died an hour later in the hospital. Smokey had been euthanized by a state trooper on the side of the road, his injuries too bad to heal. Beckett’s life changed after that night. He changed after that night. Gone was his dream of becoming a professional calf roper. Not that he didn’t love the sport, and wonder what would have been if the accident never happened, but the death of his mother took a hard toll on Beckett’s father. Beckett needed to stay close to home.

“Easy,” Beckett said, stroking the mare’s dark chestnut-colored head.

She snorted once, then took another step back, and Beckett didn’t make another move as tires crunched against gravel behind him. He glanced back, finding a white truck and horse trailer driving down the driveway with Blackshaw Training on the side. Two horses that Beckett had trained were off to their new homes.

With a long sigh to ease the mare, he glanced back at his new project, studying her. “Autumn. That’ll be your name, sweetheart,” he said. Her coloring reminded him of leaves in the fall. Her dark eyes locked onto him. “We’re going to do just fine together.” As if in agreement, she snorted again, and then he turned away, leaving their first introduction behind them.

Later in the morning, he’d work her in the round pen and get a feel for her, but rushing a troubled horse only led to more problems. He made it back to the gate when his phone in his pocket vibrated. A quick look at the screen revealed it was his lifelong friend, Hayes. “Hey,” he answered.

“Mornin’,” Hayes said. “Are you working?”

“I’m looking at my new project as we speak,” Beckett answered, locking the gate behind him.

A pause. One that always meant trouble.

Hayes’ voice tightened. “Listen, I hate to tell you this, but we’ve got your dad here at the station.”

Hayes worked as a detective for the River Rock Police Department. “What’s happened?”

“Someone found him passed out drunk in the park this morning.”

Beckett shut his eyes and breathed deep before reopening them to Autumn, who still watched Beckett’s every move. Yeah, Beckett understood putting up a fight when forced to do things one didn’t want to do, and he also understood wanting to give up entirely. He’d been there, more times than he’d like to admit. “Is he hurt?”

“No, just blackout drunk. What do you want us to do with him?”

His father drank only a half dozen times in a year, but when he drank, it never ended well. Though most times, he got inebriated at home, obviously that didn’t happen last night. “I’ll come get him.”

“See you soon,” Hayes replied. Then the line went dead.

The world began to press in on Beckett’s shoulders as he texted Nash: An emergency has come up. Shoot me those videos. I’ll be back in thirty minutes.

Nash replied: do what you have to do. Sending now.

The sun beat down on Beckett as he shoved his phone back into his pocket, leaving Autumn behind and returning to his truck. His pristine and jacked-up F-150 was his only indulgence.

Back on the road, he took the drive easy, passing by Amelia’s place again, finding her driveway empty now. He slid down the window, letting the fresh scents of wildflowers and sunshine take away the tension in his chest.

When he rolled into the downtown, he found the double-lane road quiet. Visitors came for the views of the Colorado mountains, the small town life, and the rich countryside, but the scents of fresh cut grass and clean air were home to Beckett. Along the main street, quaint brick storefronts hugged the thin road. Each store had unique storefronts that had become more modernized over the years.

He parked next to the brown-bricked police station and swiftly entered through the front door, finding Hayes waiting for him in the waiting room. Brown curls peaked out from beneath his friend’s black cowboy hat. The tightness of Hayes’ amber colored eyes told Beckett his dad was in bad shape. “Thanks for calling.”

“Not a problem,” Hayes said, gesturing to the door next to the reception desk. “I’ll bring you back.”

Growing up, Beckett was the last kid who’d end up in a police station. He got good grades, played football and rode in the rodeo, working his way up the rankings. Before the accident, he’d been too busy to get into trouble. After that accident, he’d found trouble often. It seemed that hadn’t changed. He’d seen the insides of these walls twice in the last two weeks. Once with his arrest, and now for his father. It didn’t feel good, leaving him hypersensitive to the loudness of the voices, banging of fingers typing on keyboards, telephones ringing and the musky smell in the air.

He followed Hayes down the hallway to the back room where the holding cell was located. They passed the cubicles of cops writing up reports or making telephone calls. Every weighted stare only sank more heaviness onto Beckett’s shoulders, a firm reminder that he was so far away from living the life he wanted. And no matter how much he’d tried to make things right, he couldn’t outrun this part of his life. Though he’d done his best to not become the emotionally crippled man his father had become.

Once they passed through another locked door, a chill ran up his spine. He knew the holding cell personally; he’d been in there the night of Amelia’s wedding. He took one look at his father slumped on the thin mattress. A shell of what Jim Stone had once been. “He’s still knocked out?”

Hayes nodded, folding his arms. “Like I said, blackout drunk.”

Before Beckett’s mother died, his father rarely drank, simply enjoying a beer every now and again. After his mother’s death, on any day that reminded Jim of his wife, he couldn’t survive it and erased the day with booze. Beckett’s chest squeezed tight. “Can I take him home?” he asked Hayes.

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