Page 11 of The Past

I sighed, slouching back onto the bed.“So I’m getting saddled with some old friend of yours who will make me muck stalls all summer?”

Dad smirked.“Likely.”

I groaned.

“You’ll live.”

That was still up for debate.

♦

We pulled outof the long driveway, past miles of rolling pastures lined with pristine white fences.In the distance, the grand main barn stood atop the highest hill, its steepled roof silhouetted against the early-morning sky.

I didn’t want to leave it.

Despite all my bitching, this was home.These were my horses, my land, my future.

And I was getting shipped off like some damn boarding school brat.

The radio hummed low in the background, the steady rhythm of tires on asphalt filling the gaps between static and music.Then, like a beacon of salvation, Warren Zevon’s “Werewolves of London” crackled through the speakers.A grin tugged at my lips as I reached for the dial, twisting it up.

“‘Aaoo, werewolves of London!’”Zevon howled, the beat kicking in, and for a moment, it almost felt like summer again.

But my father, ever the killjoy, grunted and turned the volume right back down with a flick of his wrist.

“Christ, Tommy, you call this music?Sounds like a man stranglin’ a cat.”

I huffed out a laugh, shaking my head.“It’s a hit song, Dad.Number one a few weeks ago.”

“So’s that Gibb boy and his whinin’ disco noise, but that don’t mean I gotta listen to it,” he shot back.“You boys and your nonsense music.”

“It’s not nonsense,” I argued, though I knew better than to press it.Dad was a Johnny Cash and Merle Haggard kind of man, and anything that didn’t come out of a steel guitar or a storytelling ballad was garbage to him.

We fell into a comfortable silence, the road stretching ahead, the tires humming beneath us.I watched the pastures pass, the rolling green hills I’d spent my entire life on.And yet, by tomorrow, I’d be in another country entirely, working a job I didn’t ask for.

Dad tapped his fingers on the steering wheel, exhaling through his nose.“Gas is up to seventy cents a gallon.”

I glanced over at him, raising a brow.“Yeah?What was it before?”

“Was under fifty not too long ago,” he muttered.“Inflation’s got everything climbing.Feed’s up, wages are up, costs to run the farm—damn near double what they were five years ago.”

I didn’t say anything.I wasn’t oblivious—I knew times were tighter than they used to be.But in my head, Blackburn Farms had always been untouchable.

“It ain’t the end of the world,” he continued, reading my silence.“We’re still strong.But things change, and if you’re not payin’ attention, it’ll slip right through your fingers before you even realize it.”

I shifted in my seat, staring out the window.

“That why you’re sendin’ me off?”I asked, my tone a little sharper than I meant it to be.“Because you think I’m not payin’ attention?”

Dad sighed, adjusting his grip on the wheel.“I’m sending you because it’ll be good for you.”

“Coulda been good for me right here,” I muttered.

“Maybe,” he allowed.“But this will be better.Trust me.”

I opened my mouth to argue, but I knew deep down that he wasn’t wrong.

He glanced at me, his expression softer than I expected.“Tommy, I know you work.I know you know horses.You make good grades in college.But workin’ under your own father, in your own backyard, that’s easy.You always got a safety net.This?This is different.You go to Glenhaven, you prove yourself to men who don’t give a damn about your last name.You’ll see a different side of the business, a different breed.You might even learn something worth bringing back home.”

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