Page 9 of Adam's Rising

“My name is Thomas, Ma’am. Thomas Adam Belgarde. I sold you some horses… and… and a few guns a year or so ago. He didn’t know if Thomas had sold her the guns on top of the horses, but he hoped he’d guessed correctly.”

Keeping her eyes trained on Adam and Peter, the woman edged backward. “You!” She waved the twelve-gauge slightly downward, but maintained Adam’s direction. Not that it mattered. A blast from that scattergun would take out him, Peter, and most of the truck. “Step on down from the truck.” She nodded toward Peter. “You, keep ’em han’s where I can see ’em.”

Adam inched his way down from the driver’s seat. “I’m just looking for work, Ma’am. Since we’ve done business in the past —”

“I ain’t done no business with you, kid.”

“My name is —”

“You ain’t Thomas.”

“Clara Mae!” His voice broke on her name. If she wasn’t Clara Mae, he might still not make it through this day alive. “I can’t believe you don’t remember me.” Adam flirted uncomfortably, something Thomas would have done. Their mother had always called Thomas a ham, teased that his smile would get him anything. Thomas would have thrown his hand over his heart to show shock. Nothing like Adam. Nervous, Adam moved his still-raised hands to his head, running them over his scalp. He was so tired. He just wanted someplace to close his eyes for five minutes. Maybe he’d wake up, and everything would turn out to be a nightmare. “I have ID, Ma’am —”

“Yeah, I remember Thomas. Maybe you are him. Looking younger threw me off.” Reflexively, she jutted her head forward, narrowing dark brows over light eyes. “Where’s your ID?”

Adam gestured to the bag.

“Thomas,” Peter said quietly. “Remember, you pulled your IDs out of the bag to make sure you had them?” Peter glanced to the floor. “They must’ve fallen off the dash to the floor.”

Adam nodded, remembering his earlier righteous anger — with Thomas, with himself — then sighed inwardly, thankful that the woman wouldn’t see the rolled-up wads of cash and two birth certificates. If she insisted on looking inside the bag, she would more than likely surmise that there should be three of them, and that Adam most certainly wasnotThomas, but sixteen-year-old Adam Thomas Belgarde. What an idiot he was to believe that he could pull this off. Thomas should have known —

“Well, I ain’t got all morning. You gonna show me your ID, or what? Not that it matters. Don’t got your picture on it.”

“I have my temporary Coast Guard ID, too.” Adam squatted so that his upper body was in line with the floorboard but kept his hands up. No one had ever pointed a gun at him — well, aside from the machine gun fire earlier. But somehow, this felt more personal.

This miserable day, which began at midnight, was fast becoming the worst day of his young life. He’d been sad when his parents died, but he hadn’t needed to throw up and, now, twice in one night, his insides felt like they might turn in on themselves. He slowly lowered just one hand, reaching beneath the brake pedal where, out of anger, he’d deliberately dropped the license and Coast Guard badge. Thank the Lord for Peter’s eagle eye — and ability to lie.

As slowly as possible, Adam scraped both IDs across the footwell — fingers splayed, so Clara Mae wouldn’t get an antsy trigger finger, as his father would quip — until he reached the vinyl floor’s edge. The ragged and curled-up vinyl exposed scraped metal, rusting where the paint had eroded. But at least the jagged edge allowed him to lift the laminated cards off the slick flooring.

Clara Mae accepted the information, quickly scanned one ID then the other, all while keeping an eye on Adam and Peter.

Peter cleared his throat, and Adam flashed him a sneer when he saw that Peter was nodding toward the pack with the gun.

Clara Mae lowered the firearm fractionally, handing the IDs back to Adam. “Yeah, I remember Thomas — you. Odd, you look… younger.”

He shrugged. “I was going through a lot back then. Plus, winter, I guess.”

“And shorter.”

Adam reached above the seatback, pulled down Thomas’s hat. “I usually wear my hat.”

Clara Mae’s lips turned up slightly, just enough to show fine lines around her mouth. “Yeah, I seem to recall that.” She sighed heavily. “So why you young’uns on my property ’fore the break of dawn?”

“I need a job, Missus —” Adam stopped cold. He had no idea what her last name was. Shouldn’t he know this? Why hadn’t Jeff told him? Why hadn’t he asked?

Because I’m a kid—that’s why! he screamed internally.I’m not a father, a drug dealer, or a marksman.I can’t do this!

“Clara Mae’s fine,” said the woman, seemingly unphased by his blunder. “Everyone calls me Clara Mae. Don’t really care about my last name — since it was my ex’s. Gonna go back to Texas and find me a new name soon, anyway.” She sniffed and glanced over her shoulder, back at her property. “I got all the hands I need —”

“I can train horses — like my father used to do for you.”

She twisted her mouth. “Can you now? I thought you said you never had a knack for that.”

Adam wanted to scream out the truth to this perceptive woman who clearly knew he wasn’t Thomas. She was right — Thomas never could work with horses. Yeah, he could ride the old ones, but not a stallion. Even Peter, while he was okay with them, always had a bit of fear, and horses can sense fear in a person the way they sense a bear or wolf is nearby.

“I… just…” Adam stuttered. “I never wanted to train. But now…” Another part lie. Hehadn’tever wanted to train horses for a living, but he loved them, especially Bolt. No one could handle Bolt like he could. And, certainly, no one could ride him.

“And the kid?” Clara Mae nodded to Peter. “He’s as lanky as a newborn colt.”

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