Page 103 of Awaiting the Storm
The trail levels out, and the trees thin enough to reveal a breathtaking view of the valley below. It stretches out wide and green, dotted with cattle and adorned with wildflowers. Luna flicks her ears, eager to keep moving.
I rub her neck gently and say, “Easy, girl.”
Behind me, Caison lets out a long breath, as if he had been holding it for miles.
“You doing okay back there, cowboy?” I ask without turning around.
He doesn’t answer right away. I can hear Blackjack’s steady footfalls behind me.
“Yeah,” he finally replies.
We ride in silence for a while, the only sound the chirp of a songbird somewhere high in the pines.
Just as we crest the next rise, he calls out, “There it is.”
I look ahead and see a tiny cabin nestled in the clearing. It’s weathered and humble, with steps that sag slightly on one side. A rusted tin bucket sits on the small porch, and there’s a split log bench by the door. Down by the spring, there’s a mini wooden dock, half hidden by the overgrown foliage.
Caison pulls up beside me and takes off his hat. “He built that dock with his own hands,” he says, nodding toward it.
I smile.
We ride the last stretch up to the cabin slowly. When we reach the porch, Caison dismounts and moves to Blackjack’s saddlebag. He lifts the box and cradles it against his chest.
I tie Luna near the hitching post and walk over to him. “You want me to take the packs inside?”
He nods. “Yeah, thanks. I’ll be down at the water.”
I watch him walk toward the dock, his boots carefully navigating the uneven ground, a wooden box held close to his chest. Then I gather the rest of the supplies and step inside the cabin.
It’s small but clean, consisting of one room with two bunks, a woodstove, and a couple of fishing rods leaning in the corner. Above the woodstove, perched on a homemade mantel, there’s a faded photograph of a much younger Caison alongside a man who shares the same eyes. They’re both holding up trout and grinning from ear to ear.
I set our gear down and stand there for a moment, looking at the photo. Then I head back outside.
Caison’s on the dock now, sitting at the edge, legs dangling over the water. The box rests beside him. I walk slowly, giving him time, but when I reach him, he looks up and pats the dock.
I sit.
The spring flows below us, clear and cold, full of smooth river stones and the swimming shadows of fish.
Caison rests his elbows on his knees and stares out at the water.
“We used to sit here for hours,” he says. “Didn’t even matter if we caught anything. He’d bring beef jerky he made himself. We’d just sit and talk.”
“What did you talk about?”
“Everything—school, girls, what I wanted to do when I grew up, how to treat people, and how not to treat people. He told me that a man holds his temper until the right time to let it go and that the true measure of a man is knowing when that time comes.”
I reach over and take his hand. “He sounds wise.”
“He was,” he says. “And he loved it up here. Said it was one place he truly felt at peace.”
“That must be why he wanted to be laid to rest here,” I whisper as I squeeze his hand.
He swallows hard and picks up the box, opens the latch, and lifts the lid. A plastic bag is nestled inside. He stands slowly and looks downstream.
“I don’t know how to say goodbye to him,” he murmurs.
“You don’t have to,” I say, standing beside him. “Like Grandma said when Mom passed, you just carry him differently now.” I point to his chest where his heart beats. “In here.”
