Golden Hour

2: A Good Drought

In the middle of the streets of Eden,
the four winds blow.
I've been living underneath the shadow,
of my father's soul -
here and gone.
I'm here and gone.
Ain't it funny how the road that made you
you can't outrun?
Ain't it funny how the place that saves you
will burn you up?

(Here & Gone, Mississippi Twilight)

JUNE 24, 2019
JASPER

The paperwork never ends. It takes up all the evenin' I should be spendin' out in the fields, closing the ranch down for the night with the rest of my men. That's my job. That's my duty. Not this — not monotonous, never-ending bureaucracy. This was Dad's work. Or Rose's, in a pinch. Never me. I'm a horse trainer  by trade, not some big-wig lawyer. I don't even know what half these words mean.

By the end of the tenth page my left hand has totally cramped, but I still got an inch high stack of documents to go through. I drop my pen on the table, stretching out long, angry fingers. I can't sign my name one more Goddamn time.

I've missed dinner by now. Probably for the best. Savin' pennies here 'n there might just keep this place afloat. It might be the only way, honest. At this point, I'm not sure what else I can do. We'll be selling off land by the end of the year.

Tonight especially, I feel like a modern day Job. Everythin' just gets taken away from me, bit by bit, piece by piece. My faith is being tested. Not in God — that faith was never too strong anyway — but my faith in the Whitlock name. Am I strong enough? Do I have it in me? Will I honour the family legacy when all Hell breaks loose? When I lose everyone I love — every soul that's ever loved this place — will I stay loyal to this land?

I'm the only one left to take charge. The future of the Whitlock name has been left in my incapable, overworked hands. I don't have much of a choice but to stay loyal. I'll keep losing. Take it all, I think, take it all but this house. I'll never let another man destroy this. My eyes dart up and away from the mahogany table top, takin' in the grand room around me. These walls are all I've ever known — the red wood and grey stone, iron chandeliers and thick, fur rugs — it's home. Home is a place I'm proud of. It's the only thing I am proud of in this backwards world.

Sadness holds a vice grip 'round my throat.

I push back from the table, chair legs scraping hard against the stone floor. Across the room, I pick up my father's decanter of scotch, and pour myself a too-big glass. The alcohol soothes my sadness. It burns beautifully in my empty stomach.

My eyes close.

I see her.

Bluntly cut black hair. Pale blue eyes. Furrowed brows. Alice. I'm endlessly thankful for Alice. Eight people spendin' a full week on the ranch means good, hard earned money for me and the boys. It's unusual, to say the least — lettin' a group of models wander around the property dressed in God knows what — but any business is good business.

I take another drink. The sadness shakes off long enough for me to get back to work.

An inch of paperwork later, the world around me has fallen asleep. Darkness creeps in every window. Silence hangs like a curtain between me and the real world. For a second, I actually feel peaceful. I sit back in my chair, letting my eyes drop shut. The silence is broken by a muffled roll of thunder 'n my eyes snap open. Through the black door, I can see that the night sky has turned a dark, mauvey grey. The clouds are suddenly illuminated by a flash of sheet lightning. Maybe — at the very least — it'll finally rain. We need it badly.