Scream Out Loud

By Josie Balkowski

Andie Giovanno spends her days seeking justice for victims of violent crime. When latent memories of childhood sexual abuse surface, will she find justice for herself or will she give in to the insanity that claimed her mother’s life?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu.com
• Release date: Mar 10, 2015
• ISBN: 9781312981201

Book preview

Scream Out Loud

Scream Out Loud

Scream Out Loud

A Novel

By

Josie Balkowski

Copyright © 2015, Josie Balkowski

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored, or transmitted by any means – whether auditory, graphic, mechanical, or electronic – without written permission of both publisher and author. Unauthorized reproduction of any part of this work is illegal and is punishable by law.

Maggie

Summer 1966

Grandma Josephine’s quilt hung neatly over the side of the bed, hiding Maggie and Jake in the folds of its skirt. Jake had strayed onto the farm as a kitten a couple of years before with a severe skin ailment that left him bald in spots. He was skinny and unlovable by any standard, but Maggie had loved him anyway…or maybe because of it. Seeing her daughter’s devotion to the scraggly animal, Maggie’s mother had helped her nurse the kitten back to health using droppers full of milk and giving him a warm bed in the barn. 

Now, two years later, Maggie held Jake close underneath the bed, ruffling his black and white fur so it stood up on end. She rubbed the palm of her hand across the ends of his tousled hair feeling the static electricity awaken every nerve in her body. She listened as her oldest brother called to her from down the hall. Stan’s voice was loud and angry and he swore at her under his breath when she didn’t come out at his beckoning. Her mom and dad had gone into town to pick up seed and groceries, leaving Stan in charge - making Stan responsible for the farm and his little brother and sister. Their parents trusted him implicitly. They always trusted him.

For the next ten minutes, Maggie listened as Stan’s heavy boots charged in and out of her parent’s bedroom and scoured the hall closet. He threw open the bathroom cabinets and slammed them shut again. Finally, his boots clunked down to the end of the hall and her door flew open with a thud. Behind the safety of the quilt skirting, Jake stretched out next to Maggie, licking his paws and watching her with interest. The mattress springs bounced over her head as Stan threw the pillows and stuffed animals off the bed looking for her.

Shit, she heard him say. God damn you, Maggie. Eventually, his footsteps faded away and the screen door in the kitchen slammed shut. Maggie closed her eyes and rubbed Jake’s bobbing head, lulled to sleep by his contented purring. 

*****

Maggie? A gentle voice whispered into the darkness of her bedroom. She opened her eyes, still groggy and stiff from the confines of her hiding spot. There was no longer any sunlight shining through the white patches of the quilt. Night had fallen. Jake  still purred, softly nestled against her under the bed. Her head rested on the crook of her bent arm and it began to tingle awake as she rolled over onto her back. 

The edge of the quilt rose an inch…and then another as two bare feet stopped at the edge of the bed. A dim light from the hallway drifted in and Maggie squinted her eyes at the shock. She waited as Wayde lowered himself beside the bed and scooted in beside her, letting the quilt fall back down to mask them in darkness once again. All she could see were the whites of his eyes as hers adjusted to the sudden eclipse.

Hey, he said.

Hey, she whispered back.

You missed supper.

I fell asleep.

Stan was looking for you, Wayde told her. He’s pissed.

She took his hand in hers and pretended she was one of the Wonder Twins from the Saturday morning cartoons, gaining strength simply from being joined to her brother. Wayde was older than Maggie by two minutes. She always pictured him in their shared womb, fighting and pushing his way out first so that he could test the outside world and clear the way for her. Protecting her seemed to be Wayde’s primary function in life. And he did it well. Wayde knew all of her hiding places and most of her secrets. He loved her completely and purely without asking for anything in return. For the past twelve years, he had been her rock. 

Where is he? Maggie asked now.

Stan?

She nodded in the darkness and then realized that he couldn’t see her. Yeah, she said.

At the Pit. Robby came to get him an hour ago. He told mama not to wait up. Wayde shifted his weight to get more comfortable and reached out to touch her face and see if she was crying. She wasn’t. Mama said if you’re hungry, there’s a plate in the ice-box.

Okay.

What did Stan want? Wayde asked, just like he did every time he found her there under the bed. 

I dunno. I think he just hates me. Maggie fell silent until all she could hear was Wayde’s soft breathing mirroring her own. I didn’t milk Sally tonight, she told him.

It’s okay. He pulled her to him and laid his arm under her shoulder. Together they looked up at the wooden slats underneath the mattress. It was tattered from Jake’s frequent clawing and Maggie’s diary was tucked under one of the slats. The bright pink and purple flowers on the cover appeared as shades of grey in the darkness. A tear slid down her cheeks, falling into her hair that sprayed out in a fan beneath her head. For a moment, she allowed herself to wonder what had made them fraternal twins instead of identical. If only she had been identical to Wayde. If only she could be so perfect. So lucky.

I’ll go milk Sally and meet you in time for Bandstand. Wayde’s hoarse whisper broke the silence, but he didn’t move. He never moved first. Fifteen minutes? 

Okay.

They scuffled out from under the bed noiselessly and replaced the quilt exactly right. They tiptoed down the hall until Wayde could sneak out the side door as she went to the TV room. Her mother sat quietly on the sofa, knitting something or other for the Ladies Auxiliary fundraiser. 

Hi, sweetie, she said without looking up. 

Maggie sat down on the floor at her mother’s feet watching the yarn unravel in small circles from the knitting bag as the needles click clacked together in a rhythm of their own. She always seemed to know when Maggie entered a room – as if they shared a magnetic charge that pulled them together over and over.

Feeling better? Her mother’s eyes remained fixed on the sky blue yarn.

Yeah.

Hungry?

No.  Maybe later.

Okay. Click clack. Click clack. Maggie?

Yes, mama.

Click Clack. Click Clack. Silence. Maggie looked up as the yarn stopped unwinding. Her mother’s weather beaten face was drawn taut like leather and tiny wrinkle lines showed around her eyes and lips. A single tear escaped quickly from her eyelashes and rolled off her chin, leaving a tell-tale line of clarity in the path it had traveled. 

You know I love you, she said.

Maggie nodded, wishing she could hate this woman but knowing that she was tied to her forever…knowing that she was just like her.

Because I really do. Her mother reached down to run a hand through Maggie’s poker straight locks. It flowed through her fingers like a sheet of satin…soft and elegant.

Behind them, the screen opened in the kitchen and Wayde’s bare feet padded across the linoleum floor toward the TV room where his mother and sister sat enmeshed in wordless conversation. The click clack resumed with a renewed fervor, and in its wake, the yarn began to unwind again - just as it did every evening in the little farmhouse on her father’s ranch. 

Part I

Summer 2007

If you don’t get lost, there’s a chance

you may never be found.

--Author Unknown

One

Andie’s knuckles whitened as her manicured hand clutched the car doorframe. Outside the tired wheels bounced over dust and gravel, unmindful of the vehicle’s limited suspension. The undercarriage weighed heavily with caked dirt and clay from days spent traversing unpaved country roads; the black paint looked grey under a film of dust even as the white lettering on the side door peeled at the corners. Surely before summers end, the letter I would be missing completely and would read only TAX.

At the side of the road, vast fields of corn spread wide in never ending neat rows. The tall stalks pushed up toward the heavens, eager for maturity and harvest. Every couple of miles, the tidy rows of corn would break momentarily to allow for a dirt access road - accessing to what was unclear as it stretched so far that it finally dissipated into the horizon. Standing at the edges of these dirt access roads were open air, wooden vegetable booths advertising fresh sweet corn and vine ripe tomatoes. Now, as dusk hung in the distance, all that was left were empty produce crates stacked neatly beside the outbuildings and an array of corn hair and husks littering the side of the road. 

Up ahead, the flat fields of corn yielded to a series of rolling hills and prairies covered in lush green grass with an occasional tree sprouting out of nowhere. A queue of wooden poles loosely strung with telephone cables lined the road and crossed over the fields until she lost count. 

Here the evening sky met the verdant pastures in a sea of green as a group of cattle grazed in the cool wake of a hot summer day. A single heifer grazed far away from its herd, looking toward the group but remaining aloof and alone. The air was still and oppressive in the aftermath of a day’s sweat and toil. All around her was a foreign land, vibrant with its own natural integrity and brimming with hope and promise.

But inside the taxi, Andie suddenly felt small and out of sorts. She longed to stretch her legs - to break into that long even stride that would clear her head and focus her boundless passions. She was accustomed to long walks traversing concrete city blocks, not long car rides roaming endless country miles on unpaved rural roads. Andie hadn’t seen a posted street sign since they left Tulsa; only the yellow mile markers at the edge of the road hinted at their exact location and told how far they had yet to go. 

After looking down at her expensive slacks and sensible Nine West pumps, Andie grew less desperate to break free of the jostling vehicle. She felt a little like Dorothy awakening in Oz…larger than life and more than a little out of place. How had one year away from this place suddenly become twelve? How had she lost that little bit of country that had been so painstakingly bred into her? 

Andie closed her eyes and took in a long cleansing breath just the way her yoga instructor had taught during those blissful Friday night sessions that had become indispensable over the past three years. She scrolled through her ready list of mental imagery searching for a relaxing focal point with which to center herself. Immediately, The Medici Spa with its lavender oils and deep tissue massages came to mind, but she discarded it as too cliché while driving through the wild countryside. Pushing the spa from her mind, she replaced it with a still image of her oversized mahogany sleigh bed with its crimson, goose down duvet. But that didn’t seem very relaxing either since she’d been having trouble sleeping of late. Finally her mind’s eye drifted to pounding surf crashing into bubbling white foam tinted with green seaweed. Water rushed over the hard sand toward a lifeguard boat resting on two blocks of wood half sunken into the sand.  She could hear the whistle blowing in the distance as sunbathers and swimmers alike looked up to see the life guard wave the crowd in closer to shore. Beside her, a cacophony of seagulls called to one another having discovered an unattended lunch; little feet ran by her blanket, catching soft sand in the backs of their Elmo flip flops and spraying it lightly across her face. The sun beat down and a bell rang out on the wind announcing that the ice cream man had arrived just beyond the dunes. It was the most perfect place on earth. 

Having found focus in her mind’s eye, Andie relaxed her grip on the door and leaned her head back against the headrest. This insecurity and self-doubt that she now suffered from was all new to her. She had built her entire adult life around a sort of carefully calculated stability. For Andie, risk taking was the equivalent of ordering Thousand Island dressing on her dinner salad instead of Balsamic Vinaigrette. In her experience, spontaneity was useless and overrated. It was nothing more than an inability to get yourself organized enough to make a decent plan. 

But here, the insecurities had found her. So far away from home, she was stripped of her protective outer shell: she was cleansed of the rigid routines that defined her days with purpose. Here all of her degrees and years of hard work meant nothing to anyone.  Here she was no more than her soul - and her soul was damaged. 

A thick voice from the front seat jolted her out of her reflection and back to the present. Pardon me? She asked, leaning forward on the bench seat to hear over the din of the compromised suspension system. It also seemed like a good way to pretend she simply hadn’t heard him rather than confess to not listening. If there was one thing Andie was supremely practiced at, it was thinking on her feet and spinning things her way. Now as she turned her attention to the front, she rubbed her fingers over the worn leather of the seat, finding comfort in the familiar texture that made her think of home. 

In the rearview mirror, she caught a glimpse of herself for the first time since her flight had landed in Tulsa. The flight had been just shy of three hours, short by comparison to other flights she had taken, though an agony of sorts as she tried to make peace with her life as it now appeared. 

When the flight had arrived at the hanger, she collected her black carry-on from overhead and tucked the case file that lay open and unread into her briefcase. Outside the airport, it had taken a few tries to find a driver willing to make the hour and a bit journey into Osage County, but Roger had been a willing and talkative cabbie from the moment he hoisted her luggage into his trunk. 

As it turned out, Roger had been born and raised in Shidler, the heart of Osage County famous for its Indian heritage and oil mining. Andie guessed that Roger anticipated a lively travel companion full of questions about the area or an intriguing story of why she had come here in the first place. Instead, they drove in silence for several miles before he settled into an easy chatter about the farming almanac and the droughts of ‘98 that had devastated his own farm and turned him into a cabbie.

Now noticing her reflection in the rearview mirror, Andie wished she had taken an extra minute at the airport to put herself together a little. Her chestnut hair, usually pulled into a tight bun high on her head, fell in tangles over her shoulders. It was a look that on someone else she might admire as sexy or free spirited - but on herself, it simply looked slipshod and disheveled. She finger combed her bangs - even resorting to licking her fingers once - to no avail before finally giving up. Her eyelids hung heavily from lack of sleep, but her hazel eyes glistened emerald in the midst of the passing scenery. Despite cloudy circles fixed beneath her eyes, the setting Oklahoma sun cast a brilliance upon them that momentarily hid the darkness within. 

We’ll be there real soon, Roger repeated, flicking his eyes toward the rearview mirror to peek at her. His pronounced drawl exuded warmth that was both intimate and disconcerting to her. Andie smiled politely and sat back with a nod, crossing her ankles and smoothing the creases in her navy slacks. She wished for the energy to chat back with this man who was trying so hard to set her at ease. 

Wayde Pruitt’s a good man, Roger went on undeterred. We went to high school together…we all looked up to Wayde. He always had his act together. I think he even has his own ranch now. Roger strained his neck to make eye contact with her. He knew the road well. You’ll be right at home, he said.

Home. Andie wondered about that. Home seemed like a whole other world from a different lifetime. It was a place that she could conjure up simply by closing her eyes, yet it disappeared the moment they opened. She could see the bustling streets along the Parkway at lunchtime, the flags of the different countries lining the street to the Art Museum with its statue of Rocky Balboa standing proud and triumphant. She could see people standing on street corners with their cell phones pressed to their ears making plans for the day. The city was full of old traditions and history. Her history. Her memories. 

Now sitting in the back of Roger’s taxi and bumbling along the country roads, she missed those bygone days of her childhood. She missed those days when Mike Schmidt had been her favorite hometown hero and her mother had been able to fix everything that went wrong. Philadelphia had encompassed her whole world.  She belonged to it and it to her. 

In her Philadelphia, sticky hot summer nights were spent catching fire flies in mason jars under dark starless skies and eating lemon water ice at the corner store. In her Philadelphia, early winter snows brought unexpected days off from school and hot chocolate topped with marshmallows. For twenty-eight years, Andie had followed a specific path through her life, knowing exactly what each next day would bring. She had been certain of what she wanted and knew what she had to do to get it. There was a comfortable ebb and flow to her life that carried her from one event to the next without chaos or upheaval. It seemed impossible now how quickly everything was unraveling.

Along the side of the road, Andie’s eye caught a tattered wooden sign emerging from the brush. Hand painted letters in bright red and blue shone on the faded whitewashed wood: OSAGE COUNTY RODEO NEXT RIGHT. Her stomach sank at the sight of it. There was no turning back. 

Roger slowed the taxi, turning the heavy wheel until it leveled off onto a gravelly road with a narrow shoulder the color of red clay at twilight. As he pulled into the parking lot of the Pawhuska Fair Grounds, Andie scrutinized the sea of freshly pressed, denim-clad people strolling toward the entrance. People laughed and greeted one another easily with genuine smiles and solid handshakes - their hands lingered a moment longer than necessary, joining them together in friendship and solidarity. Wrangler shirts of all colors dotted the landscape with their sleeves rolled up to the elbow to display layers of taut tendons and hardened muscles.

As Roger’s taxi pulled away, Andie suddenly longed for his easy Okie companionship. Turning toward the arena, she drew in a deep breath. She smoothed her slacks and adjusted her blouse before stepping into the crowd headed toward the ticket booth. In an unusual moment of self-consciousness, she unbuttoned the top button of her blouse in an effort to look more casual, but in the end found the effort futile as she discovered that she had to walk on her tip toes anyway to avoid toppling over in the deep gravel with her three inch heels.  She rolled down the Pullman handle and struggled to lift it across the lot. She avoided eye contact with everyone around her, knowing what a cliché she was, and focused only on finding her Uncle.

Outside the arena gates, a local radio disk jockey broadcasted live from the rodeo grounds playing and odd mixture of blue grass and country rock. A boisterous crowd gathered around his booth to guess the weight of an angry bull hoofing around a nearby pen, all in the hopes of winning two free airline tickets. Inside the stadium, a cheer erupted as the announcer droned over the loud speaker to introduce the children’s rodeo events.

Finally, Andie found herself at the ticket counter and pulled out her purse hoping to find some bills among the plastic. Hi, she said, smiling at the gum-chewing girl behind the plexi-glass window. I’m looking for my uncle. Wayde Pruitt. He asked me to meet him here. The girl blatantly ogled Andie’s silk blouse and Rolex watch. I’d like to buy a ticket if you could just tell me where I might find him, Andie added quickly.

A familiar voice boomed from behind her. You’ll do nothing of the kind, young lady.  Wayde wrapped her in his arms, squeezing tight enough to lift her off her feet.  Andie smiled into his shoulder, reveling in the sudden affection. His was a real hug. It was an I missed you hug. A safe hug. 

How’d you manage to sneak up here without me seeing you?  

Andie’s eyes filled unexpectedly. She blinked back the tears and gave him a quick pat on the back. Uncle Wayde, it’s good to see you, she told him honestly.

Aren’t you a sight for these sore eyes, he bellowed, holding her at arm’s length and taking her in from head to toe.  

She saw his eyes linger briefly at her blouse and shoes as he realized that she was quite different from the lanky teenager he had seen last. This wasn’t the same girl with the black nail polish and grungy sweatshirt that she wouldn’t change for days at a time.  Andie had grown up. But Uncle Wayde hadn’t changed at all. He had the same day old stubble she remembered, and his weathered face, forever bronzed by the sun, still looked fresh and not at all like his fifty-five years. His hands resembled the paws of a small bear – broad palms with stubby fingers – and he smelled of ivory soap tainted with Brut cologne. As they walked through the gate, she smiled at his slightly bow legged gait. It was the walk of a cowboy who has been in the saddle most of his life. His fingernails held the tell-tale permanent lining of dirt far beneath the nail bed that came from toiling with your hands.

You are even prettier than all those graduation photos your mama sent a few years back…prettier than ever and smarter than a whip, hey? Andie smiled at her uncle’s casual tone and let herself be led into the grand stands just as the Star Spangled Banner began to play.

On cue, the crowd hushed and a sea of hats swept off heads throughout the stadium in a wave of patriotism. A handful of local National Guard soldiers galloped around the ring carrying the Stars and Stripes as men and women down to the smallest children sang out with heartfelt devotion. For just a moment, Andie wished for that same sort of easy camaraderie with people…any people. 

But by nature she tended to be suspicious and judgmental - which worked well for her career but stifled her personal life and friendships. It was exhausting to have to fight so hard to make a name for yourself in her world. 

As the music died down, Wayde pulled his niece deeper into the stands. The ground beneath her feet turned mucky. She noted the spittoons lined up beside the regular trashcans and smiled to realize that absolutely nothing had changed in the years since she’d been here.  

Wayde squeezed her hand, weaving his way through the stands and stopping just beyond a maze of livestock pens. It was strangely quiet there in the pit among the rodeo competitors. There were the soothing mews of cattle and an occasional horse whinny, but there wasn’t the flashy bravado of chest-butts and trash talk that she was used to among competitive men. Along the steel pen rails, the cowboys were busy preparing and inspecting their gear: braiding their bull ropes, fastening their chaps, and pinning numbers onto their shirts. Despite the raucous excitement in the stands overhead, the cowboys preparing to compete were quiet and focused. 

Truth be told, Andie wasn’t really surprised at the mood. She knew that cowboys were solitary personalities. Long hours spent riding the ranch with nothing but their horse and cattle for company bred a kind of resignation and individuality into them that couldn’t be taught. Over the years, though, she had come to know that their thoughts and feelings ran deep even when their conversations might not. 

Most of the cowboys here at the rodeo worked together each day on nearby ranches and spent their weekends playing darts and drinking beer together at Dukes Pool Hall. As teenagers, they had gone to high school together and parked their trucks side by side in Old Man Hanson’s cornfield down route 60, shooting B.B. guns at empty beer cans for fun. Now Andie watched as they quietly prepared for battle as grown men. 

These were athletes like none other she had ever seen. They weren’t hopping from foot to foot stretching out their necks and loosening their muscles; they weren’t pacing or touching their toes to shake out last minute nerves. For these men, rodeo work was nothing so out of the ordinary that they needed to warm up. This was nothing more than what most of them had spent their whole day – their whole lives - doing.  

Wayde looked over noticing Andie’s gaze lost somewhere on a memory.

You know, he said, I remember carrying you through these stands on my shoulders. He smiled. Just a little half pint then.

We always came for rodeo season, Andie agreed. "Each July sure as a horsefly on a hindquarter my mom would say. She saw her Uncle’s head bob in silent recollection. I used to stand on the bleachers stomping my boots and making an awful racket when you were in the ring. You zipped left and then right until the poor calf pretty much fell into your lasso! I’ve yet to see anything more exciting."

Ahh, but it was Stan everyone came to see, he reminded her with a wink.

Stan Shmam.

No, no…credit where credit is due. Stan’s a local legend. Pride swept over Wayde’s features. My own mama used to tease that Stan was born on a bucking bronc. Fearless he was.

Are all his ribbons still hanging in the barn?

Every last one. Pretty much the only thing I kept when he died.

Andie rubbed his elbow, realizing this wasn’t easy for him…it wasn’t easy to be here with her after all these years. Still she had nothing to ease his pain – no light hearted memories to share. After all, she had barely known Stan.

She didn’t remember much about Uncle Stan except what she had been told.  Wayde commented once that Stan was a tough fellow and could be as mean as any bull he was riding. And Andie believed him. All she recalled was that Stan called her kid now and again which was always followed by a quick reprimand from her mother.  Leave Uncle Stan alone, her mother would say in the sternest tone she could muster. 

So Andie had turned to playful Uncle Wayde instead. Wayde was her mother’s twin and younger than Stan by fifteen years. Uncle Wayde was physically broad and strong, and Andie couldn’t help but notice the willingness with which her mother accepted his attention and affections. Together with Uncle Wayde was the most relaxed she ever saw her mother. He was by far Andie’s favorite uncle. He always had a piece of gum in his pocket and was never too busy for a vigorous game of flash-light freeze tag out on the front lawn after dark. Andie adored him. 

Give me that thought, Wayde whispered, his breath tickling her ear.

Flash-light freeze tag.

Out on the front lawn.

Yup. She laughed.

Your mama hollerin’ for you to come inside for a bath.

Yes, sir. That’s what I was thinking.

That’s a good thought then, he confirmed. They walked along, stopping by the fence briefly to watch a neophyte cowboy pitch forward off an angry bull.

Is the ranch doing well? She asked after a while.

Yeah. Yeah.  Have had a few good years now. Finally making profit beyond the bank.

So you’re not sorry you turned down all those offers after school? Not sorry you went out on your own?

Never, he didn’t hesitate. Sure, I could’a been a ranahan at 18 and been runnin’ the show for some big cowman – doing all his dirty work. By 25, I would’a been a jigger boss doling out the work each day to my own men…but where would I be now? At 55?  Likely be a cow boss on a fancy ranch, runnin’ the whole shebang. Then go home to a little cabin in town with nothin’ to show for it. Nada.  No stars. No land. His eyes met hers. Nope. No regrets.

No regrets, she repeated. She thought of how Wayde had sacrificed everything to have his dream. Her mom had told the story so often she knew it by heart.

At eighteen - and against his father’s wishes - Wayde used up his meager savings to put a small down payment on an eighty acre ranch that was in foreclosure up route 18 in Burbank City. It was just a fifteen minute drive from his daddy’s farm in Fairfax. The rolling hills and wide lake had captured his heart and he virtually willed it into a running ranch. For three years, he slept in the back of his pick-up truck beside his first fifty head of cattle purchased on a loan from the bank. He spent his days clearing the rambling brush from seven overgrown pastures and single handedly raised three-peg wooden fences along the entire perimeter of his property. And he had loved every minute of it.  Aunt Kitty used to say that though it was Wayde’s lopsided grin beneath his dark Stetson that had first caught her eye; she had finally fallen in love with Wayde over beans and hot dogs cooked on an open-air fire surrounded by lowing cows. 

One hundred acres now, Andie, Wayde told her.

Is it? One hundred acres? She let out a low whistle. That’s a lot of work, Uncle Wayde.

Got eight fellers helping out, he confided. Good boys, but I still do a fair amount myself. He patted her arm. I know each and every cow and steer just by lookin’. I can tell you which is due for vaccine and who’s lost from its herd without even a glance at the ear tags. His pride was evident. It was clear that the ranch was his life.

That’s good. Andie smiled. That’s really good. But don’t you miss riding in the rodeo?

Naw. Got my animals in the ring…fine calves and steer. And got my boys riding. Taught ‘em everything I know. He leaned closer. You watch. My boys are gonna win some ribbons this year.

Your cowboys are competing?

Come.  I’ll show you.

As Andie walked along the pens beside her uncle, young men glanced up from their ropes and belts with wide grins and an open admiration for their friend and mentor. Looking around at the respect and loyalty her uncle garnered among these rugged young men made Andie’s heart surge with sudden pride. Wayde was a warrior. He was a cowboy. He was a man through and through...it seemed there