A Feather in the Rain Read online

  A Feather in the Rain

  A Feather in the Rain

  by

  Alex Cord

  Copyright© 2005, Alex Cord

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever or stored in any database or retrieval system without written permission except in the case of brief quotations used in critical articles and reviews. Requests for permissions should be addressed to:

  Linda F. Radke, President

  FIVE STAR PUBLICATIONS, INC.

  P.O. BOX 6698

  CHANDLER, ARIZONA 85246-6698

  All characters and events described herewithin are completely fictitious and any similarities between persons living or dead is purely coincidental.

  LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOGING-IN-PUBLICATION DATA

  Cord, Alex.

  A feather in the rain / by Alex Cord.-- 1st ed.

  p. cm.

  I. Title.

  PS3603.O7342F43 2005

  813'.6--dc22

  2005002837

  Printed in the United States of America

  Editor: Paul M. Howey

  Project manager: Sue DeFabis

  Cover design: Barbara Kordesh

  Cover illustration: Buck Taylor

  Interior and cover flap illustrations: Carla Garner

  Interior design: Janet Bergin

  Dedication

  This book is for my dear son, Damien Zachary Cord, who is with me for all time.

  Acknowledgments

  My name is Alexander Daniel Viespi. I am the son of Alexander Viespi, Sr., and Marie Palladino Viespi. I am the brother of Robert and Marlene.

  I am filled with admiration for my son, Wayne, for whom much has been difficult and yet he makes it all seem easy. I am the grandfather of his beautiful twins Jake and Alexandria.

  I am the proud and grateful product of this amazing family. I am honored and humbled by the love, kindness, generosity, and support they have always shown me.

  And ultimately, I want to say, “Thank you, Baby,” to The Great Dane, Smoky Boy—Susannah Cord, my wife, the treasure of my life, who has shown me what true love really is. I did not know that such a feeling could exist until I met her. Smoky changed my life from straw to gold. When I am separated from her, I feel wrong in the world.

  Special Thanks

  To the mighty Janette Anderson for her steadfast belief, unyielding perseverance, and faith. To the angels that put her together with the perfect person to publish this book. And to Linda Radke, the perfect person, whose perception, wisdom, and sensitivity are so profoundly appreciated. Special thanks to Sue DeFabis, for your gentle patience and to Paul Howey, for your eagle eyes. Thank you, Carla Garner, for your fine illustrations and Janet Bergin, for the beautiful design. A big thank you to Jennifer Selberg for all her energy behind the scenes.

  Thank you to John Shirey, M.D. for your medical advice, Dale Schneider, D.V.M., for your expertise in equine chiropractic and acupuncture and John Thoma, D.V.M.

  Thanks to the Kays for their unconditional friendship.

  I would like to express my gratitude to the artists who have enriched my life - in person and/or through their work - and to name just a few of the multitude, most of them friends: Bing Crosby, Ernest Borgnine, Sammy Davis, Ken Atchity, Van Heflin, Coco Marshall, George C. Scott, Slim Pickens, Ben Johnson, Chuck Connors, Eartha Kitt, Jean Simmons, Edmond O'Brien, Robert Fuller, Jennifer Savidge, John Steinbeck, Kirk Douglas, Sam Peckinpaw, Lawrence Olivier, Marlon Brando, Peter O'Toole, T.S. Elliot, e.e. cummings, William Shakespeare, Tennessee Williams, Cormac McCarthy, Annie Proulx, Hank Williams, Wilbur Smith, Andrea Boccelli and countless others.

  And lastly, my most profound gratitude to Buck Taylor, a truly gifted artist, a great friend and a kindred spirit, who knows too well the truth contained herein. Thank you for the perfect cover. I could not have dreamed it better.

  A Note to Cutters

  Please allow the license I have taken with dates of actual events, with geography and with the dollar amounts and number of contestants. I respect your sport and see it as a thing of great beauty.

  My hat is off to the founding fathers: Buster Welch, Shorty Freeman, Don Dodge and Matlock Rose, to name just a few who have made cutting what it is today.

  Prologue

  All things have their time to live and die. Leaves have their time to fall. Buds have their time to bloom. Flowers their time to wither in the wind and cold. The sun has its time to rise and set. The stars their time to shine and fade. But Death abides by no rules of time or season. It seems to delight in thwarting the hopes and dreams of mortals with no regard to good or bad, old or young. Death knocks without discrimination at the doors of hovels and castles alike with only the promise of sleep in the bosom of the earth unless we choose to believe that there is more and observe how the dim eye of the dying brightens with its last light.

  1

  Cuttin’ Horses

  No floor, nor earth beneath his feet, he floated in dazzling rays of golden light. A thinning silver strand joined him yet to the body, cold and still on the bed below. He could hear the faint sobs of his mother in the corridor. His father seemed small and bowed in a chair beside the bed.

  He was quitting the flesh and blood, the sky-blue eyes and blond hair and the quirky grin known as Damien Zachary Burrell.

  Zack, as his dad called him, was only twenty-six. There were bright, even joyous times in his short, troubled life, but somewhere behind the golden glow of Zack lurked a dark unwillingness to want to live.

  Though he had vacated the flesh, as Damien Zachary Burrell he still had things to do. Living people and their anguish would remain real to him for a time to come. He’d left behind a wounded, crippled father who worshiped him and struggled under a burden of doubt and self-blame. Tranquility was a distant thing yet to be achieved. Zack was not at peace.

  A grim evening sky thickened over the Houston Astrodome. The acrid aroma of horses, cattle, and straw hung in the moist air. A mosaic of pickups and horse trailers jammed the vast parking area.

  The millions in prize money won annually in the cutting horse world had given birth to syndicates, shareholders of equine stock residing in stalls, and a fierce atmosphere of intense competition.

  The now glamorous, high-dollar sport grew out of the dust of everyday ranch work, sorting cattle to be sold or doctored, separating strays out of large herds. Cattle naturally want to bunch together. It takes a horse with the cunning athleticism of a cheetah to cut a cow out and prevent it from darting back to the herd. A rider can’t make a decision and communicate it quickly enough to get the job done. The horse must have the desire and ability to react instantly to his own reflexive decisions.

  Twelve hundred pounds of hot muscle and bone quivered between Jesse Burrell’s legs as the brown mare squatted deeper into her hocks. She pinned her ears and poked her nose at the cow desperate to get around her. Tapping the earth with her front feet like a boxer bobbing, she dared the cow to try. The herd behind the mare was where the cow wanted to be. It drew her like a magnet. She darted to the right. The mare, a flashing, mirror image of the cow, cut her off. She dove to the left. In a sweeping blurred arc, the mare cracked over her hocks, splattered out in front of the cow and stopped her dead. Locked eye to eye, she blew in her face and shuddered her shoulders. Jesse stared at the cow, the breath of the mare hot in her face. Overwhelmed, the cow quit. Jesse picked up light as a feather on the loose reins. Instantly, the tense mare softened, came out of the ground-hugging crouch, and stood alert. The savvy audience whistled and whooped in boisterous appreciation as Jesse turned her back to the herd to cut another cow.

  Jesse Burrell had the gift—the feel, the sensitivity and balance, and the willin
gness to listen and hear what the horse tells him. The mare was stout, very quick. She could jar a lot of people loose. But when Jesse was on a horse, he gave up part of himself to the horse and the horse did the same. They came together as a single entity—a brilliant, graceful poem of flesh and blood in motion.

  He had thirty seconds before the buzzer would sound ending his two and a half-minute run. He looked between the mare’s ears at the cattle milling in front of her and decided on the brockle-faced heifer. He drove the heifer out in front of him and just as he dropped his rein hand on the mare’s withers, the cue to go to work, it happened. His concentration faltered. A blade of grief slammed through him. Why always at the weirdest times would he see his son’s face and realize it would never be there in the flesh again? Doubts about his ability had begun to creep into his consciousness. His financial life needed oxygen. If he could just keep these last few seconds together and get a good challenge from the heifer he could win $23,500, a decent dose of air.

  The heifer made two quick moves. The mare matched them. The cow dashed for the wall and Jesse just wasn’t there. The mare sensed his absence, and in that microsecond of confusion the heifer scooted under the mare’s neck and made it back to the herd. The run was over and Jesse had blown it. He looked down and shook his head as the crowd applauded in support.

  He rode out of the arena stroking the mare’s smooth hide with his fingertips. He leaned low along her neck and spoke a soft apology.

  There was a time when the mistake he’d just made would not have occurred. He’d have won the twenty thousand dollars and tossed his $400 hat like a boomerang and not care if it ever came back. That was when Zack was still alive. Before the hollow feeling, the paralysis that would overwhelm him, the red-hot impulses to lash out a cocked fist to the face of someone merely impolite.

  He pulled off the bridle and shoved the saddle on a rack in the trailer. Abbie arrived on a gust, a turbulent swirl of woodfire hair, freckles, and a flashing smile. “Bummer. Jesus, you guys were awesome, man, till that brockle-faced kamikaze dove right through you.” She’d moved straight to the sweaty mare and had her arms around her neck, kissing her nose. “You were a good girl, what a good girl.” She poured liniment and vinegar into a tub of water and plunged a sponge to the bottom. “You disappeared,” she said to Jesse. “I turned back for a second and you were gone.” She sloshed water on the mare with a practiced hand.

  “If I hadn’t had a brain fart, it wouldn’t have happened.” He grabbed a beer from a cooler in the bed of the pickup and popped it as he moved among the horses softly with a hand stroke here and there as his eyes scanned for anything amiss. He heard Abbie saying, “You were such a good girl.” Unmindful of her clothes and the sopping hide, she nuzzled the mare and slapped the sponge on her neck splashing her own face.

  Jesse stood at the head of a magnificent sorrel, a three-year-old stud colt. He nickered as Jesse’s fingers lit on the small white star above his eyes as softly as a butterfly and circled the path of the hair. The colt’s head dropped, his eyes began to close. With his other hand he stroked his ear, pulling gently, massaging the base. He ran his hands reverently over the powerful haunches. His registered name was Bueno Bar Tab. Jesse called him Buckshot. This was his Futurity prospect. When he first saw the colt struggle to its feet on wobbly legs glistening wet from the womb, he knew he had a good one.

  Getting this colt to The Futurity was probably the best reason Jesse could come up with for going on with the business of living.

  The rules for The Futurity prohibit a colt from being “shown” prior to it. So Jesse hauled that colt everywhere to get him used to the excitement, the sights and sounds of the cuttings. He’d ride him in the warm-up pens then tie him up and let him stand to learn patience. Jesse took a hold of the base of Buckshot’s tail and let it slide through his hand as he moved to the gelding tied next to the colt and patted him softly. They were strong, agile, powerful athletes, sensitive as raw nerves, delicate as fine porcelain. He could hear Abbie rattling on as she scraped water from the mare.

  She had a natural feel for a horse and damn sure loved them, all of them, not just the pretty ones or the talented. When she first came to ask Jesse for a job she stood square in front of him, all five feet of her. “Mr. Burrell, I know you’re one of the best. I’m a great admirer. I hear you’re a hard guy to work for…” She broke into that wide-eyed grin, only a little embarrassed by her boldness. “But I think I could work for you and you’d be happy.” He liked her right off. He’d just fired a girl for taking off a bridle without care, letting the bit clang into the horse’s teeth.

  “Saddle that bay mare there.” She went right to it. Every move smooth, experienced, sensitive. He watched her step aboard and pick up the reins. She had a real light touch, no fear and a lot of feel. The mare was not one to do you any favors either.

  That was three years ago. She was twenty years old and working toward a master’s degree in psychology at Texas U part time. Jesse figured she spoke about a thousand words to every one of his. Though she’d never express it openly, it was clear she had a crush on him even though he was a couple of years older than her father.

  He stepped up into the tack room. Abbie looked out from under the mare’s belly. “Not a terrible day, Boss. Your two non-pros were in the money. Old Apple-butt is gonna be all over you now.”

  “Man, you got a mouth on you. She could be walking up here any minute now. She heard you talk like that she’d pinch your head off.”

  “I know. I got my eye peeled. Besides, her perfume gives me a two-minute warning.” Suddenly, she dropped her voice. “Here she comes.” Then in a singing whisper, “She got spurs that jingle jangle jingle…”

  Daryl Ann Henley, recently divorced from Brian Henley, head council for Omega Oil did step to the jingle of silver spurs on a pair of thousand dollar custom-made Paul Bond boots with tall green scalloped tops, six rows of multicolored stitching and red and yellow butterflies inlaid. Tight Wranglers painted on the Mackintosh butt and a white silk shirt rippling over ten thousand dollar breasts, she moved with confidence, flaunting sexuality. Auburn hair sleeked back revealed a flawless arrogant beauty beneath the 20x black hat with the trendy cutter crease. “Hi, where’s Jesse?”

  “In the tack room. Nice job showing your horse, Mrs. Henley.”

  “Thank you, Abbie. Ah’ve told you, you can call me Daryl Ann.”

  “Thank you, ma’am.”

  “Ma’am is not Daryl Ann. Abigail.”

  She smiled, “Thank you, Daryl Ann.”

  She climbed up into the tack room. Jesse was sorting equipment for the trip home. She stood so close he could feel her breath on his face. “Jesse Burrell, had some bad luck. You were lookin’ pretty shiny till that brockle-face run through you like a train. Hey, let me buy you supper with some of the money I won.”

  “Thanks, but I’m just gonna grab a couple of hours sleep and hit the road early.”

  “Ah’m not takin’ no for an answer.” She pushed him against the wall. Slowly pressing against him, she walked her fingers up his chest and around his neck. She tilted her face till her tongue could reach out to lick his lips.

  He looked her dead in the eye. “Daryl Ann…” By God, there’s a sweet smelling heat rising from her. “Any man in his right mind would kill to be in my boots right now. But I am not in my right mind. I wish I were.”

  He shut the door to his room, peeled off his clothes, stepped into the shower and turned the water hot enough to kill a lobster.

  Stretched out on the bed, a cold mass of aloneness crept over him like a flow of clay. He thought about his son, dead. Gone. How is that possible? Dear God. How do I ever get to understand this, live with it in some kind of peace?

  Behind shut lids a squall of tears rose, spilled, and tracked his cheeks to the pillow. He blinked and stared at the ceiling. His gaze slowly moved to the far corner, down to the shadowed wall of drapes. He ceased breathing.

  Damien Zachary stood there, c
lear as day. Jesse bolted upright and blinked his eyes. The boy was there with that little half smile. Jesse whispered, “Zack…say something. I know this isn’t a dream.” Zack’s smile widened. Jesse heard himself say, “My God, I miss you so much.” He edged forward on the bed.

  The young man looked as if he would speak. But language didn’t come. The glow around him began to dim, the image soften, until he faded totally and was gone. Jesse left the bed and went to the spot where Zack had stood. He reached out to pull the drape aside. He looked down at the parking lot dimly lit, then up at the starless sky. He went to the bathroom and threw water on his face. Looking in the mirror, he thought, it’s been a long time since I’ve owned a real smile.

  2

  The Plaza

  The venerable entrance to the Plaza Hotel in New York was being used as the backdrop for a glossy magazine fashion shoot. Camera grafted to his face, the photographer, an amalgam of undefined creatures, clicked and crawled and cooed, climbing about the stone and marble like something primordial yet to develop legs. A woman in gray wool and a wine-colored scarf blown by a huge fan, was the focus of his attention.

  Holly Marie Bassett’s traffic-stopping, head-turning face had glamorized the covers of countless magazines. Her perfect legs had strutted the runways of Paris, Milan, Tokyo, and New York. She’d been wined and mined by royalty, shutterbug trash, and a yogi “guru.” Like most beautiful women, she required constant reassurance of the fact that she was.

  Eric pulled the camera from his face and stood surprisingly erect. She smelled the cigarettes on his breath. “Baby, what’s going on? There’s something missing. You’re not giving it to me. We’re losing the light. C’mon Baby, you gotta turn it on.” He whirled to his assistant. “Give me all you can on that reflector. Let’s go!”