Fiction: The Lucie Line Trail

James Bates

James Bates

Mike McCormick loved his horse. He was a Tennessee Walker of such a deep, rich chestnut color that it made Mike’s eyes hurt sometimes if the sun hit the stately animal’s coat just right. In preparation for his ride, Mike gently placed the worn, blue, and red Navajo-patterned wool blanket onto the horse's back as the animal quivered in anticipation, muscles rippling. Then he picked up the saddle, admiring for the thousandth time the ornate, floral carving in the leather, and with a practiced, confident motion, lifted the saddle, settling it perfectly in place.

            "There you go, old boy," Mike said, taking a moment to run his hand over the horse's withers before tightening the cinch and securing the end through a ring on the skirting. "Looking forward to going for a ride?" The horse's name was Paint, a name given to him by a previous owner, one who thought the white blaze on the animal's forehead looked like someone had painted it on. Mike didn't mind the name, and it seemed Paint didn't either, so it stayed.

Mike smiled when Paint nodded his head in the affirmative. Whether it was in answer to the question or to get rid of a persistent horsefly, it didn't matter. There was a connection Mike felt with his horse that began the moment he'd laid eyes on the animal four years ago. Four years and two months and sixteen days to be exact. The day he’d been driving his family home from the funeral of Jessie, his seven-year-old son. He’d spied the For Sale sign on a fence post next to a country road and the horse standing by himself out in the pasture. The sleek animal had turned its head, watching as Mike slowed his car, pulling off onto the grassy shoulder where he coasted to a stop. He got out and walked toward the fence, the brown expressive eyes of the big horse following his every movement. The day was warm for April, and a light breeze blew from the south, ruffling the horse's black mane and tail.

Suddenly, it started walking toward Mike. Their eyes met, and in that moment, it seemed like fate was suddenly intervening, driving a wedge into Mike's grief and sending a wave of warmth through him that he was unable to explain.

            " I think it's something Jessie would want me to do," he tried to explain to Lauren, his wife, who, along with their two daughters, was waiting patiently in the car. "It's like he's trying to communicate with me. I think our son would have wanted me to have this horse."

            Lauren, who was grieving in her own way and really didn't want to deal with her husband at that particular moment, waved a hand at him to end the conversation. "Then go ahead and get him. Just be careful."

            ‘Being careful’ became her mantra from that day forward, and who could blame her? Jessie had died after being hit by a car while riding his bicycle. He'd been on one of the many quiet, tree-lined neighborhood streets in the area, only a few blocks away from home. He shouldn't have been riding where he was, but Jessie always had a mind of his own. 'Willful,' some would say. 'Independent' was how Mike looked at him. But, whatever the term, his son was gone, gone for good and Mike began to use his time on his horse to help alleviate his grief which, now, after four years, was still there but much less so, thanks, in no small part, Mike felt, to the time he spent riding his cherished horse.

            "Let's go, boy," Mike said, stepping into the stirrup and lifting himself up into the saddle, wiggling his butt, enjoying the feel of the leather through his jeans. He was fifty-five years old, clean-shaven, with a slight paunch and a stocky build. He had short-cropped dark hair, speckled with gray, a narrow chin, and droopy dark bags under his brown eyes. His appearance was unremarkable, and he knew it, but when he rode Paint, well, he felt on top of the world. Something about being on the horse made him feel happy and carefree. He loved the muscular motion of the animal, the warm mixture of horse sweat and leather that filled his nostrils, and the freedom of movement, pretending when he rode that he could head off in any direction he wanted, and go anywhere in the world he felt like going. And even though he knew he was only pretending it felt good to go somewhere, anywhere, in his mind and escape, if only for a little while.

"Let's go," he said, making a clicking sound, tapping the horse with the heels of his cowboy boots. Off they went, Paint breaking into a smooth trot, the trot Tennessee Walkers were known for.

The horse kept a steady, almost metronome pace as Mike steered him down the driveway. It was paved with crushed red limestone and easy on the horse's hooves. Little puffs of dust hung in the still air as the horse trotted along, the early evening sun reflecting off soft clouds of red like a colorful, floating mirage. At the end of the drive was Old Orchard Way, a paved secondary road that ran north and south through the county. He took a left, careful to stay off the gravel shoulder. Paint moved happily at a steady gait as Mike acknowledged with a nod and a tip of his hat the few cars that sped past, careful to keep off to the side, 'Being careful,' just like Lauren had asked.

In five minutes, they met up with the Lucie Line Trail, a state-maintained, ten-foot-wide, hard-packed dirt track that ran east two miles to the town of Orchard Lake and then twenty miles further on toward Minneapolis. In the other direction, the trail ran west out one hundred and fifty miles to Blue Heron Lake in the middle of the state. Usually, Mike turned left, heading back toward town, but today he was feeling adventurous. He checked the traffic and then turned to the right onto the trail toward the west, finally allowing himself to relax, slowing Paint to a walk and feeling himself unwind and start to enjoy the serenity that came with riding his beloved horse.

            June blooming wildflowers of white Campion and purple Dain's Rocket adorned the sides of the trail, vying for space with purple vetch and yellow trefoil. Wild cherry blossoms filled the air with a scent so sweet it made Mike's mouth water. Off to the left, in a thicket of wild cranberry bushes, a finch sang a warbling song. From a clump of wild sumac, a wren chattered back, as if in accompaniment. The sky was cloudless blue, and the sun was moving down toward sunset, nearly level with the tree tops and leaving a burning orange glow on the horizon. The day had been hot, but now it was cooling, and Mike was glad he had chosen to wear a red plaid, long-sleeve, pearl snap-button cowboy shirt. He waved a few deerflies away from himself and Paint with his old, straw cowboy hat, and concentrated on enjoying the horse's easy saunter as they made their way down the trail, careful to stay toward the center.

            The Lucie Line Trail was an old railroad bed that had been reclaimed by the state in the early 1980s. It passed through five counties and a mixture of forests, fields, and marshland, and was elevated, with thick, brushy sides dropping away nearly ten feet in some cases. The trail was popular for walking, jogging, and bike riding, but was rarely crowded. Only a few used it for horseback riding, and that was fine with Mike. He liked to get out and enjoy the peace and quiet, listening to the birds singing, immersing himself in the natural world, and letting his mind go wherever it wanted. He rarely thought about work. (He had an office job as an assistant sales manager for Heartland Controls, an international electronic controls manufacturing company.) Today, instead of thinking about work, he used the time on Paint to unwind and relax. Lauren had taken the girls, Emma, fourteen, and Chrissie, twelve, to their evening lacrosse game. Ever since Jessie's death, she had thrown herself into raising their daughters. She had quit her job at Mount Olivet Hospital in Minneapolis, where she had been head of Administration, telling Mike that they could use her savings to help make ends meet. Money wasn't a problem. His job paid him well; they had bought their home nearly twenty years earlier for a fair price, a few years before housing values had begun to shoot up. They lived in the western part of the Hennepin country in an area that was nearly rural with rolling woodlands, marshes, and small ponds as the predominant features. Like most of the homes in the area, they had three acres, enough property to have a corral, and a small barn built for Paint. On paper, life was good. However, Mike was often plagued by vague feelings of unease, sometimes even mild depression. But he wasn't one prone to considering using drugs or drinking to escape his problems. Instead, he chose to be alone and spend time with Paint and get away from what he sometimes referred to as “life” for a while.

Like he was doing now, not thinking about if it was the right or wrong thing to do, but rather, that it was something he had to do. So, to that end, he sat back in his saddle, soaking in the sights and sounds of the oncoming evening. There were only a few people on the trail. He let Paint have the lead, and the horse walked along with an easy, undulating motion that was almost like a narcotic. Time slowly slipped past, Paint's hooves clip-clopping down the trail, the sun moving further below the horizon, twilight turning to ever-increasing shades of dark purple.

            Mike awoke with a start from a deep sleep. Night had fallen completely, the sky above nearly blocked by the tops of tree branches forming a high arching cathedral over the trail. There were stars out, but any starlight was dim due to the thickness of the leaves; he could barely see where he was going.

            "Whoa, boy," he said, shaking himself alert and reigning Paint in. "We need to get back to home base. Lauren will be worried."

Mike was upset with himself; his wife didn't need more worries due to his negligence. The Lucie Line was running through a thick forest. Up ahead, he could just make out an opening to the left, probably a marsh or pond. The trail at this point was straight as a stick, but he could only see a little way due to the near-complete darkness, sight being more of an impression of things than true vision. The forest on either side seemed intent on hemming him in, trapping him. He fought back a vague feeling of claustrophobia as he turned the horse around.

            Paint nodded his head as he made the turn, chomping the bit in his mouth. "Come on, boy," Mike said, touching the horse's sides with his cowboy boots. "Let's head for home." They were just straightening out, and Paint was about to break into a trot when, unexpectedly, up out of the brush popped a coyote, right onto the trail and only ten feet in front of them. The scruffy animal planted its paws and stopped dead. It took a second to stare at the horse and rider before it snarled, baring canines that gleamed in the low light. It looked like it might leap at them. Mike froze in the saddle, fear taking hold. Then the coyote barked a few short, yipping bursts and snarled once more before sinking into a crouch and running across the trail, where it dropped into the underbrush on the other side and scurried to safety.

The movement startled Paint so badly that he snorted and reared high on his hind legs, whinnying and baying out of control, eyes wild. Panic caused the horse to step backward, his hooves flailing, looking for purchase in the air. There was none. He lost his balance, falling off the trail, tumbling down the embankment, and sliding and twisting through twenty feet of brush all the way to the bottom. When Paint finally came to rest, Mike's left leg was crushed and pinned beneath the big animal.

It all happened so fast that both horse and rider were momentarily stunned. Then Mike became aware of a sharp pain in his leg at the same moment Paint instinctively made a sudden move to stand up, his body pushing off of his rider's leg, magnifying the intensity of the pain, ratcheting it up to an unbearable level. Mike screamed in agony as a wave of nausea overwhelmed him. It was probably fortunate that he passed out.

Paint rose to his feet, shaken but unhurt, reins hanging loose. The horse shook his head, stomped his hooves, and looked around, snorting once or twice, distressed. The night was deep and dark, the woods silent. After a minute, he got his bearings, settled down, and moved to the prone body, stepping carefully on the uneven ground. He bent down and nuzzled his rider. Mike didn't move.

            It was probably the mosquitoes feasting on his face that finally caused Mike to regain consciousness a few minutes later. "Damn!” He slapped them away and then immediately screamed. The pain in his leg nearly made him throw up. He'd never felt anything like it before - sharp pulses surging through him like a tide of burning needles. Stupidly, he tried to move, ratcheting up the pain to an unbearable level. He nearly passed out again. "God..." His breath was labored. He closed his eyes, but the mosquitoes buzzing around and feeding on any exposed skin forced him to stay awake. He feebly waved at them. He was on his back, his head facing down the slope, his crushed leg at an odd, unnatural angle. He had cuts on both his hands, and it felt like something like a stick had punctured through the skin under his right shoulder blade, where his shirt felt wet against his back. Blood, no doubt.

He adjusted himself as comfortably as he could and was closing his eyes again when there was a loud snort, startling him back to reality. Panicking, he remembered the coyote, wondering if it had come back to try to feed on him, a thought too gruesome to contemplate. There had been rumors of black bear sightings in the area, too. Frantically, he raised his head, trying not to move his leg, and looked around, eyes slowly adjusting to the darkness, readying himself to fight to the end if need be. With his fingers on his left hand, he groped through the leaves and plant debris on the ground, looking for a stick or anything he could use as a weapon. A movement over his shoulder caught his eye, and he dared to look, expecting the worst. He immediately calmed down and smiled. It was Paint. His old horse was standing right behind him at the bottom of the slope, swishing his tail and shaking his head to keep the bugs away.

Mike couldn't help but be touched. The animal had stayed with him rather than run off. "Hey there, boy," he said affectionately, gritting his teeth, trying to ignore the unrelenting pain. He reached his hand up to pet the horse. "How are you doing?" Paint nodded his head and snorted again, stepping closer until he was near enough that Mike could reach out and touch his leg. The connection felt good. Mike ran his eyes over the horse's body as best he could in the dark, judging him to be uninjured. "You look good to me, boy," he said. "You look real good." He patted the horse’s leg again and then lay back down, exhausted by the effort. He closed his eyes and passed out again.

***

Lauren put the phone down with an exasperated sigh and said to her friend, Kali, "Still no answer." She shook her head, resigning herself to her husband's uncharacteristic behavior.

            "What's up with him, anyway?" Kali had invited Lauren and her daughters back to her home for lemonade after their lacrosse game. She didn't have a high opinion of Mike, thinking him at best inattentive, and at worst, selfish and self-centered. "Why doesn't he answer?"

            "I don't know," Lauren sighed again. "He's probably busy." With what she had no idea. He was supposed to be on the trail with Paint, but should be back by now. "Maybe he's out in the barn. He should at least have his phone with him." She was tired and wanted to relax with her best friend and not think about Mike right then. The girls were on the same lacrosse team as Kali's daughter, Heather. They were letting off steam after the game, playing tag in the pool, laughing, and shouting. The night air was cool and refreshing, the sky brushed with a white wash of stars. Lauren leaned her head back in the lounge chair, put her feet up, and closed her eyes with a grateful sigh. She could stay like this forever. "I'll call him again in a little while," she said.

            Kali was concerned for her friend. Lauren was just over five feet tall and wore her auburn hair cut so it was just long enough to pull behind her ears. Her eyes were brown and her complexion dark. Over the last four years, ever since the death of Jessie, her expression had taken on a more severe look; frown lines had formed around both sides of her mouth, and she rarely laughed anymore.

Kali reached over and patted her friend on the arm. “You just relax. I'll go freshen up our drinks. Do you want something to munch on? Veggie's and hummus?"

            Lauren opened her eyes and looked gratefully at Kali. She shook her head. "No, thanks. Just the lemonade is fine." Lauren watched her blond, tall, slim friend walk slowly toward the sliding glass patio door that led inside the sprawling ranch house. Kali was a confident, no-nonsense person - someone who Lauren depended on to talk with and confide in. What would I do without her? Lauren thought to herself, not for the first time today, or any other day for that matter. Then she turned back to the pool and waved at Emma and Chrissie goofing around in the water, tossing an oversized blue and white beach ball.

Lauren smiled a rare smile. She loved to see her girls having fun and secretly wished she could join them. But she didn't. Instead, she lay her head back and allowed herself to close her eyes again, except her mind wouldn't shut down. Sure, she and Mike had drifted apart somewhat after Jessie's death, but she still loved him and was convinced he still loved her. All couples had to find ways to cope with tragedies, didn't they? She and Mike were working through their grief in their own way and in their own time. She had the girls, and Mike had...what? Well, work and Paint, a horse she really did adore. She knew others felt she and Mike should be focusing on their own relationship, working toward reestablishing the bond they once had. Sometimes, though, like now, it was easier to make the best of things the way they were, letting time heal their wounds, to paraphrase the old adage.

They'd been to couples counseling off and on, and Lauren felt they were making progress, moving ahead with their lives. She had nothing to complain about and could cope with her husband's occasional distance. In truth, though, she longed for them to be closer and for him to communicate with her more. To that end, she was planning a surprise. She had recently been thinking about getting a horse so they could go riding together. She'd found a pretty little mare for sale at a ranch just west of them. Her color was a mixture of warm honey and cream, and she was named Butterscotch. The owner was willing to hold her for a least another week.

She could picture herself and Mike going for long, relaxing rides together, following their whims and riding wherever they wanted, being spontaneous for a change. The image came into her mind of her on Butterscotch riding next to Mike on Paint out on the Lucie Line. The thought made her smile. She'd plan to talk to him about it tonight. Why didn't he answer his phone?

            "Here's some more lemonade," Kali said, interrupting her thoughts. She walked across the flagstone apron of the pool and plopped down on her lounge chair, handing over an icy glass. "Drink up and relax."

            "Thanks." Lauren glanced at her watch and took a refreshing sip, appreciating the icy,  sweetly sour taste of the drink. It was a few minutes after 10:00 pm. She was starting to get worried about her husband. Where was he? Then a splash from the pool caught her attention. Chrissie had exploded into the water with a huge cannonball off the diving board. Lauren laughed and applauded. She turned to Kali. "This is nice. The girls are having so much fun. It's just the kind of evening we all need." She settled herself more comfortably on the lounge and took another sip from her glass. Just a few more minutes, she told herself. Then we'll get going.

                                                                           ***                        

A young boy was standing next to him when Mike regained consciousness.

"Geez!" he yelled, startled, trying unsuccessfully to sit up, pain shooting through his back and leg again. "What the hell are you doing here?" He lay back, groaning.

            "I heard your horse, mister, and then saw you." The kid eyed Mike quizzically. "What happened to you? Are you OK?" he asked. Then he carefully stepped past Mike and moved over to pat Paint on the nose. The horse stood still, accepting the boy's gesture, lowering his head, encouraging him to continue. "Hi there." He started petting the horse, now using both hands, working up around his ears and under the straps of his bridle. Paint whinnied softly in obvious pleasure.

            "Coyote scared my horse," Mike said, answering the boy’s question. He forced the words out and raised his head to get a closer look at the boy. From what he could tell in the dark, he was a skinny little kid dressed in a white T-shirt and baggy, dark colored basketball shorts. He had on a baseball hat (Mike assumed the Minnesota Twins), worn backwards, and he appeared nearly five feet tall. Mike guessed that he was maybe ten or twelve years old. Suddenly, his vision fogged over momentarily, then cleared, and he started to have trouble breathing. He realized there might have been more damage done to him that he wasn't aware of. The unrelenting pain was dulling his senses.

            The kid kept petting Paint, moving now to run his hands over the horse's shoulder and through his mane. "I like your horse. What's her name?"

            "She's a he and his name is Paint," Mike panted. His back hurt, and his leg felt like it was asleep, which was good, he figured. The pain was less, but still a constant throb. He lay his head down and closed his eyes.

            The kid moved over to him, swatting away misquotes. "Mister, mister." The kid shook Mike's right shoulder, causing him to scream “OW!” in pain. "Sorry," the boy said, backing away, looking scared.

            "Hold on, there." Mike had come to and was holding up his hand as best he could. "Don't leave me."

            "I'm not. I'm just going to get some bug spray."

            Thank God, thought Mike. The mosquitoes were swarming all over him, hungrily feeding. He watched the kid shuck off a small backpack and take out a can. "What have you got there?"

            "Northwood's Off with Deet," the kid said. "Best stuff in the world." He shook the can, the aerosol rattle strangely comforting, and moved closer. "Close your eyes, mister." Mike did as he was told, and in a moment the cool mist of the spray drifted over his face. It felt wonderful.  The kid then sprayed Mike's hands. Then himself. When he was all done, he put the can in the pack and sat down on his heels, peering into Mike's face. "You alright, mister? You don't look so good. Do you have a cell phone to call for help?"

            Mike shook his head, groaning. He'd intentionally left the damn thing on his dresser at home. So he could have some uninterrupted privacy. Stupid. The pain in his back now seemed to encompass the entire upper part of his body. He felt the kid carefully move some leaf debris and dirt from his clothes and then gently caress Mike's right leg, the one that was undamaged. The touch was remarkably soothing.

            "Where are you from?" Mike finally asked. "From around here?" Speaking was getting exhausting.

            "Naw," the kid responded. "Not from around here."

            "How old?" Mike could barely speak. The pain was returning, but something about the kid made him curious.

            "Eleven," the kid said. "Just finished sixth grade."

            Geez, Mike thought to himself, he's the same age as Jessie would have been. Then he had a thought. "What the hell are you doing out here this time of night, anyway?" The effort to speak sapped his strength. He lay his head down, closed his eyes, and started to drift into unconsciousness.

            Dimly aware, he heard the boy say, "I just went for a bike ride and ended up here."

            "Really?" Mike asked skeptically, senses on alert. Despite his pain and ever-diminishing capacity to think clearly, at heart, he was still a father. Something didn't ring true. "At this time of night?” He stared at the kid. “Where are your parents?"

            "Oh, they're around," the kid responded quietly. He looked into the forest, avoiding eye contact. "They're busy with some other stuff," he added evasively.

            Right, Mike thought to himself. It sounded exactly like what the girls would say or even Jessie would have said when pushed for the truth. He might be severely injured, but he'd been a parent long enough to easily see through the kid's lie.

Right now, though, he was too exhausted to argue. Instead, he played along, thinking it was probably good to keep talking. Besides, having the kid around was giving him hope that he was going to come out of this okay. He changed conversational gears, getting more to the point. "So are you going to help rescue me or what?"

            "Sure!" The kid almost shouted. He was enthusiastic and happy to be needed. He opened his pack again and took out a bottle of water. "Here, mister," he said, unscrewing the cap. He held it to Mike's lips. "Drink this."

The kid tilted the bottle, cupping the back of Mike's head as he drank thirstily, excess water running down his chin. The cool liquid felt wonderful on his overheated body. The kid seemed to sense this, and he poured some into his hand and washed Mike's forehead and face. Mike sighed a silent, grateful thank you. The kid then took a drink before capping the water and putting it back in his pack.

With the water washing off the mosquito spray on Mike's face, he went through the spraying process again. By now, they both could see pretty well-their eyes finally having adjusted to the darkness. "What else do you want me to do?" the kid asked.

            "Go get help," Mike said, shifting up on his elbow. He could tell shock was setting in: the pain had come back into his left leg and was now a throbbing, dull ache that was never-ending. He needed to do something quick. "How'd you get here anyway?"

            The kid pointed up onto the trail. "My bike."

            "Can you ride and get someone to help me?"

            The kid looked around. "Maybe me and Paint can pull you up to the trail. They do stuff like that in the movies all the time."

            In spite of all the pain he was in, Mike grunted out a laugh. "And then what? I get on the horse and ride home?"

            "Damn, mister. I was just trying to help."

            The kid got up and made a move up the slope. "Hold on, hold on!" Mike, after him, "Don't get all bent out of shape."

            He stopped and spat out. "What?" He was angry.

            "Look, we need to work together..." Suddenly, Mike screamed. He had moved just slightly to try and get more comfortable and was leaning back when the point of a dead branch went right into the wound under his right shoulder blade. "God damn it!" was all he was able to say. Sweat popped up all across his forehead, beads of it running down his face.

            The kid quickly bent down to help him, looking at what little of Mike's back he could see. "Man, mister, you're bleeding a lot. I'll see if I can help." He pushed the sharp branch out of the way. Then he reached into his pack and pulled out a tee-shirt. "Here, let me see if I can stop the bleeding." Their argument was forgotten.

            Working together over the next few minutes, the kid was able to use the shirt to staunch the flow of blood. He took off one of his shoes and used the lace to wrap it around Mike's chest to hold the shirt in place. The effort exhausted the injured man, and he lay back with a groan, grateful for the padding of the kid's shirt. But the pain was still there. They needed to do something fast. “You’ve got to go for help," Mike groaned. He was lying flat out on the ground, gasping for breath. God, maybe he'd punctured a lung.

            "Where should I go?"

            "Do you live around here? Can you go to your home?"

            "No, I'm from back toward Minneapolis."

            Well, that answers part of the mystery, thought Mike. "Fine. Go back the way you came.” Despite his labored breathing, he was able to explain how to get to his house.

When he was done, the boy asked, "Why don't I just take Paint? Wouldn't he know the way?"

            Smart kid. "Maybe. First, you have to get up onto the trail." He was losing the strength to talk.

            "I'll do my best," the kid said. He spit on his hands and rubbed them together in preparation.

Just like in the movies, Mike thought, as he struggled to maintain consciousness, mentally crossing his fingers that the plan would work.

            It took about two minutes. The kid grabbed hold of the reins like he was born to the task. Together they scrambled up the slope, clods of dirt flying from the big animal's hooves, both of them slipping and sliding and fighting through the brush until they finally reached the trail. Paint shook himself, took a moment to get his bearings, and then immediately turned to the right and started walking toward home.

"Whoa," Mike yelled, using the last of his strength. Yet as he watched the whole process, he was impressed beyond words. "Tell him to 'Whoa'," he gasped to the kid.

            Between the two of them yelling, "Whoa," Paint finally stopped. The kid positioned himself on the side of the horse, grabbed the saddle horn, and jumped up, scrambling and kicking his legs, fighting himself into the saddle, his feet dangling above the stirrups. Paint, to his credit, stayed standing perfectly still through the whole process.

            "I'm ready, mister," he said. At the sound of the boy's voice, the horse started walking down the trail, heading for home.

            Mike suddenly had a thought. "Hey, kid," he yelled, using the last of his strength.

            "What?" They were beginning to move away at a steady pace.

            "I'm Mike. What's your name?"

            "Jacob," came the reply, fading into the distance. "They call me Jake."

            Geez, thought Mike. That was Jessie's middle name. Then he passed out, but not before saying a silent prayer that the kid, Jake, would make it down the trail okay, find where he lived, and bring help.

***

"Come on, girls, time to head home!" Lauren waved to get their attention. Emma was just diving into the pool.

            "Aww, Mom," Chrissie complained. "Can't we stay a little longer?"

            "Nope. Go inside and change. We leave in five minutes." Honestly, she didn't want to go and said to Kali, "The girls always have such a good time here."

The cooler temperature brought out the scent of a Japanese Lilac, its sweet aroma filling the air. The night was so quiet that when the girls weren't yelling and laughing, she could hear a chorus of frogs down in a nearby marsh. Off on the edge of Kali's property near where the forest started, fireflies were out. Lauren had spent the last fifteen minutes distracted in her conversation with her friend, watching as they blinked trails through the darkness, trying to guess where the next flash of light would appear, never successful, but not caring either. It was a silly little game, but it was fun to play. Plus, it took her mind off her worry: she had been unable to get a hold of her husband.

            "Want to stay overnight? The kids would love it if you did," Kali leaned over, smiling in encouragement.

            "Tempting as it sounds..." Lauren checked her watch. "It's nearly eleven thirty. Mike will be wondering where we are."

            "You think? He could always call you, you know." Kali not too successfully tried to keep her low opinion of her friend's husband out of her voice. "All he seems to care about is that stupid horse."

            "Yes, well..." Lauren's voice trailed off. She could see her friend's point. Lots of people felt Mike, even though it’d been four years, wasn't handling the loss of their son too well. But from her perspective, he was doing as well as could be expected. If you haven't ever lost a child, don't be too quick to judge how parents cope, was how she looked at it. She began to shake off her relaxed mood, gearing up to head home."At any rate, we should go. I'll call you tomorrow."

             Lauren pushed herself out of the lounge chair and stood up, taking in the quiet, peacefulness of the night one more time. But thoughts of Mike were now intruding. It was time to get home and find out what was going on. In a few minutes, the girls returned, dried off, and changed into shorts and T-shirts. Lauren pulled a white cotton cardigan closer to ward off the night's chill. "Let's go, girls," she called to them. She and Kali embraced goodbye as Emma and Chrissie waved to Heather and then joined their mom. The three of them walked side by side to their Suburban.

            "Is Dad home?" Emma asked.

            "He should be."

            "But is he?" Emma was a persistent, exacting child.

            "We'll find out, honey." They got in, slamming doors, and Lauren started the engine. She carefully turned around and drove down the long driveway, thankful for the illumination of her headlights. She paused where the driveway met the dark county road and looked both ways before turning onto the night. She switched the headlights to high beam and accelerated cautiously to twenty-four miles an hour. Then she carefully drove home.

            In five minutes, they were pulling into their driveway, headlights cutting a path through the darkness. Up ahead, a few soft lights from inside the house shone the way. Off to the right was the barn with an outdoor security light on over its double wooden doors. Lauren was concentrating on driving the car up to the garage, wondering to herself where Mike was, when suddenly Chrissie called out, "Mom! There's Paint!"

            Lauren stopped the car and looked. Standing next to the barn was Mike's horse. He was nosing at the closed door, trying to get in, stomping his feet, and impatiently shaking his head. Probably hungry, Lauren thought to herself. Then, a more immediate thought hit her, and a rising panic set in. Where was Mike?

            She jammed the car into park, turned the engine off, and got out, running to the horse. Paint turned and took a step toward her. He was comfortable with the members of the family; they all rode him. He nodded his head up and down and snorted, loose reins flopping. He was sweaty, dirty, and had burrs sticking to his tail and mane. Otherwise, though, to Lauren's eyes, he appeared to be alright. As she approached him, she saw something attached to a leather lace on his saddle. Emma raced ahead and got there first.

            "Mom, it's a note," she said, opening it.

            "What's it say?" Lauren was worried about her husband but tried to hold her emotions at bay, not wanting to upset the girls any more than they were. A tiny part of her hoped this whole thing might be some kind of joke. But she was a realist. It couldn't be. She had a strong feeling that something was very wrong. She was right.

            "It says ‘On the trail to the west. Hurt, " Emma said, handing the note to her mom, who quickly scanned the tattered piece of paper, concurring with what her daughter had said. It didn't look like Mike's writing, but if he was hurt...

            "Girls, go and check the house for your dad," she commanded. As they ran off, she took out her phone and dialed 911. It was 11:45 pm. Her feeling was that something was horribly wrong.

            By 12:20 am, Hennepin County Search and Rescue was on the Lucie Line Trail, heading west, looking for Mike. One guy was driving a county pickup truck, headlights on high beam, while four officers rode in the back, scanning the sides of the trail with high-intensity flashlights. Behind the truck, a line of hastily assembled volunteers spread out on foot, carefully peering into the underbrush, their flashlights in constant motion.

            Lauren sat in her living room with Kali. "Mike's gone missing. I'm scared," was all she had said into her phone when she had called earlier. Kali came right away, prepared to hear her friend's husband had left home or something. Anything idiotic Mike would do at this point wouldn't surprise her in the least. She immediately downplayed her opinions, however, hearing Lauren's tearful telling of her story. "I just hope he's alright," Lauren said, sobbing when she'd finished. "The girls and I need him safe and sound and to be here in our home. Where can he be?"

            Kali moved close and rubbed her friend's back. "He'll be home soon. He'll be fine, just wait. Mike's pretty strong." The words spilled out in a rush. Whether that last statement was true or not, only time would tell. Kale hoped for Lauren and the girl's sake, it was. She moved closer to console her friend and hugged her tightly.

            Emma and Chrissie were out in the barn, their concern for their dad's safety running on overdrive, adrenaline flowing. They were cleaning Paint, their nervous pacing back and forth, making the job take twice as long as it normally would. "Do you think Dad's going to be OK?" Chrissie asked. She had sprayed the horse off with a hose and was now wiping him down with a towel, rubbing it over his coat and rinsing it in a bucket of clean water. After a few minutes, the repetitive motion began to have a calming effect on both her and the animal.

            "I don't know, how would I know?" Emma spit the words out. She was mad that her dad was causing them grief, but, more than that, she was worried. Losing Jessie was hard enough, but the thought of losing their father was too much to bear. "Let's just get Paint cleaned up, alright?" She was running a curry comb through the horse's mane, taking out the burrs and smoothing the stiff hairs with her fingers as she worked. Working on the orderly task of cleaning the horse was calming her down as well.

            When Chrissie was done washing Paint, she hung the towel on a post to dry, picked up a soft-bristle brush, and started working it over Paint's coat. She stood on the opposite side of the horse from her sister. After a minute, they both made eye contact. The barn was silent except for Paint occasionally stomping one of his hooves. Outside of the open door of the barn, darkness seemed to spill in. It had a sinister feel to it. Where was their father?

Tears welled up in Emma's eyes. Chrissie saw them, and then she too started crying. Something made them join hands and lean across the horse's back. The heat of the big animal warmed them. The closeness felt good. In a few minutes, their tears subsided, and they both went back to work in silence, bonded by the mutual hope that their father was going to be home soon and that he was going to be fine and life, as they knew it, would get back to normal.

They worked into the night until, much later, the job was done. Then they put Paint in his stall with a bucket of fresh oats and clean water, and went inside to join their mother. Exhaustion had finally set in.

            At 3:10 am, Lauren's phone buzzed. She hadn't been asleep, but, instead had been talking to Kali non-stop about how much she loved her husband how much Mike meant to her, and how she couldn't live if something had happened to him, not after what had happened to Jessie, and what would happen to the girls if their father wasn't there with them... And on and on.

When the phone buzzed, Lauren fumbled once but was able to get a hold of it, her hands shaking. Kali watched as her friend nodded her head. Then she smiled, sighing with relief, covering the phone. "They found him! He's going to be OK!" On the floor where they had fallen asleep, the girls stirred, coming awake.

            "Mom?" Emma asked, rubbing her face.

            "Dad?" Chrissie said, not taking her eyes off her mother.

            Lauren held up a finger, 'one second,' and listened some more. After a minute, she hung up and held out her arms. "Come here, girls," she said. Her two daughters crawled quickly across the floor, came to her, and were enfolded into their mother's arms. "They found your dad out on the trail. He's injured, but he's going to be OK." She grinned over the heads of her daughters at Kali, who smiled back at her, thinking that it was about time her friend had something good happen in her life. She obviously cared about her husband and, hopefully, one day, he would reciprocate the feeling.

            "What are you going to do now?" Kali asked.

            "The girls and I are going to the hospital," Lauren said, standing up. She pulled the girls, who were instantly wide awake, with her. She was happy and excited. "I guess Mike's been asking for us."

            Kali got to her feet, catching Lauren's energetic mood. "Let's go, then," she said, grabbing her purse and leading the way to the door. "I'll drive."

***

Two days later, Mike was home from the hospital, recuperating. Lauren had set up a bed for him on a couch in the family room: a big, open area, with the kitchen at one end and the living area at the other, separated by the couch Mike was on and an informal sitting area in between. A double set of sliding glass doors along one wall let him see the backyard. Before he'd come home, the girls had talked Lauren into going to a local garden store where they'd purchased overflowing pots of red and pink geraniums, white trailing bacopa, orange and yellow marigolds, and bright blue cascading verbena. They'd carefully placed the pots on the patio outside the glass doors so Mike could see them. 

All the colorful flowers lifted Mike’s spirits, which were pretty high anyway. When the sun was shining, like it was this morning, the family room was the most cheerful place in the house. The open floor plan made it easy for Mike to see everyone and be a part of the day-to-day activities of Lauren, Emma, and Chrissie. Which is what he wanted more than anything.

            "I don't want to be away from any of you ever again," he kept saying, over and over again, both in the hospital and once he was home, obviously shaken by his experience.

            Lauren thought it was sweet for him to be talking like that; something he hadn't done in the last four years. Nevertheless, the sentiment was starting to lose some of its punch after hearing it so many times. "Honey, we aren't going anywhere, are we, girls?" Lauren had told him time and time again, hoping he'd eventually believe her.

            "No, Dad, never," Chrissie would say to him, rushing to hug him.

            Emma was by nature somewhat reticent, but still thankful her father had returned from his accident safe and relatively unscathed. His left leg tibia had a hairline fracture, and he'd strained some tendons. The puncture in his back only did muscle damage and would heal nicely. Mike’s oldest daughter had appointed herself an entertainment coordinator and had been enjoying some much-needed quality time with her dad. They had been playing cribbage almost non-stop since his return, chatting and laughing like old times.

             There was a definite change in him, that was for sure. A change for the better as far as Lauren was concerned.

            "I love how nice the walls look in here," Mike remarked. It was his first morning back home, and it was as if he was seeing the color of the room for the first time. He had slept well the night before, felt rested and ready to put the “ordeal,” as he put it, behind him. "What would you say, Lori, light green?"

            Lauren smiled at him, calling her “Lori”, a term of endearment he hadn't used since Jessie had died. "Don't you remember?" she chided him. "It's sea-green. We picked it out last year."

            Mike shook his head, grinning. "I've been kind of in a fog for some time, now, haven't I?"

            That's certainly an understatement, Lauren said to herself. Try for four years. But she kept her thoughts to herself, preferring instead to enjoy the novelty of having her husband more like himself than he'd been since Jessie had passed away. "We've all been trying to deal with Jessie's death in our own ways," she told him.

            "But you've been doing such a good job holding things together," he countered. "The girls are doing great," he shook his head, chagrined. "I haven't been much help, have I? I'm going to try to do better, starting right now." As if to prove the statement, he made a move to get up and suddenly grimaced, the pain still evident. "Well, maybe I'll take a rain check," he groaned, lying back down.

            Lauren smiled to herself. She had been sitting in an easy chair next to him, keeping him company, having a cup of tea, and glancing through a home improvement magazine. She was enjoying the homey sensation of starting to feel like a complete family again, and, even though it had only been a couple of days, she was daring to let herself think that maybe their situation had turned around. Maybe Mike would become more of the man she needed him to be: more involved in raising the girls and more of a husband who helped rather than hindered around the house. She allowed herself to hope Mike really was changing and that it would be for the better and that it would last. She set her magazine down, stood up, came over, sat on the couch, and ran her fingers through her husband's hair. It was thinning, had been ever since Jessie's death, but the intimate gesture felt good to her.

            Mike responded, looking into her eyes. He took hold of her hand and kissed it, "I love you so much. I don't know what I'd do without you."

            Lauren smiled and lay her head on his chest. She could feel his heart beating. She felt the warmth of his body. Suddenly, all of the chores she had planned: getting the laundry going, dusting and sweeping the first floor, and vacuuming the upstairs, didn't seem so critical anymore. She stretched out next to him. "I'm not going anywhere."

            Mike sighed and smiled, looking up at the vaulted ceiling with its rough beams, giving him a sense of security. He felt relaxed and was happy to be spending time with his wife. He put his left arm around her shoulder and kissed the top of her head. "I was wondering,” he said. “Have you ever thought about getting another horse? Lately, I've been thinking it would be nice for us to go riding out on the trail. You know, do something fun together." He ran his fingers gently through her hair.

            Lauren laughed, thinking he was wondering about something else. She reordered her thoughts. "Funny, I've been thinking the same thing, you know, about getting a horse." She briefly told him about the little mare Butterscotch she’d been looking at. When she was done, she asked what he thought. Mike nodded and grinned in approval. Before he could say anything, she asked, "Where'd you get your idea?"

            "I've been thinking about it for a while, but it really started coming together when I was out on the Lucie Line waiting for help." Then he stopped and slapped his forehead. "God, I forgot to ask you! What about Jacob? Jake? The kid. Where is he? What's happened to him?"

            Lauren sat up, perplexed, "Jake? What in the world are you talking about?"

            "Jake. The kid who rode Paint home. Skinny, little guy, but pretty friendly. Wore a baseball hat. Resourceful, too. He was the one who put that T-shirt bandage on my back."

            Lauren smiled at him and went back to her chair and her tea and her magazine. She'd heard an automobile drive up and car doors slamming, the girls getting dropped off from lacrosse practice by Kali. They'd be coming through the door any second and would probably give their parents no end of grief about being intimate together on the couch, as good as it had felt.

She smiled at Mike. “Sorry, honey. There was no Jake, no little kid, no nothing. Just the note you wrote, stuck in the saddle, telling us where you were. You were probably hallucinating seeing someone. The doctor said that happens sometimes if you're in a lot of pain." She opened her magazine and took a sip of her tea, chamomile, appreciative of its flavor and relaxing effect.

            Mike wasn’t ready to let it rest. He sat up the best he could. "I never wrote any note, he stated emphatically. “I couldn't. I was in so much pain I could barely stay conscious, let alone think to write something. The kid rode off to our house on Paint. I swear he was there with me ."

            "Well, I never saw anyone." As far as Lauren was concerned, Mike was still suffering some sort of hallucinogenic after-effect from his accident. A little part of her wondered about what he'd said, though. Could it have happened? Too bad they'd lost the note in all of the confusion of that night.

Just then, Emma and Chrissie bounded into the room and interrupted her thoughts, their strawberry blond long hair tied back in ponytails, faces glistening with sweat. They were laughing and joking, obviously in good moods. Whether it was from practice or having their father home, Lauren couldn't tell. She hoped it was both. "Girls, did either of you see anyone around Paint when he came back the other night? You were out at the barn with him. Your dad thinks there might have been a boy around somewhere."

            Emma rolled her eyes, chiding her father. "No Dad, no one. I think you're making the whole thing up." Then she smiled a big smile and ran over to the couch and hugged him, putting that awful night out of her mind. "I'm so glad you're back and are going to be OK."

            "Me, too," Chrissie added, plopping on the couch and hugging her dad as well. "Double glad." She looked at her sister, gave her a high-five, and they both started laughing.

            Lauren was amazed at how, in just a day, the girls had suddenly become more relaxed and less tense. It must have to do with how Mike is behaving, she thought. He's being more attentive and thoughtful, talking to them, talking to me. It's a start. I hope he keeps it up.

             From Mike's point of view, all he wanted to do was whatever he could to bring his family back together again. He quickly decided to put the thought of Jake out of his mind, putting the arguments aside and willing to accept that the kid was only in his imagination. After all, he'd been pretty banged up and had lost a lot of blood. It made sense that he imagined the boy, who really did look a little like Jessie, might have looked like if he'd grown to that age.

Stop it! Mike shook his head to get rid of that kind of thinking. He made a silent vow right then never to let thoughts of what may or may not have happened on the Lucie Line Trail ever cloud his mind again. It was time to put the entire experience behind him.  All he cared about right now was his family and being home and safe with them.

             He turned to his daughters. "Hey, girls," he said, giving Lauren a wink. "Your mom and I have been talking. What do you think about us all getting another horse?"

And he smiled, then, at the response to such a simple idea when both the girls jumped up and down and clapped their hands, cheering and joyfully echoing each other. ”Yes, yes, and YES!"

 Mike watched as the girls danced around the room. He grinned a wide grin and looked over at Lauren, who gave him a wink back and an encouraging smile. She was all on board. "Well, girls," he called out, "Let's do it then!"

***

That same day, when Mike and his family were talking about getting another horse, out on the Lucie Line Trail, right where Paint had reared up and fallen off the side, there was a movement in the underbrush. Suddenly, a coyote jumped up onto the trail, paused, and looked both ways. In an instant, he realized he was all alone. He relaxed, sat down on his haunches, and bit at a tick crawling across the top of its paw. The coyote was a male in its third year and not yet attached to a pack. He roamed the woods and fields around the town of Orchard Lake, every now and then venturing into the well-kept, manicured yards common to the homes in the area, looking for any inattentive cat or small dog. He was always on the lookout for food and getting to be a good hunter; rarely did a day pass without him being hungry.

He chomped down the tick and took a survey of the trail and the woods around it. Then he sniffed, catching the faintest whiff of horse and human. In his brain, the memory came back of the commotion a few nights back with the truck and all the humans with their lights and all the racket they'd made. He remembered the encounter with the horse and the human. He had escaped the horse's hooves and scurried for safety into the brush, but he hadn't run away. No, instead, he'd circled back across the trail and hidden pressed himself to the ground nearby under a thick tangle of grapevine. He'd been curious and had watched the horse and the human.

After waiting for a while, he saw the little human come along, and a while later, he and the horse left and went down the trail back toward town, and, a while later, he'd seen many humans come around and the big human get taken away. He'd stayed crouched out of sight after the big machine had left and the humans had gone until, finally, the night had become quiet once again. Then he'd come out of his hiding place and go to where the big and little humans had been with the horse and look around, taking a few minutes to thoroughly sniff the ground. Finally, he had relaxed. The forest returned to normal with the night sounds of the measured hooting of an owl and the quiet murmurings of frogs and other amphibians in the nearby swamp. Satisfied all was well, he had left the area and gone on with his hunting.

But now, on this pleasant summer morning with the sun shining brightly in the sky, curiosity was starting to get the better of him. He put his nose to the ground and sniffed in the dirt. He picked an aroma, a scent of something familiar. He turned and looked away from the rising sun, out to the west. There was the faintest mark on the hard-packed surface. Narrower than his paw, the mark was nearly smooth with little bumps in it. The coyote bent and sniffed again. It had a faint odor, like the smell on the roads with the fast machines on them that he so carefully avoided, crossing over only now and then. There was the faintest scent of a human, too. Not an old human, but a young one. Experience had taught him the difference. It brought back the memory of the other night when there had been all of the commotion and the young human had been there. It was his scent.

The coyote thought for a moment about following it to see where it went, but decided not to. He knew the dirt trail went away for a long distance, out toward where the sun would set later that day. Many miles. Today, he wanted to stay close to the woods he called home. He'd picked up a trace scent of a female earlier that morning, just after sunrise. She was traveling alone, unattached like him. Maybe they could join up and start hunting together. If she were good, they could perhaps start a pack of their own.

Suddenly, his ears caught a sound. Something was down in the brush on the other side of the trail. A rabbit, maybe. He crouched and ever so quietly made his way to the edge, sniffing, his nose to the ground. He paused, watching, his eyes quick to catch any movement in thick undergrowth. His heart beat rapidly, and his muscles tensed. He was ready. He made his move and pounced. In an instant, he’d disappeared into the underbrush.

---

Setu, October 2025