“Want to read it to me?” It took a really brave man to own up to this sort of unabashed snooping. Either that or a foolish one whose manners hadn’t yet been learned.
“Really? I doubt I can get through it.”
“That’s okay. I won’t judge.” He offered a conciliatory smile. “Sorry,” he said. “I’m Adam.”
“Maren.” Her fingers slipped into his.
“Hi there, Maren.” He smiled again when he said, “Go ahead. Start from the beginning. I’m all ears.”
“You don’t have to—”
“Listen.” Adam’s upper body shifted, his chest pressing over the armrest. Maren could feel his breath on her cheek, could smell the hint of ginger ale that wafted between them. It made her stomach tumble because she only ever drank ginger ale when she felt nauseous. “I’ve been watching you silently recite whatever it is you’ve been writing since we left San Francisco. Seems like maybe you need an actual audience to practice on. Lucky for you, I’m pretty much a captive one.”
Maren slunk deeper in her chair, wanting to cocoon into the leather cushion. She figured he was probably right, but she felt awkward still. This wasn’t a routine college paper or essay. With a trembling breath that caught sharply in her chest, she scrolled up to the top of the document. The cursor flashed at the beginning of the first paragraph like the pulsing tick of a time bomb. Her mouth watered, acid prickling the back of her throat and stinging her tongue like a sour candy, that inevitable nausea from earlier taking hold. She grimaced, swallowed down the rising nerves, and started from the top.
“Legacy,” she began. “We spend our lives building one—our gift to future generations. Some leave their fortunes. Others leave traditions. But the very best leave their example. An example of a life well-lived.”
Maren looked over at the man to see if she still had his attention. He lifted his chin in a slight nod. Something about his encouraging gesture made her feel a little steadier despite the racing pulse that forced her breath out harder and faster than she liked.
“Walt Friar was that example. When I was just five-years-old, my pony bucked me off so hard I saw stars for three days. While my mama tried to console me in the coddling way mothers do, my daddy simply said, ‘If you climb in the saddle, you better be ready for the ride.’” Maren swiped her thumb on the keypad and scrolled down the document. “There were many times in my life when I avoided getting into that proverbial saddle. I let my fear own me. I let it make the decisions for me. I let life buck me off time and time again. My father taught me that it was okay to be afraid, but you still had to take life by the reins. ‘You have to ride the horse,’ he would say. ‘You can’t let the horse take you for a ride.’”
The ball in Maren’s throat swelled as hot tears pressed the back of her eyes. Her blinks were erratic and didn’t do anything to keep the waterworks at bay. She felt the hot trail curve over her cheek and slip down her chin, soaking the neckline of her slouchy sweatshirt.
“It was a great ride, Daddy. You rode hard, you rode fast, and even when you couldn’t stay in the saddle, you always climbed back on. Ride free, cowboy. You’ve done well.”
For a few moments, Maren stared silently forward, the words on the screen twisting in the blur of emotion that diluted everything around her. Noises and sounds smeared together and backed off in volume. Train passengers felt far away. She shoved the back of her hand to her face and wiped with a loud sniff. “That’s all I have so far.”
She snapped the laptop shut.
Adam’s eyes were wide, his mouth set in a line. He shook his head and said, “That’s beautiful. What a man your father must’ve been.”
“He was.” She reached down to place the computer into the messenger bag she had stowed under the seat in front of her, trying to avoid Adam’s now sympathetic gaze. “He really was.”
“When’s the service?”
Maren was terrible with details. She hadn’t even memorized her social security number until she was almost eighteen and needed it for college applications. Details were lost on her. But dates like this—the day and time of her father’s memorial service—would be engrained in her memory for the rest of her life. “Thursday afternoon. Two o’clock at Easthaven Baptist.”
Adam nodded. “I know the church.”
Maren smiled, even though it felt misplaced. “Everyone knows the church,” she said. “Everyone from Riverburn, at least.”
“Well, I’m not technically from Riverburn,” Adam said, shrugging. “That was a touching and beautiful speech, Maren. I’m sure it was very difficult to write. I can’t imagine how hard it is going to be to get up in front of your friends and family and recite it.” His words felt sincere, though Maren had no way to know if they actually were. “I’m really sorry for your loss, Maren.”
“Thank you,” she replied. Her stomach went weightless as the train rounded a curve and she directed her gaze toward the window next to her. She looked out at the foothills that housed so many memories, so many days spent in the saddle trekking through their undulating peaks and valleys. Maren’s childhood was forged on that rugged landscape. And for the last several years, she’d done all she could to forget that. To forget the boy who was at the center of each of those memories.
She hissed out the breath held in her lungs and turned toward Adam, wanting to block out the range that jutted into her thoughts just as aggressively as it cut into the blue California sky. “Thank you for letting me read that to you.”
“Of course. It’s too bad, but so often we learn the most about people after they pass. Sounds like he was a man many could afford to learn from.”
“He was,” Maren agreed. She hadn’t yet gotten used to the past tense version of her father. She doubted she ever would. Love felt like a persistently present-tense thing. “I’m still learning from him.”
As the train slowed, its brakes screaming along the tracks before coming to a halt in front of the Riverburn Station, Maren took a deep breath. Adam took up the width of the aisle as he gathered his briefcase and then looked down at Maren and said, “I think living a life that others can learn from is the best legacy of all.”
8
Grady
Grady spun the neck of the amber bottle between his finger and thumb, watching the water loops it left on the wood twist in a pattern that resembled the Olympic rings. If he stared long enough, he could see each circle disappear into the splintered wood as it evaporated. He’d counted fifty-two disappearing rings so far.
He rolled the bottle on its rim again.
Fifty-three.
“Cutter!” The door swung wide, letting in a sharp blast of light and the equally sharp tongue of Leland McCoy. He hollered like a banshee into the previously quiet bar, which had been draped not only in darkness, but in the silence that partnered with the stupor of alcohol. His was an unwelcome greeting. The two men seated at Grady’s side grumbled under their musky breath. “Knew I’d find you here!” Leland said.
It wasn’t a hard guess, but Grady humored his friend with a forced smile. “Looks like you got me, Lee.”