Page 62 of Adam's Rising

“Me neither,” Peter agreed with a snort.

Clara Mae’s ranch wasn’t far from the school, but Claire promised him she’d pick him up if Adam couldn’t take him. She’d never been keen on riding the bus, either.

Claire drove through the open gate and into the parking lot.

“Oh, damn… What the hell.”

Claire looked up, and it took every ounce of patience she had not to scream.

Lala!

16

Adam did his best to ignore the goings-on of Brett and Frank as they emptied their quarters, and then, Brett, of course, had to empty his office inside the barn that Adam hadn’t seen him enter once. Then again, maybe that’s why he’d rarely seen the man.

A scary notion crept in without his permission: What if Brett had been inside his office whenever he’d been talking to Bolt, or worse, Claire.

Worrywart! he admonished himself. Life has enough troubles without inventing scenarios.

Since no parental figures who’d watched him torture himself with what-ifs his entire life were available, he figured he needed to remember and administer their teachings.

Adam continued mucking out stalls, longing for the day he could hang up the pitchfork. That day felt closer than ever.

After Brett and Frank were gone — and maybe George would take off, too — he and Rusty could bring on new hands, hired help who didn’t have bad habits from the old regime.

No wonder Adam’s father preferred working on his own, with just the horses. He was quickly learning that ranch life felt like some of those soap operas his mother had playing in the background as she shucked peas, canned tomatoes, or in the winter, plucked the eyes off potatoes.

Adam rarely saw her actually watching the programs, but he’d seen an occasional nod when she agreed with something or a lift of her head when she didn’t.

A stitch tugged at his heart for a second. He really missed his mother. Yeah, he’d learned so much from his father, but his mother had loved him so deeply. She’d been there every day of his life.

In fact, he couldn’t ever remember her leaving the cabin. Dad even usually did the grocery shopping off her list.

“Drop it on the back of the Haulster.” The command sounded like Brett’s resonant baritone.

Adam ducked his head, continuing to clean the stall. He really didn’t want to have a one-on-one confrontation with the man.

Clara Mae told him that she’d discovered the issues, so who was Adam to contradict her?

“Stableboy!” Brett called.

Adam squeezed his eyes shut.Damn.Was cursing silently still a curse, he wondered. He was starting to understand why adults cursed so much. Life could get hairy in seconds.

Deciding to ignore the remark that was about as far away from an endearment as a horse was from a zebra, Adam continued his duties.

Why had Brett called himStableboy? Was it a slur or — worse — had he heard Claire call him that?

“Thomas!” Brett bellowed. “Come here!”

He wasn’t his boss anymore, so did he have to obey?

Why cause trouble? He’d look guilty — or worse, scared — if he stayed hidden in the stall.

He never wanted — scratch that. He’d never look or feel scared again. Not in this life.

Adam stepped out of the stall, still clenching the pitchfork.

If Brett was shocked with his football move, he’d be blown away with what Adam could do with a pitchfork.