y to have to turn around and leave again? How could that do anything but draw attention to the fact that he was not and never would be a normal human being, capable of functioning completely in society?
Tendrils of anxiety already curled through his stomach. And he was hot in the middle of San Antonio’s first cold front of the season.
But he was going to River Bluff. He was going to try. Blake always tried.
And to get himself there, he’d decided to visit the Cross Fox Ranch and deliver his weanling news to Brady in person, rather than over the phone. A good feeling, not a bad one. The more he replaced bad with good, the less power the bad had to hurt him.
Rule number one of talk therapy for stress victims.
Right after the education part, where Blake learned how to identify all the things that were wrong with him—and was then told how bad it could get.
Many sufferers of PTSD were never capable of participating in a one-on-one relationship again—even in relationships that had been firmly established before the incident that precipitated the disorder.
He found Brady in the stable, shoveling muck. His friend of a little more than a year greeted him with such a sincere welcome that Blake felt a bit uncomfortable.
“I think I found you a horse.” He came right to the point.
“How’d you do that? I’ve got fingers in channels all over the state and I’ve heard nothing.”
“I’m not sure how,” Blake answered honestly, stepping around stained straw to peak into a closed stall next to Brady. A tall chestnut mare stood there, looking bored and sad. “I have a new assistant who apparently is Wonder Man. At least to hear him tell it.”
Which wasn’t entirely fair. While Colin seemed to have an inordinate amount of confidence, he’d also, so far anyway, followed up every promise with action.
Blake was just finishing telling Brady about the private Henley sale when, to his surprise, Marshall Carrick stepped out of a stall at the end of the stable.
“Blake, good to see you,” the older man said, coming to stand beside his son.
Shaking his hand, Blake readied himself to make his excuses and go. He’d done what he’d come to do. He’d only met the elder Carrick a few times, and while everyone thought highly of him, Blake didn’t like the way the man looked at his son. As though he didn’t quite trust him to carry through on what he said he was going to do.
“Blake found a weanling, Dad,” Brady said, though, had Blake been in his shoes, he wouldn’t have done so. Brady repeated the news, ending with, “The sale is January 16.”
“Forty-five thousand, huh?”
“He’ll be worth four times that after I train him,” Brady said. The younger man had been trying for all of the fifteen months since Brady had returned from Vegas to get his father to take him seriously.
“Trevor Dobbs is the Cross Fox trainer,” Marshall said, his voice easy, the look in his eyes not quite matching it. Marshall was a sharp businessman. Through and through.
“He’s getting close to retirement.”
“Try and tell him that,” Marshall scoffed. “He’s got another good ten years in him.”
A far too generous estimate, in Blake’s opinion. Dobbs had played poker with them several times since Blake’s return, and he’d gathered that the other man was making plans for life after the Cross Fox.
“I’d like us to go to that sale,” Brady persisted. And when he heard the “us” in that statement, Blake understood why. The ex-professional football player couldn’t afford to buy the horse on his own. Blake hadn’t known that until just then. Brady Carrick must have lost a hell of a lot of money during his months in Las Vegas, following his forced early retirement from the NFL.
“I appreciate your enthusiasm, son.” Marshall’s words were obviously sincere. “But Dobbs is doing a great job as the Cross Fox trainer. We need you right where we have you—at the front end of the Cross Fox Ranch. You might have ended your career with the Dallas Cowboys, but there are an awful lot of people who still remember you with admiration and awe. Your name and face brings us business.”
“I’m more than a damn name.”
Witnessing the scene, Blake wished he’d taken his leave when he’d first thought to. His friend didn’t want him seeing this.
He didn’t want to see it.
“You’ve been home, what, a year?” Marshall asked.
“Fifteen months.”
“When it’s been two or three times that much, we can talk,” the rancher said with a pat on Brady’s shoulder. “You hear some distant call, son,” he continued. “I don’t blame you or hold it against you, I’ve just learned over the years not to expect you to stick around.”