The Night is Forever

As if to emphasize her words, Trickster, the twenty-year-old mare she was using with Joey that afternoon, nudged him in the back.

“Hey!” Joey said. But he turned and looked at Trickster. The mare snorted and shook her head, looking back at Joey.

It was a simple exchange—very simple. But Olivia saw something in Joey’s expression and the smile that touched his face. He might be telling her it was all a bunch of bull, but he already cared about Trickster and it was only their second time out.

“You weren’t paying attention to her,” Olivia said. “You brought her out here and then paid no attention to her. She wants to be noticed. She wants you to remember that you came to her.”

“Technically, you brought her out here.”

“Yes, but you brushed her and talked to her and started walking with her. She wants your attention.”

“You taught me that we learn about our boundaries through horses, as well. Most of the time, a horse will want to be in control. Isn’t that what you said? Not to let the horse push you around. She just shoved me!”

“Something else to learn, Joey,” Olivia told him. “Trickster does care about you. She nudged you to get some affection back. You can maintain control—and give her affection. Life is like that, Joey. You can love people—but you can maintain your own thoughts and opinions, as well.”

Joey’s smile deepened. He stroked the horse’s cream-colored neck, and Trickster clearly enjoyed his touch.

But then Joey stepped away. “I’ll get attached to her—and then have to leave her, too,” he said. “I’ll be alone again, like after my parents died.”

“Your parents would never have left you on purpose, Joey. And Trickster won’t leave. You’ll move on, but you can always come back and see her.”

“Everybody leaves,” he said sharply.

Joey had been sent to the Horse Farm because his parents were both killed in an automobile accident. At first, he’d been quiet, grieving, uncommunicative, his uncle had told them. Then he’d begun acting out. An athlete, he’d never been into drinking or drugs.

That had changed.

After his uncle had picked him up at a police station in Sarasota, their hometown, he’d begun to look for help. Joey was enrolled at Parsonage House about ten miles from the Horse Farm. The facility offered horse therapy to their “students.”

“Joey, I’m sorry about your parents. It was tragic and unjust. But like I said, you have to realize that they didn’t desert you, they loved you.”

“It’s not fair!”

“No. Life isn’t fair,” she said quietly. “We learn to cope with it the best we can.” She paused and walked over to stroke Trickster’s forelock. “Look at Trickster, for example. She was a racehorse once upon a time, Joey. She was destined for greatness. Then a jockey whipped her into frenzy and she broke a leg—and she was worthless to the man who owned her. Instead of being grateful for the races she’d won and the money she’d made for him, his owner planned on having her euthanized. But—”

Her voice broke, which surprised her. She believed she’d accepted that Marcus was dead. She hadn’t “seen” him since his death, and she and the rest of the employees at the Horse Farm were moving forward with the work Marcus had deemed so important.

“But?” Joey asked, puzzled.

“But Marcus heard about Trickster, and he bought her—offering her owner more money than the glue factory. He brought her out here, cared for her, and now she’s beautiful, as you can see.”

“They were going to make glue out of her?” Joey demanded, horrified.

“What matters is that she’s here now. And she knows we love her. It took a while, because she was just thrown out in a pasture and allowed to starve, living in constant pain, before Marcus rescued her.”

“But Marcus didn’t stay with her,” Joey pointed out.

“Marcus died, Joey. But he left her in the care of people who would continue to love her.”

Joey took a deep breath and ripped out a strand of grass to chew on. He looked across the landscape and said, “I shouldn’t have made life so miserable for my uncle, huh?”

“He was only miserable because he loves you. And I don’t think he’s miserable anymore because he knows you really do want to live a productive life. You just need to come to terms with what happened.”

He shrugged. At sixteen, he was a tall boy, a good-looking kid in great physical condition. He turned to her with one of his rakish smiles. “You like me, huh?”

“Of course I like you,” she told him.

His grin broadened. “I like you, too. But how I know you like me is that you’ve forgotten the time.”

Olivia glanced quickly at her watch. His hour was up; it had been for the past ten minutes. He’d been a tough case to crack and she’d felt deeply for him. “Don’t get ideas, kid,” she said. “I’m your therapist.”

“But you’re cute, too.”

“Great. Now let’s head back.”

“I can come and see Trickster when I’m older. Old enough to be a lot cooler in your eyes.”

“Joey! Cut it out. You’re just saying that to get a reaction out of me and you’re not going to. I’m your therapist. And you’re never going to be older than I am and we’re never going to date.”

“Wow. That life-not-being-fair thing is harsh!” he said. But he was still grinning. Then his grin faded. “They’re talking about Marcus, you know. There’s a rumor that he went back on drugs. That they found heroin in his system when they did the autopsy.”

Olivia felt her back stiffen. “Marcus wasn’t doing drugs,” she said.

“So, it’s a lie?”

She winced. It wasn’t a lie. But it was something that, so far, wasn’t common knowledge, even though the medical examiner had informed the staff at the Horse Farm. She’d assumed that unless an investigative reporter actually looked into Marcus’s death, no one would know it was true. And yet, rumors were obviously running rampant.

“I heard there were drugs in his system,” Joey said again.

“I knew Marcus, Joey. If there were drugs in his system, they weren’t there because he voluntarily took them.”

“You think he was tricked?” Joey asked.

“I don’t know what to think yet.”

“Wow. The plot thickens!” Joey said excitedly. “What if...wow. What if someone did drug him because they wanted him to die? Or what if he was pushed?”

“Joey, you’re talking about someone who meant a lot to me.”

“Oh, I’m sorry, Liv, really.” Joey spoke with sincerity and she believed him. “It’s just that...well, we don’t have radios or TVs or the internet where I’m living right now. I’m embarrassed. I heard about this, and it was more interesting to think about that than...well, my own recovery, I guess,” he finished lamely.

“It’s okay. I’m not angry with you.”

“Scary, though, huh? I mean, this place is here for therapy. Supposedly, working with animals saved Marcus Danby’s life. If he wound up going back on drugs...well, it doesn’t say much for therapy.”

“No, it doesn’t,” Olivia agreed.

She looked toward the pastures at the Horse Farm. She hadn’t seen Marcus again—or rather, hadn’t seen his ghost. Had she imagined that she’d seen him? Did they—she and her cousin, Malachi—share a real gift? Or did they just imagine things, see them in their minds?

Uncertain, and unhappy with the official explanation, she’d called Malachi. But the results of the autopsy had just arrived that morning. She needed to call him again. He’d promised her he’d try to arrange an investigation, but explained that he had to tread carefully; he couldn’t come in officially unless invited. And because people knew he was her cousin, his arrival might give the appearance that the feds were intruding—or that she and the Horse Farm were receiving special treatment. But he’d said he’d figure something out.

Apparently, there was a government agent coming in as a client. A “burnout,” someone had called him. Was he Malachi’s answer to her request?

“Olivia?” Joey said.

“Yeah?” She tried to smile, realizing she’d been deep in thought and that he’d been watching her.

“I’m really, really sorry. I think this place is wonderful,” Joey told her earnestly.

“Thanks, Joey.”

“You all might have saved my life,” he said. “It works if you work it. You’re worth it, so work it!”

“Exactly,” she said.

He nodded. She really did like the kid. Especially when he realized, as he occasionally did, that he was a kid.

“Tell Trickster we’re going in,” Olivia instructed him.

Joey turned and stroked the horse’s forehead. “You are beautiful, Trickster,” he whispered, then gazed up at Olivia. “Do I get to ride?” he asked.

“Next session,” she said. “As you reminded me, we’re already over our hour. But next time, we’ll definitely ride.”

They returned to the Horse Farm. She watched as Joey brushed Trickster, brought her to her stall and fed her.

She didn’t have the heart to go and wave goodbye to the others who were leaving.

In fact, she didn’t even go back to the office. Aaron and the rest of the staff would be worrying, trying to figure out how to handle it if the news got out about Marcus’s autopsy. It was probably too late if a kid like Joey had already heard. Next step would be deciding how they were going to spin the information about his death.

When Joey left with his group, she quickly checked on the horses. She was the only one in the stables and assumed everyone else had either gone into the office for further anxious discussions—or hurried home. She headed straight to her car and left, driving the 4.5 miles to the little ranch house she’d visited so many times as a child. She’d purchased the place from her uncle once she’d accepted the job at the Horse Farm.

Her home was old, dating from the 1830s. She loved the house, always had. A huge fireplace took up most of the parlor, the ladies’ sitting room had been turned into a handsome kitchen with shiny new appliances and off the hallway was a computer/game/what-have-you room. There were two bedrooms upstairs, along with a sitting room, modern additions when they were built on in the late 1850s. They were all comfortable and charming. Her uncle told her that the house had always been in their family; a cousin, son, daughter, niece or nephew had taken it over every time. He’d given her a great price and held the mortgage himself. She’d paid it off last year on her twenty-sixth birthday.

As she stood at the door, she heard Sammy whining.

The dog could have stayed at the Horse Farm; God knew, there were enough rescue pets there! But Sammy had belonged to Marcus, and his leg was just beginning to heal. No one had objected when Olivia had said she was bringing him home.

She opened the door and there he was, tail wagging as he greeted her. Olivia didn’t have to bend far to greet him in return. Sammy was a big old dog who appeared to be a mix of many breeds. He had the coat of a golden retriever, the head of rottweiler and paws that might have belonged to a wolf. He had one blue eye and one half blue, half brown—it was a freckle on the eye, she’d been told.

He gazed up at her expectantly and sat back on his haunches. His hope and simple trust just about broke her heart. “He’s not coming back, Sammy. I’m sorry.”

Sammy barked in response. She wondered just what dogs did and didn’t understand.

Olivia threw her keys on the buffet at the entrance and walked to the kitchen to give Sammy a treat. As he gobbled up the “tasty niblet of beef and pork,” she promised him that she’d be back downstairs in a minute. He couldn’t go running out into the yard because he was still recovering from the gash on his hind leg.

She dashed upstairs, stripping as she went. She breezed through her bedroom to the bath and stepped into the shower, adjusting the water temperature until it was as hot as it could get. She stood there, feeling it rush over her, for a long time.

She wished she could turn off her mind.

Leaning against the tile, she wondered about Marcus. “You didn’t!” she whispered aloud.

It was easy to believe that an addict had fallen back into drugs. It happened. Some relapsed and returned to therapy or recovered through their own determination and resolve.

But not Marcus! Marcus couldn’t have relapsed.

She began to feel saturated by the heat and decided she was about to wrinkle for life. Turning the faucet off, she stepped out of the shower and reached for a towel, drying herself before slipping into her terry robe. Hurrying downstairs, she went back to the kitchen, ready to make a cup of tea. Rounding the stairs, she noticed that Sammy was quiet, just sitting there, staring at the front door.

“At last!”

Stunned and terrified, her heart pounding, she whirled toward the door. Her hand flew to her throat as she desperately wondered what weapon she might grab to defend herself.

But no one had come to attack her.

The speaker was Marcus Danby.

Or the ghost of Marcus Danby.

“Good Lord, woman! What were you doing up there? I mean, just how clean can someone be?” Marcus demanded. He moved toward her as he spoke. “Oh, come on! You saw me before. You see me quite well right now, just like you’ve always been able to see General Cunningham and Loki. You think I didn’t know? Of course I do! You’re like a ghost magnet, my dear girl. Close your mouth—your lower jaw’s going to fall off. Please, Olivia,” he said in a gentler voice. “I need your help. The Horse Farm needs your help.”

2

Stepping off the plane and entering Nashville International Airport, Dustin heard the twangs and strains of a country music song. The sound made him smile. God, he loved Nashville. The city was unique in its mix of the up-and-coming and pride in its history. Music reigned supreme but without self-consciousness; it was ever-present like the air one breathed. People tended to be cordial. And, hell, what was not to like about an airport that had a coffee stand and the welcoming sound of good music the minute he arrived?

He paused for a minute, listening, feeling the buzz of activity around him. In the past decade he’d lived in a number of different places but there was nothing like Nashville and nothing like coming home.

He picked up the paperwork for his rental car, then walked out of the airport and over to the multistoried garage to pick up the SUV he’d rented. A few minutes later, he was following the signs for I-40. Soon he was headed off the highway to a Tennessee state road, passing ranches, acreages with herds of grazing cows and pastures where horses kicked up their heels and ran or nibbled at the blue-green grass.

A little while later, he was on the dirt path that led to Willis House—the “retreat” where he had reservations. Willis House catered to those attending therapy at the Horse Farm and other nearby facilities. It wasn’t a specialized facility, but advertisements for the inn stated that it was a “clean” environment in the “exquisite and serene” Tennessee hills. People didn’t just come here because it was a “clean-living facility,” though. They also chose it because the area was so beautiful, or because they were visiting family or friends who were in therapy nearby.

The gravel drive was huge; there was certainly no problem with parking out here. He slid between a big truck and a small one and noted that the other cars in the lot included a nice new Jag, a Volvo, a BMW and a sad-looking twenty-year-old van.

Willis House was...a house. There was a broad porch with rockers, and he noted an old-timer sitting in one of them, staring as he approached.

“Hello,” Dustin said. The man wore denim overalls and a plaid flannel shirt. His face showed deep grooves of a life gone past.

The man nodded to him. “You the cop?” he asked.

“Agent, now,” Dustin replied. He shifted his bag onto his shoulder and came forward to shake the old man’s hand. “Dustin Blake, sir. How do you do?”

The man took his hand in a surprisingly strong grip. “Jeremy Myers—but they call me Coot. Welcome. You don’t look like someone who needs much help.”

“We all need help,” Dustin said.

That brought a slight smile to Coot’s lips. “Burned out on the job? Or did you go wacko and beat up on some piece of scum that deserved it? Young man, that’s the thing today. No respect. Kids spit in teachers’ faces and the poor teachers can’t do a thing—less’n it gets called child abuse. So, you did your job too well?”

Dustin grinned. “Something like that.”

“No need to explain to me. You’ll have plenty of time to talk. Hell, all people ’round here want you to do is talk. Don’t let me keep you, though. That bag must be heavy.”

“Nice to meet you, Coot,” Dustin said.

“Just open the door and go on in. The main house is open until sunset, and after that you’ll need your key.”

“Thanks.” Dustin went in. It might have been any bed-and-breakfast in any rural section of the South. The entry led to a bright, cheerful parlor with the check-in desk being a bar, behind which was an equally bright and cheerful kitchen. He walked up and the young woman at the desk smiled.

“You must be Agent Blake,” she said.

“I am.”

“Hi, I’m Ellie Villiers. And you’re wondering how I knew who you are. Well, we don’t take in that many guests and we don’t take anyone without a reservation,” she explained. She was on a wheeled chair and she swung down to the end of the bar, where she plucked a set of keys off the wall. “We have you in the Andrew Jackson suite.” She was a gamine of a young woman, tiny with short dark hair and a perky manner. She gave him a warm smile as she rolled back to him and leaned close. “It’s not much of a suite, really. It’s just a big room—a ballroom in the old days. But it has the only private bath in the house and a door to the back porch. We’re careful who we give it to. Not that we have strict rules or regulations, but we do cater to those fighting their own demons, whether they come from a booze bottle, a pill bottle, stress, what have you.” She smiled at him. “You sound pretty cool. I heard that the bosses at the bureau think you need some downtime, that’s all.”

“Talking about me, huh?” he teased.

She shrugged. “This is rural Tennessee, Agent Blake. All we’ve got to do around here is talk. Oh, that’s not really true. There’s a gorgeous stream and cliffs and historic trails. You’ll love it out here. But wait—you’re from Nashville, right?”

“Born in the heart of the city,” he told her.

“Well, then you kind of know the area? I mean, you must have driven out of the city now and then. Of course, some people just get on the highway and keep going. They miss out on all this beauty, and so close to the city, too. Sad, although I guess that’s just the way life is.”

He laughed at her philosophy. “Sad, but true. And my first name is Dustin, okay?”

“Sure, thanks, Dustin. So the one key opens the main door in front. We try to remember to lock it at sunset. The other is to your room, which is just down the hall and to the left. There’s a continental breakfast every morning from six to nine. It’s right behind me in the dining room. If you need anything, give me a holler.”

“I will, and thank you, Ellie.” He started to turn away, but then paused. “Hey, are there any hack ranches around here?”

She seemed surprised by the question. “Why would you want to go to a hack ranch when you’re going to the Horse Farm? They don’t do trail rides, but you’ll be working with horses, so— None of my business! Sorry, the question just surprised me.”

“I used to come to this area when I was a kid. My folks are historians, so we did the Civil War trails around here, national parks, all that. In fact, we often did them on horseback, and I love to ride. I was just wondering...”

“There’s a place—Hooper Ridge Stables. Just go back on that road and down a ways. You’ll see a sign. There’s not much else out here besides private property, the old chapel that’s just outside the national park and...and a few therapy centers and lots and lots of cows. But it’s too late tonight because they don’t rent after five. When you want it, though, it’s there. Still, once you’re been to the Horse Farm...”

“I thought most of their animals were rescues,” Dustin said.

“Oh, they are rescues. And if they’re old or hurt, they don’t do much, just get fawned over by the staff and the patients. Clients. Whatever. But when they’re healthy, well, at the Horse Farm they become really healthy and they’re beautifully trained.” She swung the chair closer to the counter. “In fact, the owner—Marcus Danby—used to go by the local farms, and the owners all knew that if they had a broken-down horse or they brought in a wild one or a kicker, they could sell it to Marcus. Saved a lot of the poor bastards that way. I wonder what’ll happen now that he’s gone.”

“Who’d he leave it to? Did Marcus have any family?”

Her eyes became very wide and she shook her head. “No. The only reason Marcus inherited the property was the fact that he was the very last member of his family. I mean, when he was a kid—way before I was born—he was a total black sheep. Then he straightened out, and I don’t know if he made peace with his people, but...he was the last.”

“So who inherits his property?” Dustin asked again.

Ellie shrugged dramatically. “I guess Aaron. Aaron’s managed the place for him for a long time. He’s a good guy. But who knows if he’ll be as good as Marcus. Although...”

“Although?”

She couldn’t have gotten any closer to him, not with the counter between them. But she tried.

“There’s a rumor out that he died with drugs in his system,” she said, dropping her voice. “Marcus, I mean, not Aaron. Can you imagine that? Founding a therapy center and then biting the dust because after decades you suddenly decide to shoot up again?” she asked, sounding incredulous. Gossip, he realized, was delicious to Ellie. But then, she probably searched for any excitement out here. He lowered his head and smiled. They weren’t at the ends of the earth. Nashville was only twenty miles away. But he knew that people from the country usually stayed in the country.

“No matter how the man died, he apparently did a lot of good before his death,” he said.

“He did. He helped so many people....”

Dustin picked up his keys and finally turned to leave. “Thanks, Ellie.”

“Oh! If you’re hungry, the café down the road is open until nine or ten, depending on whether they have people in there. The food’s actually really great. The best corn bread.”

“Nothing like it.”

“And the cheese grits are to die for.”

“Another important factor,” he agreed. “Thanks for the suggestion.”

“Pleasure. Make yourself at home. Old Miss Patterson is in one of the bedrooms upstairs and Carolyn Martin’s up there, too, along with Coot—you met him outside?” Dustin nodded. “He likes to come for the winter. He lives in the hills but he’s a smart old bastard—knows he’s too old to plow snow and manage up there once the cold hits. Oh, I forgot to mention. The living area here is for everyone and there’s a room back of the dining area with games and stuff.”

With a nod of thanks, he headed over to his room. Setting his bag down, he took out his computer and Wi-Fi connector. There was a lot he wanted to look up, background he hadn’t gotten to yet. But neither had he stopped in the city to eat; it might not be a bad idea to check out the local diner and the clientele—especially since he was hungry.

First, though, he called Olivia Gordon, Malachi’s cousin, to explain who he really was and what he was doing there. She evidently knew that an agent was coming in; she couldn’t have missed that fact, since he was scheduled to start at the Horse Farm the following day.

She didn’t answer. He’d try her again in the morning—or maybe he’d just show up. Either way, he didn’t want to leave a message. Messages were recorded, and in his life, recordings could come back to bite you. But he also assumed that Malachi’s cousin was an intelligent young woman. She knew he was coming, so she’d figure it out.

Examining his room, he discovered that he probably did have the best. His bathroom was nice and large with way more closet space than he needed, and his key worked on the back door, as well. It led to the rear porch area; if he ever needed to, he could exit without being seen.

He left his room, carefully locking the door behind him. He did it out of instinct, not because he suspected anyone wanted to go through his belongings. But you never knew.

He waved to Ellie as he left, and also waved at Coot, still rocking on the front porch, as he walked out to his car.

The café was even closer than he’d realized from Ellie’s directions; it was just down the road. It was a true diner, converted from a pair of old connected freight cars. The tables were small but neat and clean, and his waitress, a heavyset woman named Delilah, was warm and friendly. The place was empty when he entered, but as she took his order—the daily special of pot roast, with a side of grits, okra and a serving of corn bread—the door opened and four young men walked in, followed by an older man. The boys were joking; the older man looked weary.

“The boys from Parsonage House,” Delilah murmured to him, nodding.

“Parsonage House?” he asked politely.

“It’s a center for wayward boys. At least that’s what we used to call them. Addicts—and other kids who’ve gotten into some minor trouble. None of them are hardened criminals. The Parsonage runs a program for them, and they offer all kinds of therapy. Including horse therapy.” She paused, wagging her head. “We have a famous facility for that, you know.” When he murmured that he’d heard of it, she continued. “The Parsonage has a good success rate—although some people around here aren’t so fond of having it in the neighborhood. But me, I like the boys. They come in every few nights, after their N.A. meeting at the old chapel,” Delilah told him. “Some of them—well, quite a few of them, actually—make it. Some of them, though, they come back, and they come back—and then we hear they’re up at the state prison or they’ve wrapped themselves around a tree off the highway. Drew, over there, he works for the Horse Farm. This is a sideline for him. Guess he likes the company of people now and then, seeing how most of the time he’s with critters.”

She walked away to fill his order. He picked up a copy of the free local paper, which was only six pages—mostly ads, a few columns of local news. The restaurant was small, and even if he wasn’t interested in what was going on around him, he wouldn’t have been able to avoid eavesdropping.

Two of the boys were cutting up, stealing another boy’s baseball cap and tossing it back and forth.

“Stop. Give it back. We’re in a restaurant,” the older man said. He didn’t yell, but he spoke sternly and they listened to him.

One of them complained teasingly, “Hey, Joey had a good day. He was out with Olivia Gordon for half the afternoon!”

“Yes, and you had your horse therapy session, too,” the older man said.

“Yeah, yeah—but I had Aaron.”

“Aaron’s great with the horses—and with you kids,” the older man said.

“Joey’s happy he didn’t get Aaron, right, Joey?” one of the boys joked.

Dustin could just see Joey. The kid was blushing.

“Joey’s got a crush on his therapist!” another one teased.

“I don’t have a crush on her—you guys have a crush on her!” Joey protested. “And it’s dumb. She thinks we’re all kids.”

“You are all kids,” the older man said.

“Hey, Drew,” one of the boys said. “Did you ever try to date her?”

The older man laughed. “I’ve known Olivia Gordon since she was a kid, and no, Sean, we never dated. She was a Nashville girl, and we met when she came out here to visit her uncle.”

“So? City girls didn’t date country bumpkins?” Joey asked.

“No, Olivia was never like that,” the man, Drew, said. He was smiling; it was evident that he liked Olivia Gordon, too. “She’s always been nice to everyone, and she’s very serious about her work. So don’t go making life miserable for her, huh? She’s...”

“She’s what?” Joey demanded.

“She’s just different,” Drew said. “Special. And a really fine therapist, so you all behave like gentlemen when you’re around her, y’hear?”

“Yes, sir,” one of the boys who’d teased Joey said. “This whole thing, though... It’s all a little hypocritical, isn’t it?”

“He’s talking about old Danby going back on the juice,” another boy said.

“Hey, that’s nothing but a rumor,” Drew said firmly. “Certainly at this point. I’m not even sure how it got started.”

“But what if the rumor’s real?” Joey asked.

“I don’t believe it,” Drew said. “I knew and worked with Marcus for years. But if he did go back to drugs, well... Hell, that’s not what you want for yourselves. Found dead in a ditch. Anyway, he shouldn’t be remembered for his relapse, if there was one. He should be remembered for everything he did right—for people and animals!”

Delilah stepped between Dustin’s booth and that of the group. The boys ordered, and when they spoke again, they were subdued. In another few minutes, Delilah brought out Dustin’s order. “Enjoy!” she said. She rolled her eyes toward the boys and Drew at the end of the dining car and hurried back around the counter.

The food was good, the corn bread as excellent as Ellie had told him it would be. But when he was done eating, Dustin stood and walked over to the group’s table. “Hello,” he said. “My name is Dustin Blake. My apologies, but I heard you speaking about the Horse Farm. My first day there is tomorrow. It sounds like you all think highly of the place.”

Drew started to rise in greeting but Dustin urged him to keep his seat.

“The Horse Farm is a great facility,” Drew responded. “I’m Andrew Dicksen, although I’m known as Drew. I’m one of the stable managers there, and these are a few young men who are working things out up there, too. Joey Walters, Matt Dougal, Sean Modine and Nick Stevens. I take them to their meetings a few nights a week and then we have a bite here—and maybe we’ll see a movie. If they’re polite, that is!”