Beckett
An hour and a half after my Uber and I left the airport, the beautiful trees, open fields, and a WELCOME TO HONEYSUCKLE sign come into view on the side of the road, pasture fencing behind it for miles upon miles.
The long plains of grass swaying in the light breeze, and the animals casually grazing in the summer sun.
God, I forgot how calming it is to be away from the city. Just looking at the flowing fields, soaring mountains, and livestock before me, I have a moment of wondering why I ever left.
Once we drive through the busy streets of downtown Honeysuckle, where there’s farmer’s markets on all sides, an ice cream stand, and mom and pop shops, and smiling faces walking along the sidewalks – I am reminded why I left.
The trailer park that was my living hell for so many years.
We cross over the train tracks that run through at the end of downtown, and I turn my attention away from the trailer park altogether—if I allow myself to linger on it too long, it will trigger me. I know it will.
The driver slows going over the train tracks just on the other side of the mobile homes and I release a deep breath. This area makes me anxious and for good reason.
On the other side, the fields open again, and brick columns appear as we get to the first driveway on the right.
A big sign hangs ten feet in the air—SCARS CREEK RANCH.
Oh, the emotion tightens my chest as memories flood my mind.
“Just let me out here,” I tell the Uber driver as we pull into the driveway in front of the iron gate, and I tip him through the app.
“Geez! Thanks, man,” he says graciously at my $100 tip.
I nod and close the door with my single bag thrown over my shoulder.
Once the car drives off, I stand staring at the land before me and take another deep breath as memories of this property flood my mind.
It still looks the same. I have spent many summer nights and winter mornings on the back of horses on this ranch.
In the creek that runs through it, I have caught many fish.
Carson and I fixed fences here, too, for Holden, his father.
This farm and these people raised us.
I know for a fact I would not be here today without it.
It was on this ranch that I told Mr. Taylor I wanted to kill myself because no one cared about me.
And that’s when he looked at me, with tears in his eyes and said, “Boy, you are wanted more than you ever know. You may not have my blood, but you have my spirit. It does not take blood for you to be my son.”
I roll up the sleeve of my button up and look at the tattoo on the inside of my right forearm: you have my spirit—HT
Mr. Taylor didn’t know it then, but he saved my life that night. I can only hope that wherever he is now, whether it’s in the sky or anywhere else, he is happy I am here again—at least for the reason why.
I climb the fence into the pasture and make my way to the back cottage. Carson is not going to be happy I am here. Which is why I used my agent’s name when I booked the cottage for a rental while I am here.
Horses and cattle look up as I cross their pasture to get back to the back side of the ranch where the cottage is.
The farm is quiet for the most part. Carson most likely gave everyone time off for the funeral tomorrow.
Reaching the cottage, the first thing I notice is it needs a good remodel. The exterior paint is wearing off, the front porch looks like it could fall through any minute, and the landscape could use a facelift.
Definitely not worth the price I paid for it, but I won’t complain.
The door is unlocked when I turn the handle, when I walk in, I notice a fresh basket of bakery items, flowers, towels, and blankets on the kitchen bar.
A note sits in front of the basket.
“Mrs. Patterson, I do apologize that no one was here to greet you when you arrived. We have had a death in the Taylor family, and it has taken a lot of our attention. I hope you found the cottage well and have everything you need. There are drinks stocked in the fridge along with other items, too. Please call me at this number if you need anything. Enjoy your stay, have a look around the ranch, and someone will be in to check on you Saturday, if not before.”
Eloise Mabel
Cottage Manager
997-854-963
Mrs. Mabel was a good friend of Mrs. Taylor’s. I am glad to see she is still around. I am not sure if she would be happy to see me, though, so this worked out for the best.
Come to think of it, I don’t think any of the remaining Taylors will be happy to see me.
And honestly, the way I left all those years ago, I am sure that is why Carson hates me now.