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Chapter Eighteen
Spencer leaned closer to the monitor, trying to read the tiny print. He ended up making it bigger so it wasn’t such a strain, and the truth sat there in black and white.
Police are looking for a man they only know as Ernest after he fled a casino in Atlantic City last week. If you have any information about the whereabouts of him (picture below), please call…
Spencer’s heart raced through his whole body. The picture wasn’t great, as it had obviously been taken from a security feed somewhere. But just as Spencer had known his father the moment he’d seen the man lying on the couch in his house, he knew the man in the grainy, almost-green picture was Ernest Rust.
He continued to read about the alleged theft and card-counting at the casino, and his father hadn’t paid for his three nights at the hotel either. He wondered if the truck his father had driven away in that morning was stolen too.
Spencer had written down the license plate, because he didn’t trust his dad at all. He hated that he didn’t, and he hated that this weekend with his father had been the hardest thing he’d done in fifteen years—and he’d lost baby cows in cowbirth, endured a torn rotator cuff, and been dumped by countless women who always chose something or someone else over him.
His father was just one more example of that, actually. He didn’t really want to see Spencer again. He’d needed a place to crash after getting drunk and in trouble, and he knew where Spencer was. That alone was enough to make Spencer want to relocate, because he had a feeling that his father was bad news. He had been while Spencer was growing up, and he hadn’t changed at all.
His heart hurt, because he’d wanted Ernest to be different. He’d dreamt of tracking down his father and finding him living in a quaint little house somewhere, going to an honest job every day, and staying sober at night. Perhaps he’d have found someone new to spend his remaining days with, and she’d have kids who had kids, and Ernest would get to live out his life as a doting grandfather.
That image couldn’t be further from the reality of who Ernest Rust was, and Spencer found it a difficult, bitter, huge pill to swallow.
He scrolled back to the top of the article, the number to call staring him in the face. Should he turn in his dad?Couldhe even do it?
He reached for his phone, but he didn’t dial the authorities in New Jersey. Instead, he called Slate, who answered on the second ring with, “Spence, I was just about to call you,” and a laugh.
“Oh?” Spencer asked. “Why’s that?” Maybe he didn’t need to tell Slate about his father.
“Porky Pig willnotcooperate during lessons,” he said. “Jess said you always knew what to do to get him to behave.” Something scraped on his end of the line, and then a loud bang nearly deafened Spencer.
He flinched away from his phone, but he still heard Slate say, “Sorry, I’m just getting to the stables.”
“Porky is stubborn,” Spencer said. “But he can be bought with two things—freedom and apples.”
Slate chuckled, and Spencer smiled. “So he’s a typical horse.”
“He hates being in the stable,” Spencer said. “He likes to strut past the other horses before they’re let out, so take him first. Make it a big show. He likes the north pasture best, because it goes all the way to the river.”
“Ginger said not to put him in that one, because we’ll never get him back.”
“Cue the apples,” Spencer said. “He can smell them a mile away. You saunter over to the fence with two of ‘em. You call his name, and you take a big bite of one of the apples. He’ll come.”
Spencer smiled just thinking about Porky Pig, the black and white horse whose markings almost looked pale pink, like pigskin. “You eat the whole apple right there at the fence. He’ll make it to you about the time you’re halfway through. You make him watch you eat the rest of it.”
“Oh, that’s mean.”
“So is him standin’ out at the north fence, refusing to come in.” Spencer grinned and leaned away from the computer, this call exactly what he needed. “Then, you give him the core of the apple you’ve just eaten. And then the second apple, whole.”
“And he can do this every day?”
“He does lessons, what? Three days a week? He’s fine to get three apples a week. At least he never had any health problems or colic when I was doing that.”
“All right,” Slate said. “Honestly, I think he just misses you. We all do.”
“I’m sure that’s not it,” Spencer said, clearing his throat. He didn’t want to think about what his departure had done to the horses he’d once cared for. He knew horses had personalities, and they did recognize and get attached to people.
“I called, because I wanted to follow-up about my dad.”
“Is he gone?” Slate asked.
“Yes, praise the Lord,” Spencer said, sighing. He’d been texting Slate all weekend for advice. “I found out why he’s on the run.” He gave Slate the quick version of the article—which itself was a quick version of what had likely happened in Atlantic City.
“What would you do?” he asked. “Call the police in New Jersey? Do nothing? Pray you never see him again?” Spencer felt torn in a half-dozen directions, but those were the biggest ones.
