CHAPTER 25
Drake
The wind whipped around my ball cap as I rode the fence line with Paul. The horse underneath me was galloping at high speeds as we chased down a few cows that had broken off from the herd. I could see them in the distance, funneling toward the edge of the fencing I was still in the process of replacing.
I had missed this during my stint in rehab.
Realistically, I hadn’t been enjoying this while I was a stumbling drunk, either. I hadn’t been this useful or productive on the farm in years. I had allowed myself to be consumed by the lazy haze of bourbon and beer and had settled for being a useless piece of shit in order to feel some sort of relaxation.
But this—this was really relaxing. I reveled in the he horses, the thunder of hooves, the flaring nostrils, the flying mane as I hung on, my thighs clinging to the saddle underneath me. Adrenaline was rushing through my veins. My eyes were alert and the horizon was clear. The sound of Paul’s voice broke into my thoughts.
“Break off, Drake! I’ll take the left, you go right!”
Running my horse around the cattle, Paul and I started wrangling them back toward the milk house. I could feel the rib cage of my horse expanding and contracting beneath my legs, heaving massive breaths as it carried my weight. I’d never been so in tune with an animal before, so aware of his condition and the things he needed. It was amazing, the things I took in when I wasn’t drunk.
I still couldn’t believe I’d traded years of my life for the bottom of a bottle.
“Don’t you gotta get outta here and get back up to the house?” Paul asked.
“Nah. My new therapist isn’t meeting me here until three,” I said.
“So, you know it’s already past two o’clock, right?” he asked.
“Shit. Are you fucking serious?” I asked.
“Yep. Ten after. Better get a move on, otherwise someone’s gonna throw your ass back in rehab.”
“You got the horse?” I asked.
“Yep. Run your ass back up there. Can’t be late for this one.”
One of the conditions of leaving my rehabilitation facility was getting in touch with a therapist to talk with regularly. I’d been late for our initial meeting. It had just been a phone call, but it was to help the man fill out paperwork. I had put Hank on the task of finding someone who could come to the house in order to keep my privacy, and he had come up with some English fucker whose accent was hard to understand. But, he was someone willing to sign an agreement to keep his mouth shut and not blab our business to the media.
He came at a hefty price, but I didn’t care about what I had to pay to get that kind of treatment. I knew this was important and was a key component of keeping me sober.
I knew this was the key to getting my life back on track.
Dismounting, I started running back toward the house. The last thing I wanted was to meet this man covered in dirt. I dusted off my pants as I ran toward the house, trying not to track in any shit I’d have to clean up later. I rushed upstairs and kicked off my boots, shedding my clothes so I could get in the shower.
After all, I wanted to make a good impression.
When I first talked to the man, he had seemed obsessed with the ranch life and started talking about shit I didn’t expect him to know about: hook ups for heifers to milk them dry in the mornings and the difference between raising chickens for eggs and raising them for meat. He started rattling off farm equipment and asking me if I used it on my own farm. I didn’t know if he was trying to kiss my ass or make himself look good, but it had worked.
If my therapist was so well-versed in ranch life, then maybe we could have our therapy sessions out on the ranch.
As I ran my hands through my hair, I sighed with relief. It felt good getting dirty again, sweating up a storm and having hay stick to my back. I enjoyed this life, especially now that I could remember it. I enjoyed the hard work and the reliable income and the quiet pace of everything. I enjoyed drinking coffee as the sun came up and running the horses around the pasture in the mornings. I loved watching new life being born on this ranch and watching the baby calves and foals stumble around trying to get their legs under them.
I enjoyed being able to repeat the same actions over and over again, then reap the rewards of the fruits of my labor.
But there was still one thing missing, one thing I was still craving when I woke up in the mornings, that I still reached out for in the middle of the night. I missed having someone to share it with. A family to come home to, to eat dinner with. For years, it felt like I lost my only chance at ever having that, but now I wondered if I could have a second chance.
With Delia.
Her absence was painful.
It still befuddled me how quickly she’d wound her way around my heart. I’d been so closed off after losing my wife, content with never loving anyone again. I’d been a total shithead to Delia, and she’d thrown it right back at me. Just like Shannon would have.
She was being stubborn, but I had to find a way to get her back. She was trying to do what she thought was right for me, but I wasn’t going to quit her. Not by a long shot. She could be stubborn, but I could be even more stubborn. Owning a ranch and raising animals meant I had to be stubborn to my core and stronger than I ever thought possible.
Delia was confusing, and that was part of her allure. Women fell at my feet every day. Hell, they gathered around my fence at the road just so they could throw themselves at me. They tossed their bras and panties at me during concerts. They hunted down Stone to try and become one of the groupies he brought back to the bus. Women were more than willing to take whatever small bone I would throw in their direction.
But not Delia. She had a backbone and she stood up to me. And I loved her for it.
As I washed the dirt and grime from my body, I focused my mind. In a week, I’d be back on tour. I wasn’t sure if the guys were going to be there, so we were advertising it as a surprise acoustic tour. Stone and Landon were complaining about my sobriety, bitching about how I didn’t have an issue and that my alcohol poisoning was a one-time deal. Stone said all great artists go through that moment and Landon flat out told Hank that the tour would be shit because I was at my best when I was drinking.
It was a hard thing to digest, but I remembered my group therapist talking about something like this.
They called them ‘triggers.’ Things that happened in our lives or people we interacted with that endorsed or prompted our addiction. Landon and Stone were partiers, and Hank was worried that if they came on tour with me, I would slip back into my old ways. And by the way they were talking and the things they were saying, he had every right to worry.
So when Hank made the decision to advertise it as an acoustic tour to usher in my sobriety and new relationship with Warner Bros. Records, I supported him on it. I was going to miss the guys if they didn’t show up for the tour, but I understood why this was all happening now.
I was beginning to understand a lot of things now that I wasn’t in a drunken haze.
Stepping out of the shower, I prepared myself for this meeting. I dried my hair and put on some decent clothes, shaved off my stubble and slipped on a pair of boots that weren’t caked in mud and cow shit. Just as I went downstairs, I heard a car pulling up into the driveway. Glancing outside, I could tell by the way the man was dressed that he was my therapist.
“It’s now or never, Blackthorn,” I said to myself.
As I stepped out onto the porch, I offered my hand for the man to shake. It was a firm handshake, but one that caught me off guard. Instead of being weak or threatened, the man shook my hand like an equal. I could feel the warmth of his skin and the comfort he was trying to communicate.
Fuck. Even handshakes felt different when I was sober.
“Mr. Blackthorn. Wonderful to meet you. I’m Dr. Robert Ainsley.”
“Nice to meet ya, Dr. Ainsley. Welcome to the ranch. I gotta say, the only tea I got here is sweet tea, but I can put on some coffee if you’re a coffee drinker.”
“Coffee will be just fine. Would you like to do the paperwork now or after the session?”
“Let’s go with after. I’m ready to get this shit on the road,” I said.
“I like that type of attitude, Mr. Blackthorn.”
I ushered the man into my home with hopes of getting my life back on track. Somehow, he brought a reassuring comfort with him. Comfort I hadn’t experienced since my father died. I watched the man walk down the hallway, heading straight for the kitchen. I grinned as I made my way to the coffee pot, preparing us a strong batch as the man got himself set up at the kitchen table.
The kitchen table Delia used to sit at.