A Feather in the Rain

A Feather in the Rain

A Feather in the Rain

by
Alex Cord

Copyright© 2005, Alex Cord

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever or stored in any database or retrieval system without written permission except in the case of brief quotations used in critical articles and reviews. Requests for permissions should be addressed to:

Linda F. Radke, President

FIVE STAR PUBLICATIONS, INC.

P.O. BOX 6698

CHANDLER, ARIZONA 85246-6698

All characters and events described herewithin are completely fictitious and any similarities between persons living or dead is purely coincidental.

LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOGING-IN-PUBLICATION DATA

Cord, Alex.

A feather in the rain / by Alex Cord.-- 1st ed.

p. cm.

I. Title.

PS3603.O7342F43 2005

813'.6--dc22

2005002837

Printed in the United States of America

Editor: Paul M. Howey

Project manager: Sue DeFabis

Cover design: Barbara Kordesh

Cover illustration: Buck Taylor

Interior and cover flap illustrations: Carla Garner

Interior design: Janet Bergin

Dedication

This book is for my dear son, Damien Zachary Cord, who is with me for all time.

M
y name is Alexander Daniel Viespi. I am the son of Alexander Viespi, Sr., and Marie Palladino Viespi. I am the brother of Robert and Marlene.

I am filled with admiration for my son, Wayne, for whom much has been difficult and yet he makes it all seem easy. I am the grandfather of his beautiful twins Jake and Alexandria.

I am the proud and grateful product of this amazing family. I am honored and humbled by the love, kindness, generosity, and support they have always shown me.

And ultimately, I want to say, “Thank you, Baby,” to The Great Dane, Smoky Boy—Susannah Cord, my wife, the treasure of my life, who has shown me what true love really is. I did not know that such a feeling could exist until I met her. Smoky changed my life from straw to gold. When I am separated from her, I feel wrong in the world.

T
o the mighty Janette Anderson for her steadfast belief, unyielding perseverance, and faith. To the angels that put her together with the perfect person to publish this book. And to Linda Radke, the perfect person, whose perception, wisdom, and sensitivity are so profoundly appreciated. Special thanks to Sue DeFabis, for your gentle patience and to Paul Howey, for your eagle eyes. Thank you, Carla Garner, for your fine illustrations and Janet Bergin, for the beautiful design. A big thank you to Jennifer Selberg for all her energy behind the scenes.

Thank you to John Shirey, M.D. for your medical advice, Dale Schneider, D.V.M., for your expertise in equine chiropractic and acupuncture and John Thoma, D.V.M.

Thanks to the Kays for their unconditional friendship.

I would like to express my gratitude to the artists who have enriched my life - in person and/or through their work - and to name just a few of the multitude, most of them friends: Bing
Crosby, Ernest Borgnine, Sammy Davis, Ken Atchity, Van Heflin, Coco Marshall, George C. Scott, Slim Pickens, Ben Johnson, Chuck Connors, Eartha Kitt, Jean Simmons, Edmond O'Brien, Robert Fuller, Jennifer Savidge, John Steinbeck, Kirk Douglas, Sam Peckinpaw, Lawrence Olivier, Marlon Brando, Peter O'Toole, T.S. Elliot, e.e. cummings, William Shakespeare, Tennessee Williams, Cormac McCarthy, Annie Proulx, Hank Williams, Wilbur Smith, Andrea Boccelli and countless others.

And lastly, my most profound gratitude to Buck Taylor, a truly gifted artist, a great friend and a kindred spirit, who knows too well the truth contained herein. Thank you for the perfect cover. I could not have dreamed it better.

P
lease allow the license I have taken with dates of actual events, with geography and with the dollar amounts and number of contestants. I respect your sport and see it as a thing of great beauty.

My hat is off to the founding fathers: Buster Welch, Shorty Freeman, Don Dodge and Matlock Rose, to name just a few who have made cutting what it is today.

A
ll things have their time to live and die. Leaves have their time to fall. Buds have their time to bloom. Flowers their time to wither in the wind and cold. The sun has its time to rise and set. The stars their time to shine and fade. But Death abides by no rules of time or season. It seems to delight in thwarting the hopes and dreams of mortals with no regard to good or bad, old or young. Death knocks without discrimination at the doors of hovels and castles alike with only the promise of sleep in the bosom of the earth unless we choose to believe that there is more and observe how the dim eye of the dying brightens with its last light.

N
o floor, nor earth beneath his feet, he floated in dazzling rays of golden light. A thinning silver strand joined him yet to the body, cold and still on the bed below. He could hear the faint sobs of his mother in the corridor. His father seemed small and bowed in a chair beside the bed.

He was quitting the flesh and blood, the sky-blue eyes and blond hair and the quirky grin known as Damien Zachary Burrell.

Zack, as his dad called him, was only twenty-six. There were bright, even joyous times in his short, troubled life, but somewhere behind the golden glow of Zack lurked a dark unwillingness to want to live.

Though he had vacated the flesh, as Damien Zachary Burrell he still had things to do. Living people and their anguish would remain real to him for a time to come. He'd left behind a wounded, crippled father who worshiped him and struggled under a burden of doubt and self-blame. Tranquility was a distant thing yet to be achieved. Zack was not at peace.

A
grim evening sky thickened over the Houston Astrodome. The acrid aroma of horses, cattle, and straw hung in the moist air. A mosaic of pickups and horse trailers jammed the vast parking area.

The millions in prize money won annually in the cutting horse world had given birth to syndicates, shareholders of equine stock residing in stalls, and a fierce atmosphere of intense competition.

The now glamorous, high-dollar sport grew out of the dust of everyday ranch work, sorting cattle to be sold or doctored, separating strays out of large herds. Cattle naturally want to bunch together. It takes a horse with the cunning athleticism of a cheetah to cut a cow out and prevent it from darting back to the herd. A rider can't make a decision and communicate it quickly enough to get the job done. The horse must have the desire and ability to react instantly to his own reflexive decisions.

Twelve hundred pounds of hot muscle and bone quivered between Jesse Burrell's legs as the brown mare squatted deeper into her hocks. She pinned her ears and poked her nose at the cow desperate to get around her. Tapping the earth with her front feet like a boxer bobbing, she dared the cow to try. The herd behind the mare was where the cow wanted to be. It drew her like a magnet. She darted to the right. The mare, a flashing, mirror image of the cow, cut her off. She dove to the left. In a sweeping blurred arc, the mare cracked over her hocks, splattered out in front of the cow and stopped her dead. Locked eye to eye, she blew in her face and shuddered her shoulders. Jesse stared at the cow, the breath of the mare hot in her face. Overwhelmed, the cow quit. Jesse picked up light as a feather on the loose reins. Instantly, the tense mare softened, came out of the ground-hugging crouch, and stood alert. The savvy audience whistled and whooped in boisterous appreciation as Jesse turned her back to the herd to cut another cow.

Jesse Burrell had the gift—the feel, the sensitivity and balance, and the willingness to listen and hear what the horse tells him. The mare was stout, very quick. She could jar a lot of people loose. But when Jesse was on a horse, he gave up part of himself to the horse and the horse did the same. They came together as a single entity—a brilliant, graceful poem of flesh and blood in motion.

He had thirty seconds before the buzzer would sound ending his two and a half-minute run. He looked between the mare's ears at the cattle milling in front of her and decided on the brockle-faced heifer. He drove the heifer out in front of him and just as he dropped his rein hand on the mare's withers, the cue to go to work, it happened. His concentration faltered. A blade of grief slammed through him. Why always at the weirdest times would he see his son's face and realize it would never be there in the flesh again? Doubts about his ability had begun to creep into his consciousness. His financial life needed oxygen. If he could just keep these last few seconds together and get a good challenge from the heifer he could win $23,500, a decent dose of air.

The heifer made two quick moves. The mare matched them. The cow dashed for the wall and Jesse just wasn't there. The mare sensed his absence, and in that microsecond of confusion the heifer scooted under the mare's neck and made it back to the herd. The run was over and Jesse had blown it. He looked down and shook his head as the crowd applauded in support.