Colonial Acres (eBook)

Chapter
SIX

It was a few weeks later, a Saturday morning to be exact. Patrick had managed to pull himself away on a fine morning and was riding quietly and slowly through some of the rougher backcountry trails that saw less hiker activity but still required looking after occasionally. Troy seemed to flow over the rough ground with no more apparent effort than the smoother trails closer to headquarters. The sun was just beginning to filter through the stand of white oak, sparkling like diamonds off the wet leaves of the surrounding foliage. It seemed he had the forest entirely to himself as he saw no footprints in the softer sections of the trail save for the occasional deer or rabbit print.

All was right with the world, until it wasn’t. It was at the top of a ridge that Patrick suddenly reigned up short. There was something in the air. Just a quick whiff, yet unmistakable all the same. It was there, and it was gone again. He sat dead-still waiting for the gentle breeze to bring the scent back once more, time ticked away, but there was nothing. He was certain he had smelled it. So sure of it! But it was gone. He dismounted and walked a bit closer to the overhang of the rocky ridge and peered over the other side, and he waited. It took some time, an eternity it seemed, but he had all day if necessary to find the source of this scent that had stopped him short.

He waited and waited, something that his training in the Marines had taught him, but it never returned again. Bit by bit his pulse settled back to normal. In due time he gave in, he may as well move on. He must have been mistaken. A foot in the stirrup, a single smooth move, and he was back astride Troy. Time to move along.

Billy emerged from his tent before the first light of dawn had touched the eastern sky. He perked a quick shot of coffee while downing two packets of instant oatmeal and a two-pack of Pop-tarts, the breakfast-of-champions it seemed for so many long-distance hikers. A quick tidying up of his tent site, the lacing up of hiking boots, and the deftly swung daypack onto his shoulders meant he was mobile once more. He was well off into the awaiting arms of the forest and climbing the first long grade before the sun had gained any significant purchase over the valley below.

All about him the forest was coming to life. Red squirrels barked their indignation at the early morning intrusion into their world. Off to one side of the trail, in a small clearing, there stood a mother deer with two of her fawns. They took no apparent alarm at the passerby, almost to the extent that he seemed somehow familiar to them. At the very least, they felt comfortable in such close proximity to this man.

He had struggled through another week, tension building in an exponential manner, until Friday afternoon had rolled around. It was at this time every week that the real partying broke out on campus, and it was at this exact juncture that Billy had grabbed his backpack and “headed for the hills” as it were. It was the only way he had found to cope with his forced insertion into a life which felt so much like another’s path, not one that was making any sense to himself. Somehow, he thought, there must be another way forward in this world other than a series of degrees hung upon a wall for everyone/no one to look at and admire/be indifferent to.

Upon entering the forest, he became another man, a better version of himself. Tension fell away like the drops of sweat falling from his brow on this long uphill climb, an effort offering the reward of an amazing view across the deep valleys of Appalachia. As time went on, with the passing of each day, he knew in his heart of hearts that he was meant for something different. Of this, he was now certain, and the pressure had built to the breaking point. Billy no longer felt he was in complete control of his emotions. The equilibrium of maintaining an even keel, of exuding the cool composure that was expected of those choosing a path in the legal field was slipping away. Conflicting voices argued their case inside his feverish skull, two opposing attorneys making their case before a judge.

‘You belong at the university!’ the first imaginary voice cried out; and it was right. Their investment in a university education would transport him above the have-nots, into the realm of those with a series of degrees hung upon a wall in some future office awaiting him upon graduating and passing the subsequent Bar exam. And Billy was expected to continue this pathway; to follow the yellow-brick-road as it were. And there was an admittedly loving set of parents who would see him achieve nothing less than the best. The good life awaited, the dangling carrot of the upper-class lifestyle. And Billy would one day step into all that that life could entail.

He didn’t know why he hadn’t been able to bring up his true feelings with his dad, it wasn’t that he feared him in any significant way. Maybe it was more that he didn’t want to disappoint the man. He had hoped that a man supposedly as perceptive as an attorney was supposed to be would have picked up all the not-so-subtle clues left along the way. Either way, this was a bridge that had not been crossed.

And Billy had fought his way forward as best he could, all the while sensing something inside was going to burst as each week slid inexorably into the next. But lately the other voice in his head was getting ever louder, demanding to be heard, to be accepted as worthy of consideration. This was the true, innermost, real side of Billy that had seen enough of the life his father lived to know it wasn’t for him. He just wasn’t cut out for it in any real sense. Could he do it? Did he have the intelligence to finish the course and make a name for himself in the legal field? Yes, he knew he could. There wasn’t any question concerning some lack of intelligence on his part. That wasn’t where the problem lay, it lay within his heart, that innermost part that was the real Billy Taylor.

It so happened that on this particular weekend he had taken his tent and gear and all the noise going on in his head and set up at a campsite not terribly far from the university, on a site that would be his base camp for a couple nights. He chose the cheapest, most out of the way plot offered because he would only be there to sleep anyway.

The trail felt right under his feet, a sense that of all the places one might find themselves this morning this was his perfect spot in the universe. The earth slid past, uphill and down, and then into another long climb once more. He had no set plan concerning just how far he might go today, he always left that decision up to the four winds that blew, to the hand of fate, feeling his way along in the belief that it would be faithful in making certain that if something was meant for him, he wouldn’t miss it.

It so happened that this was when he came upon a gentleman sitting on a log bench, sipping away on a steaming cup of coffee, as his stunningly beautiful steed stood a few feet away tied loosely to a log railing placed there for just such a purpose. The stallion was beautiful, the likes of which Billy had never seen before. A perfect mix of intimidating strength, seamlessly blending with flawless genetics, that struck a hint of fear into an overwhelming sense that this was one of God’s most perfect creatures. It was the chanciest-of-chance meetings that mirrored once again the old belief, ‘What is meant for you will not pass you by.’ The two nodded a greeting as Billy came striding up the trail.

“Got enough for two. Won’t you join me,” the fellow said, grabbing his thermos and holding it up. “My name’s Patrick, by the way,” he stated as he offered a handshake.

Billy was due for a break anyway, and a good cup of coffee was something he rarely passed up, so he dropped his pack to the ground and removed his own cup.

“Billy, Sir. Billy Taylor, to be exact,” he returned shaking the man’s hand firmly. “And I thank you, Sir.”

Patrick carefully filled it to the brim, smiling to find another who took the brew ‘straight-up’ just as he did.

“Thank you again, Sir,” Billy said quietly, settling onto the log bench himself.

“So, you come up here often?” Patrick queried.

“Just every chance I get, whenever I can pull away from the university,” Billy replied.

“Oh really. What are you studying.”

“Business Law,” he returned.

“Ah, I see. Going to be an attorney then?”

A bit of hesitation, something that Patrick let hang in the air.

“Yeah,” came the hesitant reply, as Billy stared blankly off into the forest. “I guess.”

“Things not going so well?” Patrick ventured.

“I guess you could say that. I just come out here on the weekends to clear my head, you know?”

“I do know. Actually, that’s why I come up here.”

Each sat sipping the strong black brew as every second revealed just a hint more of the intrusion of a new day. The barest of sunlit streaks began to invade the stand of white oak in which they sat, lending an ethereal glow to the forest floor.

“Grades are slipping?” Patrick asked...