Chapter 5
Story: She Snapped His Pitchfork Into the Muck at a Kentucky Show — Then He Asked Who Signed the Papers
The story moved through the show grounds faster than a barn fire.
By noon, every groom, rider, farrier, and spectator at Wren Hollow knew something had happened at the judges' stand. The word "owner" passed from mouth to mouth, transformed and exaggerated with each retelling: Cyrus wasn't just claiming the place, he'd had the papers all along; the Aldermans were being evicted that afternoon; there was going to be a lawsuit; the police had been called; Junelle had fainted in the tack room (she hadn't — she was in the office with the door shut).
Becka came to find him at the feed bin in the early afternoon, flushed and excited.
"They're saying—" She stopped, laughed. "You should hear what they're saying. One of the grooms from the Graywood stables says Junelle's been on the phone to her lawyer for an hour. She's locked herself in the office. She hasn't come out."
"Uh-huh."
"Aren't you—" Becka stopped. She looked at him. "You're not happy about this."
Cyrus was forking fresh straw into a stall. He didn't stop. "I don't know what I am yet."
"You've owned this place for eight years. She's bossed you around the whole time. And now you finally told her, and you're—what? Sad?"
He didn't answer. He finished the stall, set down the fork, and turned to look at the barn — the long aisle, the feed room, the tack room, the office where Junelle sat, the brass plate over the door.
"My father worked this ground for sixty-three years," he said. "He never said a word about any of it. He made me promise, before he died—" Cyrus stopped. "He said, 'Don't use it unless you have to. Running the place with them is better than fighting over the place without them. But if they ever give you no choice, son — then you show them the paper.'"
"And she gave you no choice," Becka said.
"She threw my fork in the muck," he said. "Called it a danger. Called me off the grounds. Called a meeting to have me disciplined." He shook his head slowly. "I didn't want to do this, Becka. I just wanted to keep the place. The way he did."
Becka was quiet for a moment. Then she said, "What are you going to do now?"
"I don't know." He picked up the wheelbarrow and started toward the next stall. "Same work, I guess. The stalls don't muck themselves."
The afternoon stretched on. Cyrus worked the barn the way he always did: hay, grain, water, straw, sweep. The motions were so familiar they didn't require thought. The sun moved across the barn floor, and the shadows shifted, and the rhythm of the place carried him.
At four o'clock, Bill Thornton came down from the judges' stand and found him in the aisle.
"Busy?"
"Always."
"Can we talk?"
Cyrus set down the wheelbarrow and wiped his hands on his jeans. "Sure."
Thornton cleared his throat. "I've been on the committee for twelve years, Cyrus. I thought I knew this place. I thought I knew the people in it." He paused. "I didn't know that paper was a possibility. I should have."
"You had no reason to."
"I had a reason." Thornton's jaw tightened. "I saw the plate on the barn door every time I came here. I asked Junelle about it once, early on. She said it was a memorial to the groundskeeper who'd been with the family for years. Said it was a nice tribute, that they kept it polished in his honor."
Cyrus hadn't known that. He wondered if his father had known. He wondered if it had hurt him, being called a "groundskeeper" by the woman who collected his rent.
"When did she say that?"
"Years back. Ten, maybe twelve years." Thornton shook his head. "I never thought to question it. The Aldermans were always so confident. So certain of their place."
"Their place," Cyrus repeated.
"There's a committee meeting tonight," Thornton said. "Unofficial. Anyone who's served with the show for more than five years is coming. We need to talk about what happens now. About Junelle's position. About —" He gestured vaguely at the grounds. "About who's in charge."
"Who's in charge?" Cyrus asked. "You read the paper, Bill. The question's been answered."
"That's what I thought," Thornton said. "But does that mean she's out? All those years of managing, of organizing, of making the shows happen — does that count for something?"
Cyrus considered it. He looked at the barn, at the ring, at the grounds that had carried his name on a brass plate for thirty years.
"She can run the place," he said. "If she wants to. The shows, the bookings, the riders — that's her work. I never wanted to take it away."
Thornton blinked. "You're serious."
"I'm serious. She knows the business better than I do. She always has. I know the ground." Cyrus paused. "What I want is simple, Bill. I want the plate to mean what it says. I want the paper to be acknowledged. I want the record to be right."
"And in exchange?"
"Nothing. That's the exchange." Cyrus looked at him. "I'm not going to throw her out. I'm not going to sue her for back rent. My father didn't want that, and I don't either. But I want it known. I want it acknowledged. I want the next time someone asks who owns this place, the answer is the truth."
Thornton was quiet for a long moment. Then he nodded slowly.
"I'll tell them tonight," he said. "I think — I think that's a fair thing to offer. More than fair."
He turned to go, then stopped.
"One more thing," he said. "Junelle called the state equestrian association this afternoon. She's asking for a review of the property's management structure. She wants them to look at whether the grounds are being — 'appropriately administered.'"
Cyrus felt a cold weight settle in his stomach. "Is that a problem?"
"I don't know yet," Thornton said. "But it tells me she's not done fighting. She's going to find another angle. She's not going to accept this quietly."
Cyrus nodded. He had known, somehow, that it wouldn't be that easy. It never was.
"It's fine," he said. "Let her do whatever she needs to do. I still have the paper."
Thornton looked at him, then nodded and walked away.
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