Chapter 8
Story: She Snapped His Pitchfork Into the Muck at a Kentucky Show — Then He Asked Who Signed the Papers
The committee called a meeting for the following Tuesday.
Vernon Abernathy, the heavy-faced county attorney who’d sat on the committee for nine silent years, called it at the barn, not the judges’ stand. The folding chairs came out of the feed room and were arranged in a tight half-circle on the concrete, facing the barn door. Cyrus stood in the aisle with his hands in his pockets, and Hollis Marsh leaned against the rail behind him. Becka stood at the ring gate, not pretending to groom anything.
Junelle’s chair was empty when the meeting was called to order.
“We have a preliminary report,” Abernathy said, holding up a manila folder. “Dr. Park has filed her findings. I’ll read the summary.”
He put on his glasses and read aloud: “‘A systematic use of vendor invoices to extract funds from the Wren Hollow operating budget over a period of not less than five years. Brandywine Feed, Tack Maintenance Specialists, and Insurance Brokers of Lexington all received payments totaling, in aggregate, one hundred and seven thousand, four hundred and ninety dollars over the audit period, with no corresponding goods or services delivered. All payments were authorized by J. Alderman. In addition, the operating budget for the property includes an account category titled ‘Grounds Maintenance Reserve’ which shows a reported balance of zero; given the amounts withdrawn, the existing accounting suggests that these funds were not applied to the property. The report’s conclusion is that the facility’s financial management does not meet the standards required for association accreditation, and it recommends a full external audit of any continued management arrangement.’” — Abernathy lowered the paper.
The silence was so complete that he could heard the swallows under the barn roof.
“Where’s Junelle?” someone asked.
Abernathy cleared his throat. “Ms. Alderman’s counsel called this morning,” he said. “She’s declined to attend. He has indicated that she retains her position as a member in good standing but will not be present for any management review during the pending investigation.”
Becka made a small sound. Hollis shook his head, his battered straw hat swinging.
Abernathy looked at Cyrus. “The committee would like to know, Mr. Doyle, what you intend to do with the grounds.”
Cyrus looked at him. To the barn door. To the brass plate, polished, catching the light.
“I’m going to muck the stalls,” he said. “I’m going to fork the hay. I’m going to keep this place alive.” He paused. “I’m going to hire a new manager. Someone who’ll run the shows and the riders without stealing from the feed budget. And I’m going to ask each of you to help me find that person.”
Abernathy looked at him for a long moment, then nodded once.
“We will,” he said.
The next morning, the barn was quiet. The virus had moved through the show community quickly, and the Monday crowd had found other places to ride. But the feed bin was full, the stalls were clean, and Cyrus stood at the door with the twine-wrapped pitchfork in his hands.
Becka came up behind him. “What are you going to do about Junelle?”
“Nothing.”
“Nothing?” She stepped around to face him. “She stole from this place. She lied about you for years. She nearly got you kicked out of your own barn.”
Cyrus looked at her. “I know.”
“So why don’t you do something?”
He heard a car on the gravel drive. A blue station wagon, slowing, pulling into the lot. He watched it stop, watched the driver’s side door open, watched Junelle Alderman step out.
She was wearing jeans and a plain gray shirt. No wine-red jacket, no black velvet helmet cover. Her chestnut hair was loose, and there was no lipstick on her mouth.
She walked across the lot, her boots scuffing in the gravel. She stopped ten feet from where Cyrus stood.
Becka stepped back, giving her room.
Junelle looked at Cyrus for a long moment, then past him, at the barn door, at the brass plate.
“I read,” she said, “the parcel number on the plate. When Dr. Park brought it to my attention. She said it was the number on the deed.” She swallowed. “I didn’t know. I never looked.”
“I know,” Cyrus said.
“It was my father’s. The money. He used to say—” She stopped, looked away. “He used to say the Doyles were just staff, and the money would be better off with the Aldermans.” She shook her head. “I believed him. I believed him centrally.”
Cyrus didn’t say anything.
“They’re taking it all,” she said. “The lawyer says I have to sell the house, the car. They’re served with the preliminary statement on the shortages.” She laughed, a hollow sound. “All those years, I thought I was the one who was going to make everything right. I was going to be the one who proved we could make this place work. And all I did was watch my father’s lies become my own.”
“Were they lies,” Cyrus said quietly, “or were they just the way things were?”
She looked up at him.
“I don’t want an apology,” he said. “I don’t want you to grovel. I want you to live with the truth the way I did. That’s all. That’s the whole thing.”
She nodded. She wiped her eyes with the back of her hand.
“I can’t afford to live here,” she said. “Even if you’d let me. The lawyers—” She shook her head.
Cyrus reached into his vest and pulled out a folded check. He held it out.
“This is for severance,” he said. “Two months. It’s in the budget.”
She stared at it. “You didn’t have to do that.”
“I did,” he said simply. “Because you gave this place twenty years, Junelle. Flawed, but given. That’s not nothing.”
She took the check, folded it, put it in her pocket without looking at it. Then she turned and walked back to her car.
Becka watched her go, then looked at Cyrus. “You’re better than I am.”
“No.” He looked at the barn, at the plate, the stalls, the ring beyond. “I’m just standing on ground I own now. And it’s a different view from here.”
Hollis came up the aisle, his farrier’s apron folded over his arm.
“You going to be okay, boy?” he asked.
Cyrus lifted the twine-wrapped pitchfork, the one she’d thrown into the muck pile, and set the tines against the concrete.
“I’m going to be fine,” he said. “It’s my place now. And I’m going to keep it.”
The June sun rose over the barn, and the brass plate caught the light, and Cyrus J. Doyle forked clean straw into the stall of the first horse of the morning.
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