Into the Fire

ONE YEAR LATER . . .

It had been a long drive. He was surprised at how hard it was raining even though that’s all he’d heard about this area from the time he’d mentioned he was thinking of trying out this track clear across the country.
“Hutch, you’re going to hate it, I’m tellin’ ya.” He could still hear his cousin Rhett emphatically telling him and then spitting out his chew and shaking his head. “You’re just gonna hate it. You got plenty of mud caulks?”
Well, he was here, and it was midnight, pitch black, and raining hard enough to put his wipers on the extra fast mode.
“Geez,” he said under his breath.

MONDAY

Harry Dawson was having trouble sleeping again. The rain pounded on the roof in a steady downpour. He stared into the darkness of his bedroom and listened to his wife breathe deep and quiet. He turned his head to look at her. She looked beautiful even in the dark.
“God, it’s hard for me to fathom how much you must love me. There is no way I deserved her. No way I deserved her love—or yours.” He waited. “What is it, Lord? I know this unrest. You know I’ll do it. You know I will. No matter what.”

“Cee!” Dick shouted frantically. “Cee! Wake up!”
“Dick, wake up,” Cee said, voice soft, sleepy, touching her husband’s arm. “Are you dreaming again? Wake up.”
Dick returned from his nightmare, sweating and breathless. He rolled to his back reaching for his wife’s hand.
“When are you going to tell me what this dream is all about?” Her voice quiet.
“As soon as I figure out why I’m having it. I’m sorry to wake you, beautiful.”

Two large cups of coffee and still Dick was tired and crabby. He shut himself in his office until Elena knocked lightly on the door.
“Come in,” he called with a little tinge of irritation.
“This can wait, Dick,” Elena said, tentative as she poked her head inside the door.
“No, no. I’m irritated with myself, Elena, not you. I’m sorry I sounded like that.”
“You want to talk about it?”
“Yeah, I do, but I can’t.”
“Too personal?”
“No, not really. It’s just a dream I keep having—a bad one. I need to figure out why I keep having it. I’ve prayed about it, but the Lord seems to be kinda quiet on this one, and, to tell you the truth, I can’t figure that out either,” he said with disappointment.
“You know I’ve read that recurring dreams can be because of unresolved fears. I had a dream several times before Bill got so sick.”
“So, was it prophetic?”
“Bill is alive and well as you know. Miraculously healed. So, no, it was not prophetic, although in all honesty, there were times when I thought it was going to be.”
Dick stared at her.
“It’s about Cee, isn’t it?”
“Yeah, it is, Elena, and I’ve had it three times since we got married.”
“I believe the Lord will make it known to you, Dick. You seem to have that kind of relationship with Him. He shows you things. Hasn’t He used dreams to show you things before?”
“Yes, He has. Maybe that’s what I’m afraid of. What He’ll show me, I mean.”

Grady Hutchinson sat in the kitchen nursing a large styrofoam cup of hot black coffee as he perused the local sports page. Occasionally he looked up to see if there was someone he might possibly recognize in spite of the great odds against it. He’d heard Robert Sanders came out here last season and made a killing, but he didn’t know if he was back. It would be nice to see Robert again—he was a class act.
He looked out the window of the racetrack kitchen viewing someone’s rig parked on the side of the nearest barn to the south out of the way of the hotwalking machines. It had to belong to another horseshoer. Staring out the window, he saw a squatty built man with farrier chaps come out and open a compartment on the silver Chevy custom pickup. Hutch could tell he grabbed a couple sets of shoes before disappearing back into the shedrow.
Not the first time Hutch had come to a new track. It usually didn’t take him long to fit in and find work. He liked people as a rule, and they invariably liked him. He was grateful for that because when it came time to collect money, he discovered people had a tendency to pay him before they’d pay others. Of course, that probably had a lot to do with the fact he was just plain good at what he did. He kept up with every new shoe or experimental method used in his field, and he was so confident in his work he’d use anything to try and help a horse—no matter who “pooh-poohed” it or criticized a new idea. If it worked, he wanted to be able to use it. Who cared what people thought? All he cared about was being an expert. At times he knew he cared too much about it. And it had cost him everything. Everything except his work.
At least it’s not raining this morning, still staring blankly out the window.
Glancing at his watch, he decided to head to the commission office to get his farrier’s license. After that he’d start cruising the barn area, start up some conversations, see if he could introduce himself to the other guys in his field and endure the inevitable sizing up and competitive nature of the other horseshoers. He’d been through it before many times. It was just part of the process.
Boy, I’m a long way from home.

(For His Glory; sequel to Hope Of Glory) (Yes, the “of” is captialized on purpose.)