“You know,” said Decker, “I figure, what the hell! Time for a career change. I’ve been thinking of doing something more spiritual anyway. Jesus, you work on the street and see shit pile up day after day—burnt out runaways, hookers, pimps, murderers, rapists, burglars, robbers. And kinky rich scumbags with influence buying their way out of retribution.” He raised his eyebrows. “I’m sick of this job. I’d like to get away from it all. Maybe you’d be doing me a favor, Armand. Let’s put it this way. If I don’t hear from you by, let say…” Decker glanced at his watch, “this time tomorrow, you make your move and I’ll make mine.”

“Get the hell out of here!”

“Thank you for your time, sir.”

23

Decker decided to ride bareback. He threw a woolen blanket over the black stallion and mounted the rippling back. The horse protested by lurching forward and breaking into a gallop around the pen. Decker dug his heels into its haunches; the animal neighed, stopped, and reared. He tightened the reins and pulled backward, but again the horse rebelled, sprinting wildly, racing toward the fences. Decker jerked tightly to the left, forcing the horse to turn to avoid collision. The stallion sprinted, slowed down to a canter, then down to a trot, panting from the sudden burst of activity.

The horse was a beauty, too thickset for show, but light on his feet and full of spirit. Decker loved breaking in the animals, but once they were tame, he felt guilty. Afterwards, they never seemed quite as spunky, always carrying themselves with an air of wounded pride. On a rare occasion a horse would defy his best efforts. He’d curse his failure, but couldn’t help admiring the animal’s tenacity. Way to go, he’d think. Some fires just can’t be put out.

He exercised the horse for an hour, changing directions with a simple pull of the reins, picking up speed with the slightest increase of heel pressure on the hindquarters.

Cut another notch for Cowboy Pete. Why, he’s just a good ole boy, herding them dogies, riding the wilds of Lake Okeechobee, Florida.

Florida cowboys. A proud tradition. His uncle had ranched all his life, took over the place from his grandfather. As a kid, Decker would spend summers on the central plains of the state, hanging out with the ranch hands, laughing at the western hot shots who’d wilt in the humidity of the swamp’s heat.

Them boys never had to deal with ’gators, skeeters, and swamps, the hands would say. They mighten be big men in Texas, but out here, they’s pussies.

Eat shit, Waylon and Willie.

If things didn’t work out with Arlington, he could always go back and ride with Uncle Wilbert, or even go back to Dad and the store.