Take the Long Road Home - 1. Chapter 1

MORGAN

Get out!

Those two words changed my life and set me on a course I never imagined. It was a pivotal moment, although I didn’t realize it until much later.

I was sixteen when my uncle kicked me out. He had reluctantly stepped in when I was ten and took custody after my parents were arrested in a drug sting operation. It turned out they were pretty high up in the supply chain. Dear old Dad was sentenced to life in prison with no chance of parole. In his role within the crime organization, he was responsible for the distribution of drugs across four states. During the investigation, the detectives were able to link him to the overdose deaths of four people. Who knows how many more were killed because of the drugs he put into people’s hands? Because the case involved multiple states, it became a federal crime, and, as far as I know, the feds were quite happy to nail his ass to the wall.

Mom was his accomplice. She kept the books and dispersed the product to the local dealers. Their criminal involvement traced back to when I was around five or six. When the cops learned that Mom took me to work with her, child endangerment charges were added. She ended up with forty years to life. By the time she’s eligible for parole, she’ll be nearly seventy.

Despite all that, I don’t hate my parents. I feel sorry for them. It wasn’t that they were bad parents; they just had a hard time focusing on me when they had to be on their toes all the time. I have good memories of hiking, long scenic drives, and picnics at rest stops. My dad even took me hunting every fall, starting when I was about six. My earlier memories were fragmented. Every once in a while, something would trigger me, but no matter how much I concentrated, nothing ever materialized. However, it was the memories of long hours spent alone, reading or wandering the nearby woods, that stood out more. My parents started leaving me by myself when I was about seven. I can make a mean fluffernutter and heat Spaghetti-O’s like a pro.

Overall, my early childhood wasn’t bad. If I had to guess, I’d say it was semi-normal. At least I thought it was. I didn’t have any friends, so I had nothing to compare it to. It wasn’t until after my parents were arrested and I moved in with my uncle that things went downhill pretty quickly. Uncle Ron was my dad’s brother. Mom was an only child, and both sets of grandparents were dead. It was either him or foster care. I spent a few months with a foster family while my caseworker tried to locate any relatives. No thanks. One taste was enough.

Uncle Ron was reluctant to take me in until he learned of the monthly stipend from a modest trust my maternal grandparents had left me. Funds I was rarely the recipient of. Uncle Ron made sure I had a roof over my head, food to eat, thrifted clothes to wear, and that I made it to school every day. Beyond that, he didn’t give a shit. I did odd jobs for neighbors to earn money for school lunches. I hated babysitting the Warner twins, but getting paid fifty bucks for occasionally sacrificing a Saturday night was worth it.

All that vanished when he caught me kissing Kyle Porter at the end of our date. He was my first boyfriend. We were in Kyle’s car, and I didn’t think before leaning over the console to steal a goodnight kiss. Until then, we’d been super careful. My uncle was up, getting another beer from the kitchen, and saw us through the window.

He was waiting when I walked through the door, and the tirade began immediately. In addition to demanding I get out, he tossed in a lot of bigoted slurs for good measure. I didn’t bother arguing with him.

“You have fifteen minutes to get your shit and get the fuck out of my house!” he spat.

I ran upstairs to my room with all my meager worldly possessions, suddenly glad I didn’t have much in the way of stuff; no posters or pictures on the wall. No bookcase full of favorite novels. No sentimental knick-knacks to lug around.

I snatched two duffel bags from my closet and emptied my drawers inside, shoving clothes in as fast as I could. I gathered all my toiletries from the bathroom, tossing them on top of the clothes. The last thing I grabbed was a small cedar box from the shelf in my closet—every penny I earned working last spring and summer at Fordham’s Farm. Twelve weeks at three hundred dollars a week, cash, was a decent haul for a sixteen-year-old. I still had over two thousand dollars even after purchasing a banged-up fifteen-year-old Kawasaki Vulcan 1500 Classic. The old girl had been through the wringer and wasn’t in great shape, so I got her for a song and a prayer. I spent more on parts than I did buying her. It took six weeks to get her running, but I was confident she was road-worthy, thankful for the shop classes I had taken at school. I rushed down cellar to grab a few winter items stored there.

As I was securing my duffel bags to the bike, Uncle Ron came barreling out of the house. “Boy, you won’t last but one day out there before you’ll be selling that faggot ass of yours on the street. I hope you catch AIDS and die,” he seethed.

Jesus, this man was too much, especially when he drank, which apparently he’d been doing for a while. I hope he’ll keel over and die. Ignoring his drunkenness, I pushed past him as I went up the back porch steps to grab my backpack. He stumbled, then caught his balance and came at me, but I wasn’t the helpless boy he remembered. I had grown both mentally and physically working on Fordman’s Farm. I easily side-stepped him, then grabbed the back of his shirt with one hand and his belt with the other. I didn’t look; I just threw him as hard as I could.

He stumbled across the length of the porch and then flipped over the railing. There was a sickening thud as he hit the ground. I ran over and looked down.

Oh shit.

Blood was pouring from the side of his head onto a large, decorative rock. I vaulted over the rail. Uncle Ron wasn’t moving. That’s when I noticed the angle of his neck was wrong. Tentatively, I ran my fingers along the side of his neck searching for a pulse. Nothing. I saw his eyes. His dull brown orbs stared lifelessly at the overgrown backyard.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck!

I was going to be arrested for murder. Even if I called 911, I would still be blamed. They’d be right, too.

So, I did what every scared sixteen-year-old kid would do— I ran.

I slung my backpack over my shoulders and stuck my head into my helmet, not bothering to tighten the chin straps. I needed to get as far away as I could. I thanked the lucky stars when the bike started on the first try. She was still a little temperamental at times. I slowed down when I got to the corner of our street. Getting pulled over for speeding would not help.

I made my way across town with the long afternoon shadows chasing me.

Kyle stepped onto the porch as I pulled into the empty driveway. Surprised by my sudden arrival, he hurried towards me. I didn’t even say hello, just launched into a retelling of everything that had just happened. When I was done, he pulled me into the empty house.

Panic still laced my voice. “I gotta get away from here! They’ll never believe it was an accident. Hell, I’m not sure if it was. I wished for him to be dead. I’m in serious trouble, Kyle!”

Kyle motioned for me to quiet. “Calm down. Let me think.” He paced the floor a few times before his head snapped up. “Wait here.”

I took up pacing in his place. Soon enough, he came barging down the stairs with some papers in his hand.

“Mom’s gonna kill me if she finds out, so let’s hope that doesn’t ever happen.” He handed me the papers. My eyes widened when I realized what they were.

When Kyle was five, his eight-year-old brother drowned.

I was holding his brother’s birth and baptismal certificates, a Social Security card, and some school report cards. “Ky, I can’t take these. This was your brother.”

“I know. That’s why I want you to have them. Go— live the life he’ll never be able to.”

I pulled Kyle into a hug, tears falling onto his shoulder. When we broke apart, I saw his eyes shimmering. “Thank you. This means the world to me.”

Kyle nodded. I leaned in and pressed my lips to his. It was a chaste kiss, but it held a lot of emotion. It broke my heart to end the first relationship we both had.

I didn’t look back as I drove away.

It was getting late, so I only drove a couple of hours before stopping at a run-down motel. The guy at the front desk barely said more than ten words and didn’t bother asking for identification. I spent the next hour Googling where and how to get a driver’s license. I went online, completed the application, and uploaded the fake driver’s ed certificate I had created using AI.

The next day, I pulled off the highway at a small town on the Indiana border. Getting a new ID was easier than I expected. The clerk at the Bureau of Motor Vehicles didn’t even blink as I gave him my paperwork and application number. After a cursory glance, he tapped at his keyboard, then had me stand on the X to take my driver’s license photo. After waiting another fifteen minutes, I was handed the key to my future. Morgan Porter was reborn.

Midwest scenery is pretty much the same: rolling hills, miles of farmland, and the occasional forest. I made my way west, sticking to back roads to avoid highway cameras. I left Ohio behind, without one ounce of regret. After the first night of trying to catch some shut-eye at a rest stop and having little success, I knew I had to do something. Otherwise, my money would run out quickly.

I searched a few thrift stores and managed to score a small pup tent and some basic camping supplies. Sucking it up, I stopped at an outdoor outfitter and spent more than I wanted to on a sleeping bag rated for below-zero temperatures. Rearranging my belongings was like playing Tetris, but somehow, I managed to consolidate everything so it could be secured to my bike. I also went online and purchased an annual National Parks pass. It was late summer, and most of the smaller parks allowed camping, often free or for a nominal charge. I spent a few hours mapping out a route that would not only take me far from Ohio but also keep me off the main highways.

What worried me most was what I was supposed to do for the approaching winter. It wasn’t safe to camp in the freezing cold every night. I guess I could head south. Maybe to Southern California or Florida and find work on a farm there. I didn’t relish the thought of picking lettuce or oranges all day. I liked working with animals.

I wasn’t in a hurry to get anywhere, so I meandered along back roads heading southwest through the Heartland. I would spend one or two nights at a campground and kept busy by hiking the trails. The further west I went, the more beautiful the scenery became. It was a welcome change from the flatness of the breadbasket.

After crossing into New Mexico from Oklahoma, I turned north. I decided to take my chances on a ranch in Montana or Wyoming. If that didn’t work out, I could head toward the Pacific Northwest. I could find a job as a barista at Starbucks or something, then try again in the spring when ranches hire extra hands for the busy season.

Two thousand dollars seemed like a lot of money, but gas and food were expensive. I was down to a few hundred after splurging on a cheap motel in Arkansas when a slow-moving system dumped three inches of rain over four days. I was surviving on dry cereal, canned soup, and lots of ramen. Fresh meat was not an option. I ate a lot of canned tuna and chicken. I was beginning to feel tired and sluggish after a month on the road.

In Colorado, I stopped at over a dozen ranches, but none were hiring. In Wyoming, I lucked out, but only temporarily. One of the ranches needed help with its early-fall roundup, and I earned a week’s pay. The foreman was happy with my work and wished he could keep me on, but the owner was strict with his payroll. The foreman suggested another ranch further north. He said it was a decent spread, run by a fair owner.

It was over an hour’s drive to Rigg’s Ranch. The ranch was halfway between Kaycee and Buffalo. In between, there weren’t any towns with more than a gas station and a diner. The directions led me to an arched, gated entry. The top rail sign had two large, elaborately scrolled Rs entwined with an arrow. The gates were open, and cattle dotted both sides of the winding road leading to the main house.

The yard was bustling as I pulled my bike to the side and killed the engine with a low rumble. A tall man looked over his shoulder as he was unsaddling a pretty chestnut gelding. After slinging the saddle over the fence rail, he dusted off his hands and walked over.

He eyed me curiously. “Can I help you with something?”

“Hi. I’m Morgan Porter, and John Hanson at the Bar H suggested I stop by to see if you need help. I just finished working their early roundup, but he didn’t have a position open for me. He said you might have something available.”

The man looked at me for a long moment, then said, “I’m Carson, the foreman. Mr. Riggs is the man you need to speak to. He does all the hiring, but before I get him, how old are you? And what kind of experience do you have?”

Shit. I knew I looked young. I barely passed for sixteen, let alone the three-year jump on the timeline. Mustering as much confidence as I could, I told him, “I’m nineteen and spent the past two summers working on a farm back east. I can ride. My roping skills aren’t going to take a cash prize at the rodeo, but I hit the mark more often than not. I’m a hard worker, too.”

Carson nodded once, though hardly convinced. “Come with me.”

I followed him to a huge two-story stone-and-log house. The porch wrapped around the entirety. Carson led me into a large living room. Homey, comfortable furniture was merely an accent to the immense fireplace along the outer wall. I was sure I could stand up in it. The cathedral ceilings made the space look immense. There was a loft area, and I could see a hallway that most likely led to a study or office. To my left was a massive, modern kitchen where the most tantalizing aromas were coming from. The dining room table had eight chairs, but judging by the room's size, it could easily seat more.

“Wait here.”

I obeyed, my eyes taking in every detail of the first floor. The mantlepiece over the fireplace was a dark mahogany, and at least a dozen picture frames adorned its surface.

It felt like I stood there for an hour. Just as I started to get fidgety, thinking maybe they didn’t buy my story, I heard two sets of footsteps coming down the hall. Carson followed behind an older man in his late forties, maybe fifty-ish. He was about six-two and with the massive build of a rancher. His black hair was threaded with silver, and his blue eyes were soft and kind.

He stuck out his hand. “Hello, Morgan. I’m Erik Riggs. Carson tells me you’re looking for work?”

I shook his hand. His rancher’s grip was stronger. “It’s nice to meet you, Mr. Riggs. Yes. I’m looking for anything, but a full-time position would be great.”

Riggs gave Carson a quick nod, and the foreman took his leave. “Let’s have this discussion in my office.”

The said office was down the hallway. Like everything else, there was a lot of wood and light. Tall windows let in the sun, brightening the darker shades of wood. Mr. Riggs made himself comfortable behind his desk and nodded at the chairs in front of the wooden behemoth.

When we were settled, Mr. Riggs said, “So, you’re nineteen and have some experience on a farm, yes? Tell me about that.”

I licked my lips before I replied. “I worked the last two summers back home in, oh, uh P-Pennsylvania. It was a dairy farm. I helped out with anything that needed to be done: moving the cows from one pasture to another, getting them in for milking, culling those that needed hoof trims, and lugging hay bales. That sort of thing.”

“I see.” Riggs steepled his fingers. “Why’d you leave?”

I prepared for this. A half-truth was better than outright lying. “Well, sir. I lost my parents when I was ten. My uncle took me in, but he didn’t really want me there. It took me a little while to save enough money so I could leave. I didn’t want to stay in that area any longer. Nothing was holding me there.” I flashed a brief smile. “I like working with animals, so here I am.”

Riggs nodded. “You do realize that this is the time of year when most ranches cut back on their employees?”

My heart sank.

“However,” he said, “I happen to have an open spot. One of my regular hands is dealing with some unexpected family medical issues. He’s on furlough for the foreseeable future. The hours are long, and the work is hard, especially in the winter. You’ll get five hundred dollars a week plus room and board. I don’t have private rooms, but the bunkhouse is comfortable, and the other guys are good people. If you can’t get along, then you’ll have to leave. Understood?”

I nodded quickly. “Yes, sir! I won’t disappoint you. I’ll work hard. I promise.”

Riggs picked up his phone and shot off a text. “I hope so. Carson is waiting for you in the barn. He’ll get you settled.”

I stood and shook Mr. Riggs’s hand, thanking him again for the opportunity. He studied me carefully, as if he could see straight through my facade.

I hurried out the door and crossed the dirt yard to the large barn. Carson was grooming a big bay mare. When he saw me, he held up one finger and finished brushing her mane. After getting her into her stall, he turned to me. “Welcome to the jungle.”

I laughed.

“Come on. Let’s start the tour. This is the main barn. The money-making stock is kept here. The workhorses are kept in the barn next to the bunkhouse. That’s where your ride will be kept. These girls and boys are special.” He stopped at a stall housing a gorgeous palomino mare. “This is Sunny, aka The Sun Will Come Out Tomorrow. She’s a champion barrel racer.” He pointed across the way. “Those stalls hold some of the finest breeding mares you’ll ever lay eyes on. All of them have proven themselves as cow horses. The gelding over there is a champion roper. Mr. Riggs has one of the best breeding programs in the state. Come on. I’ll show you his pride and joy.”

I followed Carson outside and around the building to a separate annex.

“This is where we keep the stallions.” Carson nodded toward the divided paddock where a large roan quarter horse swished his tail as he lazed in the sun. On the other side of the tall fence, a red roan stallion rolled in the dirt. A cloud of dust surrounded him as he stood and shook himself off. “There’s a third stallion, but Troy has him out in the north fields checking the fence line. You’ll meet him later. He’s Mr. Rigg’s son.”

“Is the family big?”

“No. It’s just Mr. Riggs, Troy, and his younger sister Meg. I think she’s at dance class or something. I can’t keep track of their schedules. That’s what we have Mrs. Perkins for. She’s the house manager, and if you’re smart, you’ll stay in her good graces. She’s a phenomenal cook but won’t hesitate to knock you upside the head if you need it.” Carson chuckled.

Smiling, I replied, “I’ll keep that in mind.”

Next, Carson showed me the stock horse barn. A dozen or so horses grazed in the adjacent meadow. Most of the stalls were empty, and several pegs were devoid of tack.

“Nole and Pete are running the north fence line with Troy. They all should be back soon.”

I quirked an eyebrow. “Nole and Pete?”

Carson chuckled. “Nole is easy. He’s a full-blooded Seminole Indian escapee from Florida. He was sick of the heat and humidity. Got his degree from Florida State in animal husbandry. He’s our go-to for advice when one of the animals is sick. Then there’s Pete, which started out as ‘Repeat’, but somewhere along the line got shortened to ‘Pete’. He had a traumatic brain injury when he was twelve after getting kicked in the head by a mini bull at a rodeo. Despite the doctors writing him off as dead, he made a full recovery. The only lingering issue is a rather unfortunate tendency to repeat himself, hence the name. Hell, I’m not even sure what either one of them’s real name is, it’s been so long since any of us heard it.”

I laughed. It was the first genuine emotion I had felt since he fled. I was feeling like I had made the right decision coming here.

After our laughter abated, Carson pointed to the meadow where half a dozen horses grazed. “You can have your pick of any of these stock horses. They’re all sound and easy to handle.”

“Thanks. I appreciate it.”

“Come on. Last stop is the bunkhouse. Let’s get you settled.”

The bunkhouse wasn’t what I had expected. Instead of being dorm-like, as so many bunkhouses were, this felt homey. Instead of a long, low building, the employee accommodations resembled a suburban ranch home. Inside, however, it was open. There was a kitchen at one end with a table and eight chairs, and a separate room next to it, which turned out to be the bathroom, with four shower stalls, four toilet stalls, and a vanity with four sinks. The rest of the area was a large living room with five recliners, a large sofa, a matching loveseat, and a huge flat-screen television mounted to the wall. Four sets of bunk beds rounded out the other end of the space. The furthest wall had built-in dressers and a locker-type closet for each bunk.

“It’s just going to be us four for the winter. Come spring, all eight bunks will be occupied. Take your pick of any of the empty bunks.”

There was only one lower bunk without bedding, so I chose it. Carson pulled fresh linens and a blanket from a storage closet to make up my bed.

“Linens get pulled on Saturdays. Mrs. P will wash them, but she draws the line at making your bed. That’s your responsibility.”

Sounded reasonable to me.

“You’re also responsible for your own laundry. The laundry room is in the main house. Don’t try to get in there on Saturdays. Mrs. P will run you through the wringer. That’s about it. If you have any questions, come find me. Dinner is always at the main house at six. Don’t be late.”

With that, Carson left me to my own devices. It didn’t take long to make my bed and put my clothes away in a couple of empty drawers and an empty closet. I found clean towels in the closet adjacent to the bathroom and took a shower to clean the travel grit from my body. After all that, I still had an hour before dinner. I strolled outside to inspect the stock horses in the meadow. There was a pretty paint mare that caught my eye. When I whistled, she and another mare came trotting over. I stroked their velvety noses and laughed when the paint nudged me.

“Sorry, girl. I don’t have any treats. Next time, I promise.”

Thundering hooves pulled my attention from the mare to the meadow on the other side of the road. Three riders came barrel-ass running toward the main barn. By the time I crossed the short distance and joined Carson in the barn’s open doorway, the rider in the lead astride an enormous black stallion came galloping into the yard. Dust rose in a massive cloud as the horse plowed to a stop. When it settled, I gasped as my heart stuttered. My lungs squeezed shut, and I couldn’t breathe.

The most gorgeous boy I had ever seen dismounted the stallion with ease. Dirt streaked his sweaty face and smudged his snug jeans. The boy’s face beamed with happiness. In the next moment, bright blue eyes locked onto mine.

My whole world shrank, and time stood still.