Epilogue Mattie

DELANEY HORSE FARM

APRIL 1970

Dad, Nash, and I waited in the farmyard, ready to welcome the first official clients to our experimental horse therapy clinic.

After our success with Fred, word spread through the veteran community. We soon had former soldiers arriving, wanting to learn to ride a horse. Men came from as far away as Atlanta, and we'd had to quickly come up with a program and a schedule. Nash contacted the VA hospital for advice, and while they couldn't formally approve the clinic for treatment, the doctor in charge told Nash— "off the record, of course" —it sounded fantastic and wished us the best of luck.

Because Granny Gertrude left the farm to Mama, stipulating in her will that it had to pass to Mark or me upon Mama's death, I suddenly found myself the owner of Delaney Horse Farm. Dad didn't mind. He said Gertrude never approved of him, often referring to him as " that Nazi ," so he was happy for me to inherit the property. A friend of Dr. Monahan's came by in January and bought two of our best horses, giving us enough money to cover Mama's medical bills and put some aside for the future. Moonlight Sky delivered a healthy foal last week—a filly that looked just like her mama—and my mind was already alive with ideas of how to improve the bloodlines of our stock.

After we discussed the idea of a horse therapy clinic, Dad immediately drove to Nashville and came home with a stack of thick medical books. Anatomy. Physical therapy. Psychology. Amputations. I often found him at the kitchen table, studying long into the night.

A few weeks ago, I approached him with his mother's Bible. "Dad," I said, a little hesitant. I wasn't sure what he'd think of my request. "I'd like to learn German. Would you teach me? We could use this for our lessons."

His eyes filled with moisture. "I would like that, Mattie. Your Gro?mutter would be pleased."

Since that day, Dad and I often discussed the Bible passages we read during our German lessons, sorting through all my questions about life, death, and heaven. I found he had as many questions as I did, and although we didn't always agree on theological ideas, the time spent together was healing in ways I never could have imagined. I was pleased when he began to join Nash and me at church on Sundays.

A yellow VW bus pulled into the yard. Dad and Jake walked over to greet Fred and the other wounded warriors. We watched as four men with varying physical limitations piled out of the vehicle. One of them bent to pet Jake, who clearly enjoyed the attention.

"Do you know why Dad wouldn't let Mark and me have a dog when we were growing up?"

Nash tucked me against his side. "Why?"

"Because the guards at the internment camp in North Dakota used dogs to keep the internees in line. Their presence always left him uneasy. Jake is the first dog he's ever trusted."

Nash kissed the top of my head. "War leaves a lot of scars, some you can't see."

"Wouldn't Mark love this? He'd be thrilled to know we were using the farm to help soldiers."

Nash's arm tightened around me. "I know you haven't changed your mind about sending troops to Vietnam, but these guys would never guess it. All they see is someone willing to help. Mark would be proud of you, Mattie."

"I'm proud of him." I looked at Nash. He'd finally gone to see his father last week. They had a long way to go in rebuilding their relationship, but Nash had hope he could get his dad to acknowledge his alcoholism and find help. "I'm proud of you, too, Mr. McCallum."

He turned our backs to the small gathering and stole a kiss. "Let's go ride some horses, Miss Taylor."

"Taylor-Schneider, remember?"

He chuckled. "Martha Ann Taylor-Schneider. That's a mouthful. It'll be better when you shorten it to Mattie McCallum."

I smiled, comfortable with our unhurried plans for the future. "Someday."

We held hands as we made our way to the group. While Nash introduced himself, a young man, with burn scars on his face and missing both hands, approached me. He couldn't be more than twenty years old.

"Who's Mark?" he asked, indicating the sign Nash had carved out of wood and hung above the barn entrance.

I glanced up at it.

Mark's Easy Riders.

Yesterday, I visited my brother's grave and told him all about the clinic. Even though I'd come to believe he was in heaven, I found comfort sitting where his earthly body rested, sharing secrets like we did when we were young. I'd whispered a prayer, asking God to tell Mark how much I missed him and that I looked forward to the day when I was with my wombmate again. I still had a long way to come to terms with Mark's and Mama's deaths and God's purpose in it all, but every day brought me a little closer to the peace of soul I hungered for.

With a genuine smile, I faced the young man.

"Mark was a hero, like you. Let me tell you about him."