More than Henry hated God and disease and not being in control, he hated friggin‘ doctors. Sharp gray shadows sliced across the valley toward Lake Mary, named for Henry’s great-great-grandmother, Mary Shaw. The setting sun hung just above Shaw Mountain, named after Henry’s ancestors who’d settled the rich valley below. He poured himself a bourbon and looked out the small window above his work bench. Henry hated anything that interfered with his plans. God and women and disease had a way of interfering.
Then Johnny had found Jesus and June and his career had gone to hell in a hand basket. Before Johnny had found religion, he’d been one kick-ass carouser. He plugged an old eight-track cassette into its player, and the deep, whiskey-rough voice of Johnny Cash filled the small tack shed.
The red glow from a space heater touched the creases and folds of Henry Shaw’s face, while the nicker of his beloved Appaloosas called to him on the warm spring breeze.
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