Chapter Ten
Jon Bon Jovi was a lot of things. He was an internationally acclaimed rock star, the head of both the band that bore his name and the corporation that revolved around it, and a strapping businessman. He was a husband, a father, an on-and-off smoker, and a lover of vintage cars.
But Jon Bon Jovi was not, and never would be, a country boy.
Six days had passed since his arrival at Summerfield, and he was going stir crazy. The lack of technology and virtually any other stimulation was wearing on him, and he itched madly for his guitar. He realized his six-string would most likely have not been listed as a taboo item, and he sorely wished he had had the common sense to bring it. He wouldn't be caught dead with the darning needles in his "art trunk," that was for damn sure.
But joining the horseback riding group on Sunday, as Nelson had so over-cheerfully suggested, was not exactly on his list of priorities either. He didn't much care for the giant beasts, and remembered vividly their distinct smell from a series of promo posters he did with a rearing white stallion in the 1980s.
Not to mention that he wanted nothing to do with anyone around here, except maybe Amanda. And Nelson was fine, in small doses. A group activity was the last thing on his mind.
"It would be great for you, Jon," Nelson had quipped. "Horses have calming and healing powers. It's humbling to be astride something so powerful and majestic."
Jon said nothing, as usual. He had no desire to spend an afternoon becoming saddle sore.
The problem was, he hated to admit to himself, that he had a very small list of options from which to choose. He had taken several long walks around the property already, played a melody on the grand piano (until he was interrupted), and attempted to read the Bible in his room.
Mostly, though, he just slept. Partly from spending months of nights filled with broken sleep at best, and partly to escape the dull, throbbing headaches that had taken over his head - he slept about fourteen hours a day. He kept the curtains shut and the air conditioning on full blast to relieve the hot flashes and sweats he was also suffering from - sure signs of his withdrawal.
Though the sleep was relaxing him somewhat, he still felt out of sorts, like parts of him were misfiring. There were times he wanted a drink so badly, he considered raiding the community kitchen. He was hungry and he wasn't, sick to his stomach and feeling fine. His muscles ached from hours spent in bed, but his stressed out brain thanked him for the rest.
And so he only dragged himself out of bed long enough to attend the mandated detox sessions, which had so far consisted of sauna sweats (miserable in this country heat), and acupuncture treatments - which so far had done nothing but aggravate him. Whomever had discovered that sticking needles into your nerves was therapeutic had to be some kind of mentally ill, seriously disturbed torturer, Jon had decided.
Still, he was beginning - just beginning - to feel better. At least, he could feel himself on the road to recovery - but how long that road would be, he had no idea.
Nelson was a nice guy, but Jon consciously kept their meetings to a minimum. Nelson had overseen the detox sessions and checked in with Jon at least once a day, but thankfully hadn't tried to shove a bucket of emotional therapy down his throat. Between the needles and the headaches, Jon wasn't sure he could listen to "And how does that make you feel?" and not murder the person asking it.
But Nelson still did his part. Every day, he encouraged Jon to join a group activity. He wasn't going to join golf, he wasn't going to paint abstract art with a dozen other people, and he certainly wasn't going to partake in some guide-led horseback riding train around mapped out trails. Especially since he had seen the guy he figured was the guide, and he was clad in a suspenders and plaid.
The country was still trying to heal him, but he wasn't going to let it convert him.
~ ~ ~
Annabelle stood in front of her tiny closet on Sunday morning, a hand on the door handle and a frown on her face.
What was she supposed to wear as a designated guide leader at Summerfield? Her mangy old riding boots and frayed jeans, though they were her favorite outfit of all time, were probably not the best uniform to represent a nationally-acclaimed healing center.
She pushed back the hangers of blouses and sweaters, shaking her head at each one. At the back, a bright blue short-sleeve plaid shirt peeked out, and she paused. She had completely forgotten about that one...it was practically brand new. She had bought it last year when she and Mary went to Memphis for the weekend - her only indulgence at the big name city retail stores. She probably had worn it once.
Well, it would just have to do. Nelson hadn't been helpful at all when she asked what she should wear - "something nice," he said. She figured bright blue, brand new qualified as nice.
She pulled the shirt on over her white tank top and wrapped her hair back in a loose ponytail, then grabbed her favorite hat: a ladies' white Stetson. Then after a second's hesitation, she grabbed her riding boots.
Mangy or not, they got the job done. And if she was doing this as a favor, she was going to be comfortable.
She grabbed her purse and her keys, and hopped into her beat-up blue Chevrolet. Nelson had wanted her to be at Summerfield at ten o'clock to help groom the horses; the group would meet at the paddock at eleven.
She turned onto the long driveway at quarter to ten, and couldn't help but raise her eyebrows at the sight of the sprawling complex. The whole feel of it was so peaceful, she found herself understanding why it was so highly acclaimed. In the back of her mind, she wondered how many celebrities and public figures it housed - and if any of them were within its walls at this moment.
Gravel crunched as she pulled into the staff parking lot around the side of the complex, and saw Nelson walking toward her.
"Mornin, Anna," he smiled. "Thanks a million for doing this. Amanda's real grateful, you know."
Anna motioned to her outfit. "I didn't have a uniform."
Nelson laughed. "You're dressed perfectly. Come on over here, Rose and Mike just arrived with their horses. I made sure they brought ol' Pistol along."
Anna smiled as she saw the stallion prance out of his trailer. Typical Pistol. He knew something special was happening, and he felt important. She felt a twinge of guilt knowing he was expecting another mountain run, and all she was going to do was walk him along trails and lead a herd. She'd make up for it with an apple and an extra sugar cube.
Anna walked over to the paddock to help Rose and Mike ready the horses, while Nelson went over the trail on a map. Since the ride was part of a therapy activity the guests were choosing to join, both a licensed therapist and a staff member from Summerfield had to supervise. Saddling and bridling the horses were part of the activity, and the guests would learn basic riding skills. A picnic lunch would be provided at the rest point, about three miles away in the low hills of the Smokies.
Within the hour, people started wandering up to the paddock to congregate for the ride. They were all silent; no one spoke to each other nor the staff. Some crossed their arms and watched Anna and the others with their work, others stuffed their hands in their pockets and stared at the ground.
Anna watched them out of the corner of her eye, curious about the characters who would be joining her. She was slightly apprehensive about being a guide; she wondered how awkward it was going to be to lead a group of recovering alcoholics, drug abusers, and other psychologically impaired residents who seemed to have lost the ability to speak. Was it going to be a painfully silent ride? Or would the residents open up and pour out their troubles, realizing they had found a trusted confidante in her?
She wasn't sure which she preferred.
While most of the residents gathered toward the paddock gate, she noticed one man standing further away, watching from near the side porch of the complex. He was leaning over the white banister, watching nonchalantly - as though he were pretending not to. He was wearing a sleek black T-shirt with faded jeans, and Anna couldn't help but notice that, even at this distance, he had an appealing profile. He looked mysterious.
She suddenly became very conscious of what she was doing and how she looked.
As eleven o'clock rolled around, Nelson and the staff members let the waiting group into the paddock to begin the orientation and instructions. Anna stood by Pistol, waiting for her cue to introduce herself. The sun was blistering hot, and she felt her blue shirt already sticking to her back.
They began to saddle the horses, and Anna walked toward a resident near the fence to help him with the strap. As she turned to face the horse, she jumped slightly as she realized the man in the black shirt was standing on the other side of the fence behind them.
"Is there room for one more?"
