The journey to the far side of the ranch was quiet. Terrence rode in the cab with his grandmother, his eyes fixed on the trailer behind them where Midnight stood, calm as a summer lake. It was the first time in eleven years the stallion had been trailered without trying to kick the walls down.
The meadow was even more beautiful than Boyd remembered. A gentle slope of wildflowers led down to a bubbling creek. And there, standing a hundred feet from the bank, was a massive oak tree. One of its lower branches had grown at a strange angle, pointing directly toward the main ranch house.
It was pointing the way home.
Clint started digging at the base of the tree. Not three feet down, his shovel hit something hard. A metal box. It was old and rusted, but the lock held firm.
Boyd took the box and knelt in front of Terrence’s wheelchair. “Go on, son,” he said, handing him the small, old key.
Terrence’s hand shook as he took it. His fine motor skills had always been a challenge. He struggled to fit the key into the lock. His fingers fumbled.
Midnight lowered his head and gently nudged Terrence’s hand with his muzzle, steadying it. With that tiny bit of help, the key slid home. Terrence turned it.
Click.
Boyd lifted the heavy lid.
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