Secretariat Reborn Read Online Free PDF Page B

a fool, so damn occupied with horses that I turned my back on my own son. It takes dying to learn what’s really important in life.” He ran his hand over his thinning hair. “I’m sorry, Christian, sorry I wasn’t there for you.”
    Christian chewed his lip. “It’s okay, Dad. I’m happy with my life. But I’m glad you gave me the colt.”
    The rest of the morning Christian and his father sorted papers: horse records, the farm mortgage, car titles, insurance policies—depressing work, getting one’s life in order before death. Hank grumbled and cursed; Christian longed to be elsewhere.
    The afternoon was even worse. Christian drove his father into Ocala and waited while he and an attorney updated the will. Next, they traveled to Johnson’s Mortuary, where the director and his father discussed contracts and prices. In the end, his father chose a cheap pine box, small headstone, and a burial plot in an out-of-the way cemetery.
    When they finished, his father slowly rose. Now, unlike this morning in the barn, Hank was slow and halting. “Sorry about all this, Christian, should have taken care of it earlier.” He patted Christian’s back. “I think we’ve earned a drink. Let’s hit my little watering hole, so I can buy us some beers.”
    Christian drove the SUV into the shell-paved lot and stopped before a shabby brick building. Surrounding it were weeds, trash, empty beer cans, and bottles. Three dented and rusted pickups languished out front. “This place is pretty fancy,” he joked. In the dark window a neon sign flashed, “Shirley’s.” It could just as well have read “Strangers Not Welcome.”
    Hank cringed when he slid slowly out of the passenger seat. “Yeah, it’s a redneck bar, but close to home and cheap.”
    “Are you sure you’re up to this?”
    “Whether I’m here or home, I’ll still be hurting. Let’s go in.”
    When the door of the bar closed behind them, blocking out sunlight, the room grew as dark as a tomb. The place reeked of cigarettes and stale beer. Christian pushed up his sunglasses and moved toward the tattered vinyl booths, thinking they offered the most comfort for his father. A pool table rested in the center of the room, with the bar on the other side. Four men sat at the end of the bar, absorbed in a baseball game on an overhead TV.
    The bartender, a robust woman with short curls called out, “Hank, is that you? Haven’t seen ya in a dog’s age.”
    “Hey, Shirley,” Hank said. “I want you to meet my boy, visiting from Sarasota.” By the time they were seated, she stood beside their table. “Shirley, this is Christian.”
    “Hank, you never told me you had a son, and, my Lord, he’s handsome. Could pass for a movie star.” She raised her eyebrows. “Christian, I’ll have to make you feel right at home.”
    Hank grinned. “He’s too young for you, Shirley girl. Why don’t you get us some Buds on tap.”
    Christian spoke up. “I’d rather have a Cuba libre.”
    “A what?” Shirley questioned.
    “Rum and Coke with a lime,” Christian explained, “preferably Bacardi.”
    “Call brands are fifty cents extra.”
    “That’s fine,” said Christian.
    The bartender reached over and patted Hank’s shoulder. “Your son’s not only cute, but he’s got some class. Must get it from his mother.” She broke into a yuk-yuk chuckle.
    “Very funny,” Hank said.
    She soon returned with the drinks. “Hank, I heard about your troubles,” she said, her tone somber. “If there’s any way I can help, just call. And the first round is on me. You’ve always been a good friend.” She sauntered back to the bar.
    Hank took a sip from the cold mug. “Ya know I brought your mother here on our first date.”
    “Mom? Here?” Christian laughed. “That’s hard to believe. Only the Ritz-Carlton is good enough for her now.”
    “I suppose that lawyer changed Angie, but she used to be a hell of a cowgirl, real spitfire. I met her at a rodeo, running barrels on