Andie bent close to Constance’s neck as she turned the corner into Pruitt Ranch at a fast gallop. She seethed with anger, all the while reminding herself that anger was the predecessor of totally incoherent thought and action.  More than once, she had seen anger erupt like a volcano in the courtroom, spewing its words like molten ash – haphazard and ineffective. No one was safe from it and almost never did anything good come of it.  Now more than ever, she wanted to think like a lawyer – to find the loop hole and prosecute. No, she wanted to persecute. She wanted to persecute the person responsible for her mother’s pain. She wanted to persecute the person responsible for the downfall of her family. But with Stan dead, there was no hope for justice or the healing that could come with it.

            Constance slowed to a trot as they neared the barn with the morning sun having reached its full summit in the sky marking midday. Andie threw herself down from her mount, carelessly causing her left boot to clip Constance in the rear flank. She whinnied in surprise. Andie flung open the barn door and walked into the shadows as the thick stench of manure and freshly baled hay assaulted her. The fluorescent light on Uncle Wayde’s workbench flickered in the darkness in the far corner. It was only then that the metallic reflection caught her eye. On the shelf above the workbench sat dozens of trophies and ribbons interspersed with newspaper clippings and plaques all with the name etched into them: STANLEY PRUITT. Rodeo awards, school competitions – a slew of achievements all lined up and proudly on display for anyone who visited Pruitt Ranch to see.

            Andie dragged the step ladder from beside the door over to the workbench and climbed to the top rung, balancing her weight precariously with one foot on the top step and the other leaning on the work bench. One by one, she pulled the trophies off the shelf and hurled them to the wooden floor. Each landed with a thud and many broke into several pieces upon impact. The sound of each piece hitting the ground and scattering across the floor was harsh and final. A fleeting thought passed through her mind as she looked down at the destruction and realized the person she had become. I have never purposely destroyed anything in my entire life, she thought. 

            From the corner of her eye, Andie saw one of the younger cowhands emerge from an empty horse stall where she presumed he had been raking muck. She turned her head slowly to take in his startled visage. His eyes darted from Andie to the trophies scattered across the floor and back to Andie again. With only the briefest nod, she let him know it was okay to leave the barn – that it was okay to get help. In an instant, he was gone.

            A moment later, Uncle Wayde appeared in a rush of light from outside. He stopped for a moment to take in the scene before him. Andie stood completely atop the workbench now, stretching for the plaques and things hung highest on the wall. She was busily tearing up photographs and shredding ribbons. Chunky pieces of metal in the shapes of arms and legs, lassos, and even a silver belt buckle littered the ground around her – each having been part of a cowboy figure atop a trophy or an emblem emblazoned on a stand. Wayde walked toward her slowly and picked up the dismembered base of a trophy. It read: Presented to Stanley Pruitt, 1^st Place All Around Rodeo Champion 1968.

            “Andie, stop,” Wayde said, drawing close to the workbench.

            She continued at a rapid pace despite his presence below her.

            “I said stop,” he ordered more sternly, taking hold of her pant leg and shaking it gently to grab her attention.

            “How can you tell me to stop?” She yelled down at him and shook her boot free of his grip. “How could you let these things dishonor your sister for all these years?”   She was vaguely aware now of her father and Aunt Kitty standing quietly by the door and a handful of ranch hands gathering outside. 

            “Andie, these trophies – these awards – they belong to our family. They give us pride. They give us a name. They are the Pruitt legacy.” Wayde held up a broken piece in his hand as evidence.

            “Damn your pride and damn the Pruitt legacy,” she hissed at him.