Harry stayed low as he crossed a field and headed toward a grove of fig trees located near the side of the Schullo ranch buildings. He secreted himself among the gnarled trunks and crawled to a vantage point that afforded him a clear view of the ranch house.  Apprehension infested his heart as he debated whether to knock on the front door. Hunger stirred in his stomach. Harry reached over and opened his suitcase removing the lunch package Angela prepared for him.

“I’ll wait,” he said to himself, as he sunk against the trunk of a tree.

He unfolded the paper, the aroma of a peppers and eggs sandwich wafted into his nose. He lifted the sandwich and took a bite. It tasted like home. In addition, he found a container of olives and three roasted chestnuts. He sat back, removed his shoes from his from his neck, popped an olive into his mouth, and munched the sandwich.

Harry chewed the last crust of bread, sat back against the tree trunk and let his eyes wander up though the tree branches. He watched two clouds folding into each other and reflected upon the suffering of his newly identified grandmother, Carmela. Why is Papa ashamed? It’s not his fault or her fault that she was raped. Papa’s a good man and I’m sure his sister was good. Why couldn’t he tell me and move on?

Harry’s thoughts made him more determined to confront his grandfather. How could a father not love his own son? A voice deep within told him to knock on the front door and challenge the man. He was not ready. Studying the layout of the ranch, he concluded that if he worked his way around to the back of the barn, he might be able to sneak up and peek in the windows.

Just as he finalized his plan, the front door of the ranch house opened. Harry dropped the chestnut he was shelling and flattened himself against the ground. His eyes zeroed in on a man dressed in a green, corduroy jacket with a leather shooting-patch on the right shoulder, brown breeches and black boots. He carried an open shotgun in his left hand; a riding crop hung from his wrist. Every single one of Harry’s muscles became tightened mandolin strings. He slithered toward the edge of the grove, then raced across the yard and concealed himself behind the barn.

The man was not the tall, good-looking officer Harry had imagined. Rather, he was squat and barrel-chest with eyes dwarfed by a large Roman nose. Harry was close enough to note that the eyes were steel blue like his father's.  A groom brought the spirited, black horse from the corral.  The horse bobbed his head, and then appeared to stare in Harry’s direction.

Tentacles of perspiration streaked down Harry's back, his heart smashing against his chest. He knew, the man was indeed the infamous Colonel Schullo, his grandfather. In spite of all that Marcella and Angela told him, an urge to run and hug the man almost overwhelmed him; however, he held back.
The groom steadied the horse; the colonel snapped his shotgun shut and placed it into a saddle holster. The groom held the stirrup for the colonel. Schullo slowly lifted his leg, almost losing his balance, but managed to get his foot into the stirrup and mount the horse. Jerking the reins, he turned the horse’s head and spurred him forward.

The galloping horse and rider of Harry’s dreams pounded toward him. Harry, like a nail pulled by a giant magnet, stepped from his hiding place into the path of the charging stallion.

“Colonel Schullo!”

The colonel pulled hard on the reins, the bit snapped in the horse’s mouth. Dirt splattered Harry’s bare feet as the horse came to a snorting stop.

The colonel yelled in Italian, “What the hell, boy, you want to get run down? What the shit are you doing here?”

Harry announced, “I’m your grandson!”

The colonel’s face turned crimson. He shouted, “What the hell do you mean? I have no grandson! Get out of my way, boy.”

Harry yelled back, “I’m your grandson! I’m your grandson! My grandmother’s Carmela Trumfio! My father’s your son, Dominico!”
                                                                                                      ***