This one came from that moment in Daisy's Shotgun Wedding when Bo admires the view red tailed hawk in the sky must have. Luke answers, "Well, is wishes were horses, beggars would ride, you know?"
If wishes were horses, beggars would ride.
Luke said that as a way of shutting him up, back in those Tennessee hills where they were chasing the Beaudrys. Stop dreaming about what can't be, Bo, we've got a problem to solve.
Of course, only seconds later Luke was talking about the ultralights like he'd just thought of them all by himself, no help from Bo. As if those wishes hadn't actually turned out to be white steeds that the Duke boys could ride straight to Daisy's rescue.
Then again, this other thing maybe shouldn't even count as a wish, more like a nagging thought. It started begging at his stoop back on the NASCAR circuit, and followed him right here to home, like a starving puppy that was too adorable to turn away.
There it is, yapping at his door again, as Luke's unloading lumber from the back of the pickup. They've already fixed one fence today, along Old Mill Road where the General took out a guardrail over the creek. Fairly simple job, really, the kind where he wound up holding things while Luke pounded on them. Hardly enough to break a sweat, but they'd done away with their shirts anyway. The female residents of Hazzard would be disappointed if they didn't.
Now they're at the edge of their own farmyard, the place where Luke hurt nothing more than his pride (which explains how he came to have that welted bruise on his thigh that they are both ignoring) when he came crashing through, destroying several sections of fence.
Must be approaching noon, what with the brightness of the sun glaring off the house, the truck, and Luke. Almost, but not quite, hot enough to hallucinate. Or maybe just to wonder what beggars riding horses made of wishes might look like, and whether that white reflection at the border of land and sky could be camouflaging them.
Luke's begun unearthing that broken post. It's a one-man job, really, and besides, Luke's given him a pass on this part. Something about how the man who broke it gets the honor of fixing it, a remnant rule from their childhood.
Somewhere around the time he started winning races on the circuit, Bo noticed that Luke had never even asked for the chance to drive more than a test lap, and how he stood back with the rest of the pit crew when Bo collected his trophies. Nothing like in Hazzard where everyone knew that it took the both Duke boys working together to get a win, where the notion that either of them could do it alone had been solidly tested to indisputable results.
It was a simple realization, easily rectified by the insistence that Luke's name appear on trophies, right along with Bo's. And that would have solved everything, if one recognition hadn't led to others. Like the one about how pretty much everything Luke had done since coming back from the Marines was tied up in making Bo's NASCAR dreams happen. And how, even before that, Luke had put up with his tag-along cousin a lot better than their peers had tolerated full-blood siblings.
It all added up to really thinking about Luke for the first time in his life, maybe. Which meant watching him, noticing things he'd never bothered with, like how Luke wouldn't pick up his own fork until Bo had started eating, and how that led to Bo finishing faster and getting first dibs at second helpings. And other things, like how he didn't sleep much the night before a race, or when they were on the road or – eventually – ever.
Somewhere in there, the adorable puppy of a thought showed up on his stoop. About how Luke loved him, and how he loved Luke right back. Meanwhile an ugly old bulldog reared its head, about how groupies smelled like cheap perfume and hairspray, tasted like talcum powder and light beer, and hardly ever looked as good with their clothes off as they did with them on.
Luke, on the other hand…
Is calling his name. Asking whether he feels all right, he looks kind of flushed. Too much sun? It's as fine a reason as any.
Beggars should ride, really. What else have they got going for them?
When Luke pulls him to his feet from where he's been sitting in the bed of the pickup, he just keeps on coming. Gets a slippery grip on his cousin's shoulders and bumps their faces together. Puppy wet, their noses are, slide against each other until Bo's where he wants to be. Just a kiss to Luke's cheek for now, no need to scare him too much.
"Love you, Luke."
Five minutes later he's in bed, with a thermometer in his mouth. Which is fine, Luke's sitting there on the edge of his mattress, and Bo figures this wish is just about to turn into a horse.