Page 2 of When Sparks Fly

“Not quite. I’ll get on it.” I stand. “I’m headed into town. Need anything?”

He shakes his head.

On my way through the house, I stop in the kitchen to swipe a fresh muffin. The large baked good is still warm in my hand when I pluck it from a tray on the counter. Mama turns sharply, but her features are too soft to be scary.

“Those are for tomorrow.” Her tone is matter-of-fact as her hand finds her hip.

I grin. “This one’s for today.” She opens her mouth, but I don’t give her a chance before I bite into it, affixing a mischievous smirk to my face while I chew. Her jaw opens in a silent gasp.

“Banana nut,” I observe, after swallowing. “I’m heading into town. Do you need anything while I’m out?”

She presses her lips together to hide her amusement and shakes her head. “No. I’ll see you in a bit, son.”

I make my way out to my truck. Daisy saunters by the porch steps as I reach the bottom. She bonks her big, red head into my chest affectionately and I give her a pat.

Daisy is an anomaly on the ranch and it’s all Mama’s fault. Her mom died shortly after delivering. Orphaned calves are typically paired with anothercow, but Mama wouldn’t hear of it. She bottle fed her in The Big House for entirely too long. When she finally gave in, Daisy’s mind was made up that she belongs up here. She’s a Houdini of cows, always escaping to say hi and wander around the area near the house.

“Mornin’ to you, too, Daisy.”

She heads down the drive as I climb into the truck.

My plans this afternoon could be handled electronically or through the mail, but meeting in person maintains our personal relationships with vendors and town residents.

Already a core value, our newly discussed transition makes this an even bigger priority for me. I’ve been the face of Strickland Ranch for a few years, so I’m optimistic it won’t feel like much of a change to everyone else.

My last stop is always a restaurant where we frequently sell beef so I can return a bit of patronage to them. The bar fills one of the two rooms, surrounded by dark leather booths, and is a good place to have a quiet drink.

A few lunch patrons stop in while I savor a whiskey at a stool on the far end, glad no one talks to me today. People are fine in moderation; I’m a friendly enough guy, but even though I’m working on tasks for the ranch, I enjoy a peaceful break from the chaos when possible.

Three TVs line the wall above the liquor selection, all set with the volume on low, and I study the one closest to me. A show about Texas Game Wardens is running. They don’t film in our area, and it’s a good thing or my best friend, Nick, would blow up on social media overnight.

Not that he’d take advantage. Nick is the type you trust with your sister: even-tempered, respectful, and loyal. I don’t have to worry about that since Sammi’s married and they never had a thing for each other, which I’m grateful for. Despite trusting him, my sister and my best friend dating would be awkward as shit.

Nick doesn’t need celebrity status. On the occasions when we’re out, he draws enough attention with his charismatic personality. Being handsome helps, according to Sammi.

I set the empty tumbler and some cash on the bar, and wave to the bartender as I head out the door. I’m eager to get back to the ranch. I plan to sit down this afternoon and work on a proposal of what growth could look like over the next two years.

Strickland Ranch has been my parents’ baby since they were first married. While Sammi showed no interest in the ranch—past horses—I’ve always wanted to carry on the business and lifestyle my parents built. As a teenager, I took on a bigger role to assist my dad, enabling my mom to step back. She can’t help but take care of everyone, but it’s given her more and more freedom over the years to explore other ways to be a part of the community.

My dad is different. He’s friendly, but he doesn’t necessarily care about socializing. I want him to be as involved as he wants for as long as he wants, but based on our conversation this morning, I suspect he may take a backseat sooner rather than later.

A handful of ranches dot the land on my drive home. Most are smaller than ours. These days, the area is predominantly single-family residential homes, hoping to maintain a bit of tranquil privacy away from the big city. Life in the hill country is such a mash-up. The same roads showcase custom homes on heavily treed properties, next to pasture land, next to rocky terrain full of shrubbery.

As I round the last bend to our property, a truck going the opposite way slows and I recognize our neighbor, Terrence, in the driver’s seat. He shoves an arm out the open window and waves urgently at me. I wave back as he whips the truck around and follows me to the drive where we pull over on the side of the road. He parks behind me, jumping out in a hurry.

Neighbor is a loose term. Terrence is closer to my dad’s age than mine and inherited the ranch next to us when his dad passed several years back. Our driveways are about two miles apart and we aren’t popping over for a cup of sugar when it’s out, but we have helped each other in a bind and our families have known each other all of my life.

“How are ya, sir?” I greet, exiting my truck.

“Good, good. How ya been?” Terrence has one of the strongest southern accents I’ve ever heard, and that’s saying something. He shakes my hand, his rich umber skin glistening in the heat, then adjusts his deep green ball cap which bears their ranch name.

“Doing well. What brings you over today?” Terrence is welcome at our ranch, always has been, but his sudden need to speak to me is unusual.

His dark eyes scan me and the truck casually. “I don’t wanna take up a bunch of your time. We can sit down and chat if we need to, but I wanted to tell ya about somethin’, in case it matters.”

Terrence’s property butts up against ours on the west side, so any problems he has can spill over onto our property with no effort. I’m not interested in handling illness in the cattle, or any other catastrophe, with everything else going on. I do my best not to tell him to get on with it.

“Well,” he pauses, peering into the uninterrupted horizon across the streetfrom us, “I’m sellin’.”

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