Page 4 of Running to the Cowboy

They call themselves the Celestial Order of Covenant Kinship.

People around Darling Creek call them C.O.C.K. as a running joke.

The hastily built compound interrupting my view constantly reminds me that something isn’t right on the other side of the fence. My horse, Ramsay, agrees with me. He always gets agitated when we’re within view of that compound.

“What are they doing over there, boy?”

Ramsay whinnies.

“Have you ever heard the phrase, ‘if something’s not bothering you, leave it alone’?” My brother Jake, riding his gentle mare, Nigella, is correct.

“It is bothering Ramsay, though. Look at him.” The stallion stomps the ground and resists me the closer we get to the fence.

“That’s your fault for riding a stallion,” Jake says from atop his easy-going horse. “I’m headed to the west field to help Ennis.”

We’ve taken care of fresh water and feed already, so Jake and Ennis are spending the rest of the morning checking on the bred heifers, all early on in their pregnancies. Which means I’m working on fence mending and maintenance.

Ramsay seems more on edge than usual this morning. Ever since I picked him up from the stable, he seemed off. He pulled away from me when I first tried saddling him. It’s true; I picked the orneriest of horses to do my work. He’s been a good breeding horse for us, but nobody wants him for chores. But Ramsay has usually been good with me.

We walk along the creek that separates my land from the Kinship compound. The COCKs, I think with a smirk.

That creek was never supposed to be a dividing line between myself and my neighbor. That creek feeds my cattle, horses, and the land. It was always meant to be a sanctuary for my future kids—a place for little ones to swim, build homemade dams with little hands, fish for trout, and catch frogs.

Now, the other side of the creek has barbed wire and a sign that says, “Keep out. Trespassers will be shot on sight.”

The COCKs have been here for over a year, and I’ve still never shaken my neighbor’s hand.

As we walk the creek, some footprints in the mud catch my eye on the right bank. I look to the other side, and there, in the barbed wire, is a clump of pale blue material, like someone’s lost half their clothes in the cutting wire.

I decide to cross the creek and see what it is, clicking my tongue at Ramsay. The horse is not having it. I dismount, keeping one hand on the reins, and breach the creek on foot. Detangling the cheap cotton fabric from the sharp teeth of the wire fence takes some time, with Ramsay protesting every step of the way. In the creeping light, blood and what looks like human hair appear on the wire. A chill runs down my spine. This is not good.

The ranch dog, Charlie, trots over to the tracks leading through the field. He sniffs it and barks.

Something definitely ain’t right this morning.

I mount Ramsay again, clicking my tongue to urge him to follow Charlie.

The three of us make our way through the field, the tracks barely visible but growing more distinct as the sun rises minute by minute over the foothills.

The closer we get to the stable, the more excited Charlie gets. He’s barking excitedly for us to hurry up. Ramsay is acting a fool, too, which is par for the course today.

Inside the stable, I flick on the lights. Leading Ramsay to his stall, I remove his saddle and bridle and get him water and hay. In the aisle, Charlie sits next to the empty stall, waiting on me. He whines.

“What’s up, Charlie?” His tail wags at the sound of his name, and he whines and paws at the empty stable door.

Hesitantly, I push open the door to the empty stall, wondering if he’s scented some varmints invading our horse stable. Maybe a lost baby deer has found its way inside to escape the cold. My eyes scan the scene in the stall, and it’s not a baby deer. I really wish it was.

The explanation for why everything has felt off-kilter this morning lies on the ground in front of me.

A woman.

Lying half-buried in straw, her face is covered in a mane of matted hair. A clump of wet socks lies nearby.

“Shit,” I mutter under my breath, knowing that whoever this is has something to do with the Celestial Order of Covenant Kinship.

I had a bad feeling about those folks ever since I pulled up the land deed from the county’s website—yes, I’m that guy. I make it my business to know who’s buying property around me. I half expected to see the name of some celebrity or an investment group. But the name I saw instead had given me a terrible feeling in my gut.

Then came the threatening signage. Then, one day, I brought one of Curly’s pound cakes over as a goodwill gesture. Our ranch cook, Curly, is legendary for his lemon pound cakes. But when I drove my truck up the driveway of the compound to introduce myself to my new neighbor, I was met halfway by a gang of peculiar men in four-wheelers, wearing golf shirts and carrying more weapons than one would think necessary when approached with a pound cake.

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