Page 16 of Wild and Wrangled

The drive from Rebel Blue to my mom’s house was about twenty-five minutes—maybe a little more since coming down from Rebel Blue was a little more precarious in the winter. The already skinny roads were even skinnier because they were lined with snow, and you had to watch for ice. Once you got to the bottom of the hill, though, it got better.

Aggie Tucker lived on a five-acre plot of land on the other side of town—only about ten minutes from Hank, Teddy’s dad. It was the same house I had grown up in—a small farmhouse with three bedrooms, one for my parents, one for Greer, and one for me—and two bathrooms, which meant that I shared a bathroom with my sister. I was still traumatized by it. Girls were messy as hell. And there was always hair everywhere.

When I made it to my mom’s, I wanted to get out of my car and into the house as quickly as I could, but first I grabbed a small pile of firewood from the side of the house before opening the door.

The floorboards creaked, and there was always a draft blowing through from somewhere, but it was still home. It smelled like cinnamon and coffee; my mom had been putting cinnamon in her coffee grounds for as long as I could remember. She also made coffee strong enough that it tasted vaguely like motor oil. But it always did the trick.

I found her in the kitchen, washing out her coffeepot and getting it ready for the next morning.

“Knock, knock,” I said, tapping my knuckles on the open doorframe that led into the kitchen.

“You think I didn’t hear that squeaky as hell door hinge when you came in?” my mom said without looking up from her task. Her long, gray hair was in a braid down her back, and she was wearing a pair of dark brown coveralls. Her stack of silver bracelets on each wrist jingled as she moved.

“Is that your way of telling me I need to fix it?”

My mom looked up and gave me a smile. “Thank you so much for offering, sweetie. How was work today?”

“Good,” I said. “Cold.” Working at Rebel Blue in the winter was a lot different from any other season—most of the cattle were moved to a lower ground, winter pasture, but it was a good time for indoor and outdoor maintenance, which was what I was doing today. Winter was all about preparation, and Gus was a hardass for preparation. Well, a hardass in general, but he knew what he was doing.

This was my first time in a long time working an actual winter in the mountains. Usually, after whatever job or ranch I was on in the summer, I would head to Arizona, New Mexico, or South America and work someplace warm. I was like a bird: I preferred to fly south for the winter. I was still getting used to staying put.

“This winter hasn’t been too bad,” my mom said as she poured water into the back of her coffeepot, which had seen better days. “Just as cold as usual but not that much snow.”

“Should I buy you a new coffeepot?” I asked, nodding toward hers.

“Don’t you dare,” my mom said. “I want to be buried with this one.”

“Morbid, Mom,” I murmured.

“No.” She shook her head. She was scooping in the ground coffee now. “What’s morbid is knowing the only people at myfuneral will be you and Greer—no significant others, no grandkids.”

Again? She’d really been on this lately. “Mo-ther,” I said, enunciating and dragging out each syllable.

“I’m just saying is all.” My mom shrugged as she threw a dash of cinnamon in the ground coffee. “How’s Cam?”

My mom was as subtle as a gunshot. That’s where Greer got it from. “I thought we were building shit today,” I said. “Having some good ol’ fashioned bonding time.”

“We are,” she said.

“Can we do it without the interrogation?” I asked.

“Afraid not, kiddo,” she said. “But we can wait until we get in the workshop.” My mom handed me a thermos of coffee and picked up one for herself—she must have poured them from her batch of coffee this morning. She never made less than a full pot.

I sighed and followed her out the back door toward the barn with my coffee and the firewood. When my mom and dad had bought the house, it had been a functional barn, but they quickly converted it to a workshop for her. She had been working out of it for as long as I could remember.

She unlocked the door and slid it open. In the summer, she worked with the barn door open to let the mountain breezes in, but it was too cold now. I headed toward the back and pushed open a window for ventilation before I got the fire going nearby. There was a small chimney, but ventilation was important in a small space—especially in a small space full of wood. And sawdust. So much sawdust.

“So,” I said, rubbing my hands together, “what are we building today?”

“Mid-century-style credenza and a couple of custombookshelves,” my mom said. “And if we get through that, you can help me place wood for a butcher block countertop.”

My mom was ridiculously talented. She made beautiful things that withstood generations—like the Ryders’ kitchen table and the bar at the Devil’s Boot.

“Good stuff,” I said, taking off my coat but leaving my jacket on. Once we got working, it would get a little warmer—especially with the fire going. My mom handed me a piece of paper that had on it her sketches and a detailed breakdown of every piece of wood she needed cut and its size, which was my job today.

I loved her sketches. She always did them on a legal notepad, and when she was done with the job, I tried to keep as many of them as I could before she’d throw them away. She would say I was too sentimental, but I just liked collecting the things that showcased her work. Some people got written recipes or sewing patterns from their moms; I got these. I started saving them after my dad died. I wished I had more from him.

There was a stack of wood planks next to the saw, ready for cutting. I walked over to it and started getting everything ready.

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