Page 28 of Wrecked for Love
12
ELIA
Hank and I guided the herd toward the sorting pens, the crisp air biting at my cheeks. You could feel it—the heart of fall was here.
The ground beneath us was firm, the frost giving way under the weight of the cattle as their hooves pounded across the pasture. The boys flanked the herd, moving like they’d done this a hundred times—well, they had. I could hear their shouts cutting through the lowing of the cattle, directing them toward the sorting gates.
Hank leaned against the fence, his eyes narrowed under his old hat, watching the calves as they funneled through the chute.
“That one’s got some fire in her,” he said, jerking his chin toward a feisty heifer darting for the gate. I nodded, nudging my horse to drive a stray calf back in line. Sorting wasn’t just part of the job; it was tradition. The calves needed to be weaned, and the herd thinned before winter settled in for good. The boys kept up their banter, but there was a rhythm to it all. Each steer and heifer counted, each one a step toward getting us through the cold months ahead.
With the sorting done, we settled in for lunch, stretching out our stiff limbs. My saddlebag sat bulkier than usual, drawing a few curious glances.
“A special treat, boys,” I said, pulling out a stack of beef hand pies wrapped in brown parchment.
A chorus of appreciation followed as I passed them around.
“Picked these up from Mrs. Sutton at the harvest shop this morning. Figured you all earned something good today.”
“Damn, boss, you’re spoilin’ us.” Hank grabbed one and took a greedy bite. His eyes nearly rolled back in his head. “Hell, these are better than payday. Actually, don’t tell my bank I said that.”
The rest of the crew didn’t waste a second before digging in. The scent of slow-cooked beef, rich gravy, and buttery, golden crust filled the air. Mrs. Sutton’s pies weren’t just food. They were town-famous—the kind of thing folks placed orders for weeks in advance and still fought over at the Harvest Festival.
One of the younger hands groaned in bliss. “Boss, you keep feeding us like this, and we’re gonna start expecting benefits, maybe dental.”
I snorted. “Dental? Hell, just step too close to that heifer.” I nodded toward the one behind the gate, whose tail was flicking and nostrils flaring like she was already lining up her shot. “She’ll knock a tooth out for free.”
Taking a bite of my own pie, I slipped Koda his share—just the meat, skipping the crust that wouldn’t sit right with his old stomach. He took it eagerly, licking his chops in approval.
Suddenly, the mutt stiffened. His ears pricked forward, a bark rumbling from his chest.
I followed his gaze. A man was approaching.
“Easy, pal,” I murmured, running a hand down Koda’s back.
Hank spotted him too. His hand drifted toward his rifle.
I caught his eye and shook my head. “Hold up,” I said. “Let’s see what he’s about.”
Koda tensed, ready to follow, but I motioned for him to stay.
The man trudged closer, his clothes worn from the road. He looked like he hadn’t seen a bed in days, his face weathered but determined. Hank and I rode out to meet him.
“You’re trespassing!” I called out, my voice carrying across the field.
From near the sorting pen, Koda barked, backing me up despite the distance.
The stranger stopped, tipping his hat back. His stance was steady, but there was an air of exhaustion about him. A cowboy who had clearly been on the move for a long time.
“The name’s Fritz,” he said, holding his hands up. “Caught a fella tryin’ to slice through your fence over on that side of the ridge.” He nodded east.
“Damn it,” I muttered, throwing a nod to Hank. “Go check it out.”
Hank grabbed one of the hands, and they took off, their horses kicking up dust as they raced toward the ridge. A few minutes later, my phone buzzed.
“Yeah, boss,” Hank said, his voice crackling through the line. “Some no-good drifter, ain’t seen him around before. But the bastard bolted before we could nab him. Fence ain’t too bad. We’re patchin’ it up now.”
“All right. Get back when you’re done,” I said before hanging up. Then, I turned to Fritz, who was squinting up at me against the sun. “Appreciate it, stranger. Name’s Elia Lucas. I run this spread.”
