Page 149 of Role Play
“Thought we’d make cowboy chili for dinner,” he says during a rare pause in Dakota’s narrative. “Forrest’s favorite.”
“Chili is your favorite, but you don’t like spicy food?” Sora asks.
“I make it wimpy-style for him,” Dad says, earning a giggle from Sora.
“Ah, that’s the secret. We have to make Forrest’s foodwimpy-style,” she emphasizes.
“I hope by ‘we’ you aren’t referring to yourself, because we both know evenedibleis a stretch for your cooking.”
She smacks my shoulder. “How dare you,” she sasses to me, then sweetens her tone as she addresses Dad. “Would you teach me how to make your chili, Mr. Hawkins? I’d love to learn.”
“I appreciate your manners, but Boone is fine, hon. And I’d be happy to show you the family recipe. You’ll cook with me today and I’ll show you all the steps.”
Sora clasps her hands together in glee. “Wonderful.”
“You’ve still got good insurance on the house, right?” I ask loudly. “Protection against fire and such?”
I’m met with another smack from the back seat, this one with a little more oomph behind it.
The rest of the drive over, the scenery I know so well is filled with easy conversation—it’s familiar but new at the same time. My dad has always been a quiet man who values his solitude, but there’s a lightness to him today I haven’t seen in years. Having Dakota and Sora here is drawing out a side of him I didn’t know existed.
We turn off the main highway onto a dirt road that winds through a barren stretch of land. The truck bounces over theuneven terrain, and Dakota squeals with each jolt, finding it hilarious.
“Son, you’re set up in your old room, and I put a cot in there for Dakota. Got the spare room all ready for you, Sora,” Dad says. “Put in a space heater too. That side of the house gets cold in the mornings.”
“You didn’t have to go to all that trouble,” she says.
“No trouble.” He pauses, then adds with uncharacteristic openness, “Been a long time since I’ve had guests worth fussing over.” My father isn’t a demonstrative man—never has been—but in his own way, he’s screaming from the rooftops how much this visit means to him.
The road curves sharply, and through a break in the field, the ranch appears before us—a sprawling, single-story house with a wide front porch that’s seen better days. The paint on the main barn, just a stone’s throw away from the house, is peeling, and one of the fence sections near the road needs repair.
“There she is,” my father says with quiet pride. “Hawkins Ranch. Been in our family for four generations.” He glances back at Sora. “Not as fancy as New York, but?—”
“It’s beautiful, Boone. Very impressive. How many acres?” she asks, and the genuine awe in her voice makes him sit a little straighter.
“A little over a hundred.”
“Wow. That’s a lot of upkeep. Do you use ranch hands with horses or sheepdogs to herd?”
I turn my neck to glance curiously at Sora. She widens her eyes at me in the universal symbol of:Be cool.
“Sheepdogs?” Dad asks with a chuckle. “Honey, Hawkinses haven’t used sheepdogs even in my lifetime. They take too much to train. I’ve still got Redd, but he’s old and fat. The only thing he can wrangle these days is a nap. We use ATVs mostly. I heard Riggins Ranch is using drones now. Offered to loan meone. Supposedly effective, but I’m not messing around with that technology mumbo jumbo.”
“You’re talking to Riggins?” I ask, acknowledging Dad’s old nemesis, the nicer ranch just up the road.
Dad shrugs, trying to hide his embarrassment. “Rivals become more friendly in tough times. At the end of the day, we all take care of each other. He lent me some hands for the last calving season.”
Translation: Dad’s broke and has resorted to taking handouts. I know his pride is hurt. My stomach sinks a foot lower.Fuck, I feel terrible.It’s another reminder of why I don’t visit often. It’s been two years since my last trip home. The guilt is physically painful. I should be here, helping him. Dad has been letting ranch hands go left and right, unable to afford them. He’s carrying this burden all on his own, his only son abandoning him for city dreams.
“And, Boone, when is your calving season? Do you breed your heifers to give birth in the winter season or spring?”
I turn around to face Sora again. “Heifers? Did you spend a lot of time on Google before this trip?”
She shushes me aggressively, trying adorably to impress Dad with her ranch knowledge.
“I don’t have any heifers, lil lady. All my current cows are seasoned.”
“Right…right,” Sora says, squinting one eye, clearly confused by Dad’s reply.
