Page 18 of Scent to the Feral Cowboys
He sat back, and for a moment he looked every bit his age. “We never really lose people we love.”
“You used to say that all the time when I was a kid.” Every night. After every prayer. He reminded me that my mom and dad were always with me in spirit.
“It’s just as true now as it was back then.” He closed his eyes, and for one terrifying moment I didn’t think he’d open them again. When his lashes parted, it felt like a miracle.
I’d thought everything was already ruined.
I didn’t think there was anything left to fall apart.
Jesus, had I ever been wrong.
“Now that I’ve ripped the bandage off,” Grandpa smiled weakly, “we have a few other things to discuss.”
I steeled myself for what would come next. Though, honestly, nothing could be worse than what he’d already told me.
An hour later—afterbeing shuffled out because visitation hours were long over—I sat in my car. I didn’t crank the engine. I didn’t drive away. I just sat there.
Maybe I’d sit here until morning.
And then stay until the afternoon.
I wouldn't move a muscle until it was the same time tomorrow that it had been today when I’d arrived. At that point, I’d re-enter Serenity House. I’d pray that I’d magically, through sheer force of will, created my own Groundhog Day. I’d change only one thing though. I wouldn’t wait for Grandpa in his room. I wouldn’t give him a chance to get me alone and tell me about the cancer.
That way, just for a little bit longer, I could live in blissful ignorance.
When I finally cranked the engine and drove away, the sky had darkened to an impossibly deep blue. I knew stars were blinking down at me, but the ambient light from the buildingand nearby streetlights obscured their brightness. As I drove, I found myself wondering why everything looked so normal while my insides felt brutalized by change.
4
WYATT NELSON
Eleven months ago... Pinedale, Wyoming
Mornings on the ranch always started like a fast fuck with zero foreplay—every movement full of friction until the sun rose, the day heated and sweat began to slick over my skin.
The slapof a shrill alarm woke me as usual. I pried my eyelids apart to greet darkness, tossed on yesterday’s clothing, shoved into my boots, and stumbled into the kitchen to plug in the old percolator. Cooper wanted something fancier. I had a feeling a big ass package would arrive any day now and we’d have some espresso making monstrosity taking up counter space. We didn’t have room for that kind of nonsense yet, not until our new packhouse was finished. Coop was jumping the gun buying shit. We hadn’t even broken ground yet.
I didn’t wait for the coffee to finish brewing; I’d just gotten in the habit of having it ready for the rest of my pack. I pulled open the swollen, creaking backdoor, and stepped outside. The hour before dawn was my favorite time of day. There was nothing quite like the solitude of it while the others were still sleeping.
When I entered the stables, I grabbed the mounted pitchfork. But before I could start my work, my draft horse Bowser stuck his head over the low locked gate of his stall. I strolled over to greet him, leaned the tool against the wall, and stroked one hand down his chestnut brown nose. He pushed against my palm, tilting his head slightly to the right. His monstrous, feathered front legs lifted one after the other and happily stomped the ground.
“You up for a ride today, old timer?” I held the sides of his large head with both hands and tilted my forehead against his. He gave a soft nicker in response, then shook his head a little. Flaxen strands of his mane swished over to tickle my cheek. “We’ll check the fence line after lunch then,” I told Bowser, as if he could understand me. Wade caught me talking to the horse one time. Thought he’d taunt me about it for weeks, instead he’d just smiled that stupid boyish smile of his and said he talked to Wednesday, his horse, all the time.
But he could do that sort of thing. Wade had always been the gentle giant sort. When we’d inherited the ranch together, he’d told me flat out that he didn’t want to be in charge. So that left me holding the bag. I’d screwed up once, and I couldn’t fuck up again. Cooper’s inheritance had saved our asses. We were well in the green now, and I was motivated to keep it that way. Because how many wealthy Great Aunts die and leave their great nephew, whom they’d met exactly twice, half of their estate? Lightning like that doesn’t strike twice.
Which means I had to be better. I had to be smarter.
I grabbed the pitchfork again, then walked over to the wheelbarrow leaned upright at the back of the stables. I pulled it down, dropping the tool into it before rolling both over to muck out one of the currently vacant stalls. Levi’s Mustang, Samos, was running wild outside in the stable’s connected pasture. She was always on the move. The pitchfork and my hands quickly became one as I got into the rhythm of the repetitive work, scooping up the soiled hay and filling the barrow. When it was maxed out, I straightened up and pulled the blue bandana from my back pocket to swipe sweat from my forehead. Leaving the pitchfork in the stall, I grabbed the wheelbarrow handles and began the short journey to the compost.
The sun was beginning to wake up, the blue-black sky lightening slightly.
I tipped the barrow at the edge of the raised compost bed, giving it a hard shake to dump its contents before heading back to the stables. I started on the next stall immediately; the repetitive work was soothing.
It was pushing seven when I made my second trip to the compost. The sun had crested, sending golden tendrils kissing over our land. Sagebrush was goddamn beautiful in the morning. Cows meandering in the distance. Dew clinging to wildflowers. The pale green glass of our new hothouses looking like something from a storybook. Our very own Wyoming Emerald City. That were all Boone and Cooper. If that duo had their way, we’d give up cattle and cater to people with too much money who wanted organic, heritage seed, no pesticide bullshit. I didn’t have an issue with sustainable farming, but I wasn’t leaving the spirit of this ranch behind. It had started a cattle ranch, and it would die a cattle ranch.
I found myself moving a little slower back to the stables this time, reluctant to leave the ranch views behind. I had a lot more to do before I went in for breakfast though.
We could hire more hands, but I liked the physical labor. I wanted to muck the stables, repair the fences, and round up the cattle for vaccinations. I enjoyed this life, enjoyed every damn second of it. Even on days like today, during a veritable Wyoming heatwave when the temperature threatened to hit eighty-five when our July average was seventy-nine, I still loved this life.
