Page 109 of Wrangled

“We can sit out here. Go grab yourself a beer from the fridge. You know where they are. It’s almost the end of the day anyway. You can bring me an iced tea while you’re at it.”

Teague headed toward the front door, pausing at the threshold. “Toby in there?”

I chuckled. “He went into Bozeman with Matt. He offered to help with the grocery shopping for tomorrow’s supper.”

Teague’s eyes twinkled. “Helpful soul, isn’t he?” Then he disappeared indoors.

I sat in one of the rockers, staring at the ranch below.

I love you, I’ve spent my life building you up, but you’re driving me crazy.

“Here.” Teague handed me a glass of iced tea, then sat beside me. He pulled the can open. “Okay, what’s all the shit you can’t control?”

Fuck, where do I start?

“For one thing, I can’t control the price of beef or hay. Then there’s the price of diesel. Without that, cattle don’t go to auction, and hay doesn’t come to the cattle. Then we have all the fucking regulations—federal, state, county… Seems like every day, a new regulation pops up to make our lives more interesting. Next, we have the protesters, complaining about the way we raise our cattle, you know, the stuff they eat. Then we’ve got blizzards and droughts. And let’s not forget the herd. If they’re not looking for a hole in the fence, they’re finding one and getting out onto the highway and getting hit by a car. Or they’re wandering into the forest where they meet a wolf or a grizzly.” I took a long drink.

Teague stared at me. “Is that it?”

“What?”

“I was sure the next thing out of your mouth was gonna be you announcing the Apocalypse was any day now.” He frowned. “The dude ranch is doing well, isn’t it?”

“The dude ranch? Sure,thatpart’s okay. But everythingelserevolves around the herd, our main source of income—and the main source of uncertainty.”

Teague huffed. “None of this is news, so what’sreallybothering you? You’ve been happy these last few days.”

I took a moment to reflect on his words. “You’re right. Iamgoddamn happy. So why do I have a problem with that? Why can’t I justenjoybeing happy?”

Teague said nothing for a moment. He took a few gulps of his beer, then leaned forward, his elbows resting on his knees, his gaze fixed on the ranch.

“Robert… I get it.”

I gaped at him. “You do? Then for fuck’s sake, explain it to me, becauseIsure don’t.”

“You know I don’t talk about my childhood—for obvious reasons—but it wasn’t always the way it ended up. When I was twelve, I went to summer camp for the first time. Eagle View Ranch, Wyoming.”

I bit back a smile. “I’m having a hard time picturing you at a summer camp, doing archery, canoeing, shit like that.”

“It was okay,” he retorted defensively. “Dad didn’t want me to go, but Mom insisted. That was before, when she wouldn’t back down—when she still had some fight left in her.”

I had to steer the conversation in a safer direction, one that didn’t torment him. “Okay… camp… Where are you going with this?”

“Just hear me out, all right? I got a whole month at camp. I went back there three times. And okay, I’m not ashamed to say, I loved it. I was away from home—from him—I could be myself… But that final year? The time arrived to go off to camp—and I didn’t want to go.”

“Why not?”

“Because I was already dreading the end of the summer, when I’d have to go back home. I was already anticipating camp coming to an end. Mentally preparing myself to return to the shit show that was my regular life. It was as if I was denying myself permission to be happy. Why be happy? It was all going to end, right?”

All of a sudden, I saw where he was going, and he was skirting way too close.

Teague fixed me with a stare. “You know I’m right, don’t you? You’re anticipating Toby leaving. You didn’t grieve for Kevin—not properly anyway—for five years, but you’realreadygrieving for the loss of Toby. You’re mentally preparing yourself for his departure.” He glared at me. “I’m right, aren’t I?”

I couldn’t say one goddamn word.

Teague sat back in his chair. “Now, tell me about that letter you got yesterday. We didn’t get a chance to talk about it before you left to go on the trail to the lake.”

It took me a moment to breathe normally. “Not much to tell. I learned my dad knew I had a thing going with a hand, Clay—and he paid him to leave. All this time, I thought my dad didn’t know about me. But he did—and he didn’t like it.”

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