by Sarah Monzon
“He’s so cute,” Jocelyn crooned. “What are you going to name him?” She turned her face toward me, shapely brows raised in expectation.
I rocked back onto my heels. “Not planning on naming him.”
Her brows folded. “Why not?”
“He’ll get a tag with a number.” I touched my ear.
“Now, that won’t do.” She turned back around to watch the duo.
“Ma’am—”
Only one arched line climbed her forehead this time.
“Jocelyn.”
She smiled. “That wasn’t so hard, was it?”
I swallowed back the admission that this exchange in its entirety was difficult. “These animals aren’t pets.”
“I know that.”
“The rule to raising animals for food is—”
“I’m going to call him Gus.”
Not to give them names. I gripped the wood slat, sending my gaze skyward. The newborn mooed, hooking my retreating regard and bringing it to stare into his dark, soft eyes. Shoot.
Climbing over the fence, I shook my head. Maybe a 4-H kid wanted a new project. “C’mon, Gus.” The radiance from Jocelyn’s smile soaked into my skin as I slipped a halter over the calf’s ears, fondling them a bit to get him used to what was to come, and led him into a chute with a head gate. Once secure, I gathered a tag, the applicator, and a bottle of rubbing alcohol from the small barn.
Jocelyn met me at the door. “I know I said you wouldn’t even know I was here, but…” She chewed on her bottom lip. “Can I help?”
With a single nod of my head, I had her follow me. The rubbing alcohol burned my nostrils as I opened the bottle.
“What can I do?”
I wiped Gus’s ears with an alcohol-soaked cloth. “Make sure he stays relaxed.”
She placed one hand under Gus’s chin and stroked his forehead with the other. “You’re going to be all right. Just getting your ears pierced is all.” She drew in a sharp breath, her eyes going wide then filling with laughter. “He’s sucking on my fingers.”
Two halves of the tag already loaded into the sterilized applicator, I gently flattened Gus’s ear and guided the applicator to the soft, central part. Squeeze. Click. Release.
Jocelyn pulled her fingers from Gus’s mouth and gave his head one more stroke before I freed him from the chute. He ran to his mama, who nudged him with her nose, checking him to make sure he was all right.
Jocelyn shifted closer to me, discharging a breath as she watched the pair. “That was amazing.” She lifted shining eyes toward me. “Thank you.”
I tilted my head in her direction—safest when a gesture would do instead of words.
“You know, today hasn’t been at all what I expected.”
To my own surprise—and horror—I found myself asking, “What did you expect?”
“I probably shouldn’t say.” She put her hands in her pockets with a half-smile.
Just as well. The confidence that had flowed through my muscles while working with Gus was already seeping out of my system, leaving me with a familiar unease in my stomach.
She laughed. “Fine, you pulled it out of me. I expected dirt and bugs and sore muscles and a smell that I couldn’t get away from.”
A fly landed on her arm. I shooed it away, angling a look at her that made her laugh again.
“Some parts were exactly what I expected.” Her mirth settled to a contented smile. “But I hadn’t planned on finding anything here. A part of me, I mean.”
“Which part?”
Her lips screwed to the side. “I haven’t figured that out yet.”
Huh. Weird that her observations had mirrored my own.
I flipped the light switch on in the barn, returning the applicator to its rightful place.
Jocelyn plopped onto a nearby hay bale. “What do the two Bs in Double B Ranch stand for?”
I bit back a groan, hoping my brain and mouth would cooperate and not make me look like a complete idiot since there was no polite way not to answer. “Black Buffalo.”
She didn’t say anything else, and I breathed a sigh of relief, going back to the fridge in the corner.
“Are you always this difficult to get information from?” A teasing note filtered through her voice.
I stared. Blinked. How should I answer that?
“Here, I’ll help. It’s called Black Buffalo because…”
Looked like we had enough vaccinations on hand. I turned from the small vials. “Because my great-great-grandfather, the one who homesteaded this land, was once a Buffalo soldier.”
She leaned forward. “The all-Black calvary who fought in the Indian Wars?”
“Yes, ma’am.” I rotated back to the refrigerator. There should be some frozen colostrum from last year just in case we needed it.
Footsteps crunched over fallen hay. “You can’t leave it at that. I need the story.”
I moved aside a package of Otter Pops. Seriously? “Nate’s more the storyteller in the family.”
Cowboy boots with teal flowers entered my peripheral vision and drew my gaze. Jocelyn had her arms folded in front of her, a shoulder propped on the side of the appliance I’d had my head buried in.
“I didn’t ask Nate. I asked you.”
I shut the Kenmore’s door. “My great-great-grandfather fought for a time with the Buffalo soldiers, but he couldn’t stomach how the Native Americans were being treated because it reminded him too much of the injustices done him and his family when he was a slave. He didn’t want to be a part of that anymore, so he hired on as a guide for the wagon trains coming west. When he reached this land, he fell in love with it and stayed. Not many of the folks that lived around here were used to a man with darker colored skin, so they always referred to this property as the black ranch. Black Buffalo. Double B.” I shrugged. “The place kind of named itself I guess.”
“What a legacy.”
My spine straightened as if physically holding up the weight of the responsibility to continue to see the land thrive and the Thomas roots to remain planted in the soil beneath my feet.
“Did you have a choice, then? I mean, did you grow up knowing you wanted to take on the mantle passed down to you, or did you ever want to do something else?”
Besides ranching? Maybe other kids who grew up in rural areas dreamed of something bigger. Escaping to the city. Is that what she meant?
“Why would I want to do anything else?”
She looked around, dust motes floating through the air, coating every surface. “Why indeed.”
I couldn’t tell if her words had been spoken with a wonder of sincerity or sarcasm. “What about you? Was working in the world of finance always your dream?”
Her gaze traced the rafters before she settled almost-sad eyes on me. “No. Security was.”
I waited, sure there was more.
The sides of her lips tightened. “I promised not to get in your way, but here I am prattling on when you’re obviously busy. I’ll go get cleaned up and see if Gran needs any help in the kitchen.”
Jocelyn’s hips swayed as she walked away, and I couldn’t help but wonder what had made the vibrancy within her dim and the conversation slam to a halt.
I shook my head. Just another instance where animals proved easier to understand than women.
9
Jocelyn
The sound of running water—currents tumbling over themselves as they chased each other around boulders in the narrow river beside our glamping site—awoke me on my third day at the ranch.
Again, not what I had been expecting. Annoying roosters crowing like the sun couldn’t rise without their vocal cords, yes. The gentle cadence of nature cajoling me from slumber, no. And why weren’t there any roosters? Didn’t all farms or ranches or whatever have the bothersome creatures? Not that I was complaining…
My palms found a sore spot in my lower back and pressed as I arched in a stretch that would hopefully work some of the kinks out. My inner thighs screamed a
t me, and I was acutely aware of muscles I hadn’t even known were part of the human body’s physiology. I should have been jonesing for a Jacuzzi. Something hot, with jets to help with what felt like an entire body bruise. I shouldn’t have been humming with an undercurrent of anticipation, excited to climb back on Domino’s back and see the world through the lens atop a saddle.
My thoughts drifted to a certain cowboy. Another thing I probably shouldn’t do. But the conversation with him the day before had left my spirits adrift—as if he’d made an origami boat, set me inside, and given the folded paper a little push until the river’s playful flux toyed with me, sending me swirling and twirling without a means to steer myself back to shore.
His great-great grandfather had been a hero—one history books had been written about and documentaries made. The only place any of my ancestors’ names had been written were in court documents and prison records.
He’d spent his childhood knowing his calling and having the space and freedom to grow into it. My adolescent years had been devoted to finding a way out. Out of the neighborhood that barred its residents in with low-budget schools and housing prices that ate up the majority of a hard-working family’s income. A different kind of prison, but one no less real or difficult to escape.
A way out. That had been my dream. The means to feel secure. Live in a safe neighborhood. With a full belly. Wearing clothes that fit. That were clean. Money had only been a vehicle to get me to my destination.
But dreams, by most people’s standards, fed a soul-deep need, not just a physical one. Maybe that was why my throat had squeezed when Malachi turned the question around on me. I’d never allowed my dreams to seep beneath the surface. I wasn’t sure I even knew how.
Bang. The loud clank of metal slamming against the ground startled me from my introspection and the peacefulness of the river. Rotating, I squinted against the morning sunshine cresting the horizon and illuminating the sky in golden hues. A large truck with an even larger trailer attached silhouetted along the Thomas’s long drive. A minute later, a man and a cow emerged.
Grabbing a bandana from my back pocket, I wrapped the red paisley swath of material around my head and secured a knot on the side, my curls bouncing out at the bottom. Looked like the day would start even before the sun had a chance to rise fully into the sky.
A line of cows filled a long chute made of moveable metal fence rails, their bellies bumping the sides as their tails switched and ears twitched. Malachi flicked the ridge of his hat up with a crooked finger before extending his hand to shake the other man’s. The man turned and climbed into his truck, the engine roaring to life a minute later.
Malachi turned, a hitch in his step as his eyes swept past me. He looked as if he would continue walking, but then he paused and tipped his hat to me the way I’d only ever seen him do. Cowboys really were a breed of their own. His stride lengthened, eating up the distance to the small barn in the cattle yard.
I practically had to jog to catch up with him. “Good morning.” I injected cheer into my voice even though my every step caused me to wince in pain.
He stopped, feet braced apart, his gaze resting on my forehead instead of dipping down to look into my eyes. “Nate’s working with your group today.”
I blinked. “Oh.”
Another tip of his hat and he strode away.
I dashed after him again. “Who are the new cows?”
“Don’t even think about naming them.” He slanted a brief look down at me, sighed, and pulled to a stop. “Replacement heifers.”
Well, that begged more questions than it answered. “Who are they replacing?”
“Are you always this curious?” He squinted at me. “Cattle are more of a what than a who.” His feet pivoted toward the barn for a third time.
There I was, making a nuisance of myself again. First, he had to basically hold my hand with something as simple as a trail ride that didn’t go any faster than a walk. Then, I’d inserted myself when he checked on the calf and probably exasperated him with my nosey questions about his family’s ranch. And now, I’d done it again. Literally chased after him, jabbering like a magpie and getting in his way when he had work to do.
I took a step back. “I’m sorry. I know we’re just guests. I didn’t mean to get in the way.”
He stilled. His shoulders rose and fell with a long inhale, exhale. This time when he looked at me, his eyes rested in the expanse of my own.
Framed by long lashes, his eyes were dark, soulful orbs that flickered with hesitancy. The controlled assertiveness he’d demonstrated with the animals lay hidden beneath a layer of reservation.
He cast his gaze to the ground, curtaining my window into his soul. He cleared his throat. “Want to learn how to worm a cow?”
Images of squiggly worms squirming over the backs of cows caused me to shudder.
“You don’t have to. Like I said, Nate’s in charge of your group today.”
His invitation had cost him something. Not sure how I knew that, but I did. Which was why I told my stomach to stop rolling over like a log down a hill and grinned up at Malachi. “I’d love to learn how to”—voice, do not quiver—“worm a cow.” But if I had to touch one of those slimy things, I couldn’t be held responsible for my stomach’s revolt.
I followed him to the line of new cows.
“We’ll spray the cow-calf pairs about the time the calves are ready to wean, but we can’t let these new cows in the clean pasture until they get wormed.”
Nothing about that sentence made sense. Henry would argue the cleanliness of the pasture with the evidence of the dung smeared on the bottom of his boot. Maybe city standards of clean were different from country standards.
Malachi sprayed a stripe of purple mist down the first cow’s back. I looked closer, but no wiggly worms in sight. Not even white larvae. “Where are the worms you’re giving them?”
The hose stilled over the last cow’s back—the first indication that I’d somehow made a big mistake about what worming a cow meant. The twitching of Malachi’s cheek, the second. He was too much of a gentleman to laugh at me outright. Which made me want to poke him so he’d let go of the guffaw he was holding back on my account.
I held my hands up in a what do I know? type of gesture. “Guess I just proved how much of a city girl I really am, huh?”
A dozen different responses seemed to flicker across his face, but in the end, he said nothing at all, opting instead to lean over and set the purple container on the ground.
Searing warmth didn’t shoot its way from my chest to climb into my cheeks. Neither did I want to duck my chin as my foolish words fell around my head. If my coworkers had been within earshot, I would’ve been mortified. Not that any of us were exactly experienced enough to reopen a Wild West vaudeville show, but neither were we close friends who shielded one another against the heat of embarrassment.
I leaned my hip against one of the metal rails of the chute. “For future reference, you might want to refer to this whole process as deworming. I’m assuming that’s what you really meant. Might clear up any misconceptions for your future guests.”
He turned his head and let the brim of his hat hide his face. Probably to conceal the grin he could no longer contain. “I’ll do that.”
What would his laugh sound like? Would it be as restrained as the man himself? A controlled melody, almost quiet in volume?
A desire to untether Malachi from his carefully constructed boundaries slithered through my middle. Just a moment. A glimpse past the reserve to the man his close friends and family must see.
His head tilted back toward me, his dark eyes gleaming. “Did you really think I meant to put fish bait on my livestock?”
I let my grin uncurl and held up my palms in a hey, can you blame me? gesture. “People do crazy things. I mean, if letting fish eat the dead skin off your feet is a thing, then maybe bovine have an equally outlandish beauty regimen.”
Cast. Hook. I reeled in a half smile, his m
outh pulling upward on one side.
“Only city folk are capable of irrational behavior like that.”
I rested my elbow on the rusty metal rail only to have the tender flesh singe at the sun-heated steel…or whatever it was made of. I rubbed the offended spot and narrowed one eye at Malachi. “I believe I watched a video of two guys on a farm setting up a slip and slide with a length of black plastic and a tow line attached to a running horse. Something about skiing without a lake or a boat. Or skis for that matter. Don’t tell me you think that was smart?”
He slipped his hands into his front pockets. “I call that ingenuity and good country fun.”
“You ever set anything like that up here?” I couldn’t help but ask.
He winked. “Darlin’, you couldn’t even begin to imagine the fun we’ve had here at the Double B.”
A gulping, windsucking sound came from the parallel pasture, deep and throaty.
“What was that?” I asked.
Malachi looked around me and shook his head. “That’s just Lady.”
I watched as the mount Tonya had been riding lipped at the top fence rail, bit down with her top teeth, arched her neck, and sucked in a huge lungful of air. “What’s she doing?”
“She has a bad habit of cribbing.”
I looked back at him. “Before I go making wild assumptions about baby beds like I did with the worming, you want to explain to me what that is?”
His mouth hitched. “Mostly, cribbing is a bad habit in some horses. Whenever she sucks in the air like that it releases endorphins in her brain and gives her a bit of a high.”
Another deep, throaty sucking sound rent the air. Wait a minute. “Are you telling me that horses can become addicts?” He had to be trying to pull my leg.
“Well, not like drug addicts. Unless the drug is air. Then”—he shrugged—“I guess you can say that.”
Lady pulled back again, lapping in oxygen like a snorting heroin addict. “Is there a horse rehab for this particular vice? I mean, can she overdose on air?” I never would have imagined the things that had come out of my mouth in the last thirty minutes.