by Laura Crum
"Well, I wish him the best of luck." Tim sounded as though he thought Bret would need it. I didn't argue. Raising a family, let alone a bunch of cattle, sounded like hard work to me. Lisa came back into the kitchen with her springy curls damp. She wore a clean T-shirt and jeans, and her eyes were bright. Tim gave a long wolf whistle. "You look pretty good for thirty-five. "
She punched him in the shoulder. "Thirty-four. I'll be thirty-five next month. Come on; let's go. They've got an air conditioner at the Saddlerack."
I leaped to my feet with alacrity. I was more than ready for an air conditioner. Lisa's little house seemed to have gathered the stale heat of the afternoon; a drop of sweat ran down my cheek as I stood up.
Lisa shut the dogs in the yard, and we all piled into her pickup. Settling into the seat between her and Tim, as we jounced down the dirt road I was reminded of many, many high school evenings. How lighthearted they had been. A little of that feeling returned to me now, that sense of rolling down the road on a Saturday with the eager expectation that anything could happen next. With a jolt, I realized I'd forgotten all about Lonny. Lonny and Sara.
What the hell, I thought. By the time Lisa pulled into the parking lot of the Saddlerack some ten minutes later, I'd convinced myself that maybe I was ready to forget about Lonny permanently.
SEVEN
The Saddlerack sits at the junction of Lone Oak Road and Skyline Road and it, along with a store/gas station, is the town of Lone Oak. A couple of houses clustered nearby. Redwood trees shaded the buildings, making them look cool and welcoming this hot afternoon.
The little bar hadn't changed a bit since I'd seen it last. Shingled all over, with a tin roof and bright red trim, it hunkered cheerfully down by the side of the road. A fading sign announced: COLD BEER.
I was more interested in cold air. Tim pulled the door open and I walked through it, drinking in the cool, dim interior like a long swallow of spring water.
Lisa walked ahead of me into the bar half of the bar/restaurant and headed automatically for the round table in the corner. She pulled up short when she realized someone else was sitting there.
Susan Slater was sitting there. With the bespectacled man in shorts who had been with her at the roping. Their protest signs were on the floor at their feet, and they had mugs of draft beer in front of them.
Lisa started to do an abrupt about-face, but I grabbed her elbow firmly. "Come on," I hissed, and we marched up to the table together. "Mind if we sit down?" I asked.
Susan's companion looked at us blankly. Susan stared up into my face, narrowing her eyes. "Go right ahead. I'd like to talk to you."
We sat down in the two remaining chairs; I glanced around the room. Everything looked just the same. Old, battered trophy heads and faded, curling slogans covered the walls. The long wooden bar was scuffed to just the right degree of shabbiness. I recognized several local ranchers and ropers who had been at Glen's, standing or sitting, draft beers in hand.
Tim was ordering drinks from the bartender. My eyes snapped back for a second look. "That's Janey," I said.
Janey Borba, Al's daughter, had been in Lisa's and my high school class, along with Susan. And here she was, tending bar in the Saddlerack, seventeen years later.
She stood with her chin up, wearing the same belligerent expression she had worn in high school. Like Al, Janey always seemed to have a grudge against the world. Her mouth stayed straight and hard as Tim smiled at her, and her big, dark eyes never flickered. Janey hadn't changed a bit.
She'd kept her figure, and it was the kind you saw mostly on Playboy centerfolds. Her bright red T-shirt was tight enough to show off her nipples, and her jeans looked like they were painted on. The general effect was that of a billboard shouting, Come hither.
But above all this lavishly displayed temptation rode Janey's face. Taken feature by feature, it was attractive enough, but in contrast to her clothes, her expression said, Don't mess with me, buster. Her long black hair fell to her waist, but she wore it pulled back in a severe braid, which only highlighted her stern expression. Everything from the upward tilt of her chin to the thin-lipped line of her mouth announced that she could take care of any unwanted overtures.
Susan had followed my eyes to Janey and was staring at her. "I don't get it," she said. "Why does she dress like that?" Susan's voice was loud enough to carry easily to where Janey stood, but not a muscle flickered in Janey's face.
I shrugged. I'd never been friends with Janey Borba, but I had no wish to insult the woman. Susan wasn't easily put off. "She's never liked men, so why dress like that?"
"Everybody's got different taste," I said softly, watching Tim try to flirt with Janey. She gave him cold looks in exchange for his suggestive ones, put his beer and his change on the counter, and walked away. Tim watched the red T-shirt and skintight jeans undulate away from him with obvious regret.
Lisa sighed in my ear. "That damn Tim's been trying to get in her pants for years. I don't know why he bothers. Janey won't give him the time of day." All this was said in an obvious whisper to me while Lisa looked pointedly away from Susan.
Susan glared openly back. Maybe sitting these two down together hadn't been such a good idea.
"So what did you want to talk to me about?" I asked Susan.
"How you, a supposedly ethical veterinarian, can condone something as cruel and inhumane as team roping." Once again, Susan's tone was such that everyone in the bar could listen in. I noticed a certain stillness fall over the room at her words.
Lisa stirred next to me, and I put a hand on her arm. "Why exactly is it you think team roping is cruel and inhumane?" I asked Susan.
"That's obvious," she snapped, "to any halfway moral person. Those poor horses and cows."
"Have you ever owned a horse or a cow?"
"Well, no." Susan was wary. "But I know cruelty when I see it."
"I'm not sure you do, though. How do you think horses want to live?"
"Horses, like all animals, should live free. We humans have no right to make slaves out of them." Susan declaimed this in the pitch of a public orator. It was clear she'd made the statement before. Her male friend was watching her with a look of admiration.
"Susan, that's impossible," I said. "There isn't enough range left for all horses to run free. The wild horses that do exist are being captured and locked up in pens because they're overgrazing the land they're on. Various environmental groups are protesting their very existence; they say the horses are destroying the native habitat. On top of which, I do not think any horse would rather be starving to death in a poor year or dying of infection or packing a broken leg until some cougar gets him. I think horses are, or can be, happier in the company of men."
"Horses do not want to be slaves," she protested.
"I'm not sure what you mean by a slave. Are dogs and cats slaves? Do you think they should run free, too?"
"Ideally, all animals would be free and equal to humans."
"Ideally, huh? How about practically? Do you just want to turn all the horses and dogs and cats in the world loose to romp around in traffic?"
Lisa grinned at this, but Susan bounced right back. "Of course not, but I do not want to see horses and cattle tortured."
"Do you think horses and cattle would rather stand around in a pen all day than go team roping?"
"They'd rather be in a pasture," she said firmly.
"They might. In a perfect world, all horses might live in big pastures and run around and eat grass all day. In a perfect world, we'd all be rich and have no troubles. In real life, most people can't afford to own a hundred acres for every horse. The best we can do is provide them with a decent-sized pen. And horses like to get out of their pen and go do something where they run hard. It's their nature."
"How do you know that?" she demanded.
I was silent for a second. This was the problem. If you knew horses, you knew these things, but how to explain them to a non-horseman?
Before I could formulate the
words, Lisa jumped in. "Susan, everybody knows that. If you're so goddamn ignorant about horses you should keep your mouth shut."
Susan's eyes flashed fire. Before she could open her mouth, I said, "Wait a minute. Just listen. The reason Lisa said that is she's spent her whole life around horses. She knows them. Susan, do you have a cat or a dog?"
"Yes," she admitted. "Both."
"Well, you know if your dog or cat is hungry or feeling friendly or wants to go out or feels sick or whatever, don't you?"
"Sure."
"Well, Lisa knows that about horses and cattle. We both know if our horses are enjoying what they're doing, and many, not all, team-roping horses like their work."
"They don't like breaking their legs," Susan shot back.
"No," I agreed. "But I can tell you for a fact, most broken legs occur at home in the corral or pasture, when a horse gets kicked by another horse. And that would happen to horses living in the wild, too. The only difference would be the horse would suffer for days, maybe weeks."
"That horse this morning broke his leg because some dumb person was roping on him," she argued.
"I suppose you could say that. But it's as likely that you'll get killed in a traffic accident on the way to the store as a horse will break its leg in that situation. Are you going to quit driving because of that?" I watched Susan closely.
She didn't say a word, just looked confused. If she knew about the hole, if she'd dug it even, her features gave no clue.
Lisa saw an opportunity in the silence. "Why don't you just leave us alone?" she said to Susan. "Dad and I aren't cruel to animals. Nobody on the ranch is."
"That's bullshit," Susan said. "I see you using those electric cattle prods on the poor cattle all the time."
"Susan, cattle prods are not cruel," I said. "Cattle have to be moved through chutes occasionally, even if they aren't roping cattle. They need their vaccinations; they need to be doctored if they're hurt. Cattle prods are the most humane way to do it. Otherwise, people would have to beat on the cattle with sticks and whips, which would be much harder on them."
"How would you like being electrocuted with all those volts?" she demanded.
"Six volts." Tim's lazy drawl came from behind us. He was sitting at the bar, listening to our conversation, as was everybody else in the room. "Hand me that thing," he said over his shoulder to Janey.
Janey produced a hotshot from behind the bar; no doubt, I thought, it was a handy weapon for a woman to squelch a drunken bar fight.
Tim held the hotshot in one hand and spoke in his usual slow, quiet voice to Susan. "Hotshots are humane, like Gail says. They don't hurt the cattle. Watch." And Tim pressed the prongs into his palm and pushed the button.
The hotshot buzzed audibly in the sudden stillness. Tim sat quietly for five seconds, taking the jolt without a flicker, then put the hotshot back on the bar. "See?" he said evenly. "No big deal."
Even Susan was silenced. We all stared at Tim. I knew what the hotshot would feel like; I'd touched electric fences before-by accident. It wasn't pleasant.
Tim looked unaffected. I had no idea how much was pose and how much genuine toughness. Lisa shook her head at her brother in amusement and exasperation, then turned back to Susan, once again on the fight. "We really aren't cruel to our animals, OK?"
Susan was still staring at Tim. She shifted her gaze to Lisa, then back to me. "Gail, do you really think team roping is a humane, ethical thing to do to animals?" For the first time in the conversation, Susan sounded as if she was honestly asking a question, not just pontificating.
"I think, like most everything else in life, it depends on the circumstances," I told her. "It isn't black or white."
Lisa's eyes shot to my face in protest, and I said firmly, "No, Lisa, I'm not going to say team roping's always wonderful for the animals. I've seen plenty of ropers be cruel to horses and cattle; I've seen unnecessary harm done. But it doesn't have to be that way."
I looked Susan in the eye. "I have problems with some aspects of roping. I hate to see cattle or horses get hurt. I don't like calf roping, for instance; I've seen too many calves break their necks or legs. In the case of team roping, I think it's important what rules the arena has. Glen has the most humane rules of any place I've been. The header undallies when he faces, which means the steers don't get a hard jerk, and there's a no-drag rule, which means if a steer goes down, the header has to let him get up. On top of which, Glen takes really good care of the cattle. He feeds them well and doctors them if they're sick and doesn't rope them too often. All that stuff's important."
"What about the horses?"
"That has a lot to do with who owns them. Some people are kind to their horses and care for them well and don't run too many steers on them, and I think those horses are mostly happy to go roping. Some people are hard on their horses, and those horses are miserable. Some people beat their wives and children, too."
The room was completely silent. "We do love our horses," I said at last. "Lisa and Glen and I, and lots of other people you see out there roping. I think, Susan, if you want to talk about cruelty to horses, you better start by buying a horse of your own and learning what they're like."
"And in the meantime," Lisa added sharply, "Leave Dad alone."
I glared at Lisa. She seemed absolutely bent on antagonizing Susan. For her part, Susan got to her feet, looking pissed off and confused all at once. "Come on," she said to her friend. "We're going home."
Obediently he picked up the protest signs and followed her to the door. Susan turned back to give the room a final comment, but her voice was drowned out by the deeper, stronger tones of a voice from the bar: "Get the hell out of here, you lousy bitch." The speaker stared right at Susan. "And don't come back."
EIGHT
Susan looked about to protest, then whirled and left the room without a word, skirt swirling, companion in tow. Charles Domini took a long swallow of his beer and surveyed the bar. "Good riddance," he said plainly.
Charles looked drunk to me. When Charles got drunk, Charles got mean. This was common knowledge in Lone Oak. Charles Domini owned the only other big ranch in the area; the Domini Ranch had been around as long as the Bennett Ranch.
The difference was that Charles, unlike Glen, was not popular with the locals. Charles was too prone to being drunk and mean, and his ranch was run-down and untended. Periodically he logged a portion of it or sold some more off to developers. This made him rich, but it did not make him popular. I didn't know anyone who liked Charles Domini.
He sat in the middle of a small group of people, which included several rough-looking men and his wife, Pat. The men all seemed pleased at Charles's statement. Pat looked disgusted.
I'd known Pat for years, and I had never figured out what she was doing with Charles. His money seemed the only possible attraction. And yet I would have thought better of her.
A slim, attractive woman somewhere in her forties or fifties, Pat had smooth brown skin, a loose cap of ruffled brown curls, and friendly eyes. She was capable with horses and cattle and roped a good deal better than her husband, who preferred kibitizing at the arena fence. Rumor had it that Pat and Glen were having an affair.
These rumors had been going on for twenty years. I had no idea if they were true. I had never seen Pat and Glen act anything more than polite to each other. I sometimes thought it was just the fact that they were both such attractive people, with spouses who were a good deal less appealing, that had fueled all the talk.
Tim got up from the bar and came and sat down at the table with Lisa and me, putting two draft beers in front of us. "Thought you might need something to cool your throat after all that talk," he said to me with a grin.
"Thanks," I said. "That was quite a stunt with the hotshot."
Tim shrugged. He had taken a chair against the wall, and he leaned back in it. His brown eyes drifted around the room and then stopped. I followed his gaze to where Al Borba sat by himself at the end of the bar, drink in hand.
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Al stared at the mirror behind the bar, his face sullen and withdrawn. To all intents and purposes, he appeared unaware that anyone was in the room with him. Occasionally he took a sip of his drink. Janey stood behind the bar opposite him, her chin tilted up, her eyes watchful. Neither of them spoke.
"Why does your dad keep him around?" I asked Lisa. "I've always wondered. It's not like he acts any nicer to Glen."
Lisa had no trouble guessing what I was talking about. "I know," she said. "He gives me the creeps. He never says a word to me if he can help it. But Dad just says he's a good worker and he sees no reason to let Al go. Al and Janey both live in that mobile home by the roping arena. Janey's always lived with her dad." Lisa shook her head. "Al's father worked for my granddad when Dad was a little boy. Al's just kind of a fixture."
"He's an asshole." Tim's lazy tone didn't change, but Lisa and I looked at him cautiously. There was an undercurrent there, something that was hard to place.
Tim's eyes moved on down the bar from Al and rested on Pat Domini in a speculative way. I wondered briefly if Tim was considering going into competition with his father. If so, he was going to have a rough time of it tonight, as Charles stood right next to Pat, his arm resting on the bar beside her. Pat ignored her husband.
A big man with olive skin and dark eyes and hair, Charles was talking loudly in a definite voice, waving one hand with a massive gold ring on it, making some important point. Now Charles, I thought, was an asshole.
He finished his point and, as if feeling eyes upon him, turned to look at the three of us. Lisa and I looked away, but Tim kept his gaze steady, staring straight at Charles. Charles smiled slowly, not a pleasant smile. Then he edged his way out of the group and came walking over to our table.