Come Home, Cowboy

by Cathy McDavid

  While she could delay ferrying hay out to the main herd, she didn’t want to put off bringing the young steers down from the summer lease in the foothills. Too bad the grass that yesterday had been so green and lush was now white with snow. If need be, she could clear a few patches with her snowblower.

  Donning boots, a ski hat with earflaps and a Sherpa-lined leather jacket, Myra tramped to the barn. At the sound of an engine, she glanced toward the private lane. Not recognizing the big black Chevy pickup sporting off-road tires, she assumed her nemesis had arrived.

  The man who emerged from the pickup—newer than Gramps’s old Ford by at least a decade—looked to top six feet by a couple of inches or so. Bareheaded in a snowstorm, his dark hair was cut military short. He did wear boots and a far-from-new bomber jacket with some insignia patches sewn on the left side. The US flag stood out. It was hard not to notice that his shoulders were broad, but as he strode toward her she detected no sign of an injury to his left side. He walked straight as a telephone pole, a thirtyish guy in perfect shape. So if the VA had put him back together, they’d done a bang-up job.

  He stopped a foot or so from her. “Hi. I’m Zeke Maxwell. You must be Myra, Eric’s sister.”

  She lost track of a few seconds as she gazed up into warm dark brown eyes fringed by to-die-for long, thick eyelashes. Caught assessing him, Myra fumbled worn gloves out of her jacket pocket. That gave her a moment before answering as she bent to retrieve one from the snow-covered ground. “Is Zeke a nickname?” she asked, blurting out the question Jewell had asked yesterday.

  The man wrinkled his nose. “Ezekiel. A family name that got passed down through generations. As twin A in a set, I drew the short straw. I still haven’t forgiven my mother, so you don’t want to call me that.” He pivoted in a slow circle, dusting snow off his head as he took in the house, barn, sheds and corral before circling back to examine Myra from head to toe. “Why are we standing out here in the weather? I could use a cup of coffee and a fire to warm up.”

  “The house is unlocked. Coffee’s in a thermos by the pot. I’m heading out to drive the cows and yearlings down from the foothills into that enclosure.” She stabbed a finger, which he followed without moving his head.

  His right shoulder rose slightly then fell. “Give me a minute to grab a hat and gloves from my truck and I’ll join you.”

  “Being from Boston and all, do you even ride? Do you need me to saddle your horse?” she drawled.

  “Unless you give me a nag, I won’t hold you back.” He spun on a heel and stalked back to his pickup.

  Myra tugged on her gloves, flipped up her jacket collar and stomped into the barn. She should probably apologize, but really, if he thought one ran a ranch sitting by a fire drinking coffee, the Flying Owl would be in shambles before spring thaw.

  Marching to the back of the barn, she led Cayenne, a sorrel mare, out of her stall and had the saddle on and cinched as Zeke appeared in a Boston Red Sox ball cap. His ears were gonna freeze, but he’d learn. “You get the black gelding,” she told him. “His name is Ember. Saddle’s on the rack. Bridles are on the wall peg.” She took one down and settled it over the sorrel’s head.

  He flashed her a glance, as if he had something to say, but then yanked up the saddle, smoothed the blanket over the gelding’s back and settled the saddle as easily as if it were an everyday occurrence. Same with the bridle.

  In silence they left the barn. Zeke mounted while Myra closed the barn door, then she, too, swung into the saddle.

  Zeke let her lead. As they moved from a trot into a canter, he pulled alongside. “Feels like we’re in the middle of a snow globe. Is snow usual this time of year? Will it last? At supper Eric said the weatherman predicted mountain snow. Your dad scoffed.”

  “The almanac shows it could last a few days. It’s early. As a rule, the first snowfall is late September or early October. If this is a harbinger of what’s to come, it could wreck winter-wheat crops.”

  “Do you raise and sell wheat, too?”

  “Ranchers raise, cut and bale wheat, grass and alfalfa for cattle feed. Lose a crop and you either have to buy grain at outrageous costs or sell stock you can’t afford to feed at a loss.” It was plain he didn’t know diddly-squat about ranching. Maybe Jewell was right, maybe he’d opt out. She wasn’t a fan of feeding the greater herd by hand this early in the season. But if it made him leave, she’d say, let it snow.

  They reached the foothills where her stock huddled in a cut between the hills that blocked the windblown snow. Myra rode past them, uncoiled her rope, swung it around and yelled “Hi yi yi” several times. Startled, the animals bolted away from the noise.

  “What do you want me to do?” Zeke called.

  “Watch for stragglers. Make noise to bring ʼem back into the fold. I see some have my neighbor’s brand. We’ll take them in. He can collect them when it’s convenient. Hank Watson runs the Bar W. He’s kindly volunteered to truck my yearlings—uh, your yearlings—to market shortly. If you see the slant R brand, that’s Dave Ralston, your other neighbor. He’s a good guy to know. He rents out his baler. A ranch this size can’t afford to buy one.”

  Zeke bobbed his head.

  Myra noticed he rode well, and he brought in a number of strays as they rode down the hillside and made their way to the large enclosure. Subconsciously she’d hoped he’d screw up.

  As the ranch came into sight through falling snowflakes, Myra raced ahead, hopped off Cayenne and opened the gate.

  Without asking, Zeke hung back and drove the cattle through.

  “Phew,” he said, swinging down to help Myra shut the gate. “I see they’re pawing up the snow to get to grass. Good they know to do that.”

  “Yep. The snow is slacking some, but we still have to take hay out to the main herd. We’ll go put our horses up, hook the big tractor to the flatbed and load up twenty or so bales.”

  “Okay.”

  Myra couldn’t help but notice he sounded unsure. Maybe she should let him stop for coffee. On the other hand, if she kept the pressure on, by nightfall he could give up.

  “Just unsaddle Ember. I’ll brush both horses down and feed them later. We need to get the hay distributed while it’s light.”

  Again Zeke followed orders.

  Myra fetched the tractor and hooked up the flatbed. Backing the trailer into the barn, she climbed a ladder to the hayloft and began tossing down large bales.

  “Do you need assistance?” Zeke asked, squinting up at her.

  “You could straighten them on the trailer. If I don’t have to do it at the end of pitching off twenty bales, it’ll save us time.”

  He stepped up on the trailer and that was the first time Myra noticed he greatly favored his left arm. She heard him grunt as he hefted the heavy bales one-handed. For someone her size—and at five-seven she wasn’t petite—moving bales took knowing how to leverage the weight. Obviously it was the same for a man with an injured arm. She debated telling him to leave the stacking for her, after all. But she didn’t want to insult him. When she left, the work would all fall on him unless he hired help. Maybe he had a disability pension that would help cover costs. She and Gramps hadn’t had extra money to work with.

  “I’ll drive the tractor this time because I know the route,” she said once they were ready. “You can sit on the bales. See, I’ve fitted one like a chair so you won’t bounce off.” She’d thought Zeke might laugh, but he had begun to look weary. And a dense fog had settled down, covering the mountains.

  “Feels like we’ve landed on an alien planet,” Zeke hollered after she fired up the tractor and drove into the whirling mist.

  So he did have a sense of humor. Myra tossed him a smile over her shoulder.

  It took about half an hour to reach the pasture where the Angus heifers milled about on either side of a coulee. A bull stood in
the brush beyond the fence. Stopping, Myra took her cutters out of the toolbox welded onto the tractor. Crawling back across hay bales, she cut one open, stood and spread hay into the draw. Big, snorting, drooling cows immediately jockeyed for access to the new hay and began to eat.

  Taking his cue, Zeke snipped open the next bale and manhandled it farther along the natural trough. “Listen, this will go quicker if you drive the tractor and I do the bales.”

  Taking pity on him, because Myra saw it wasn’t easy for him to do the lion’s share while favoring one arm, she said, “We can take turns. I’ll drive the length of this coulee. There’s another like it a few hundred yards over nearer the stream. We’ll catch it on the return trip. Oh, wait. Can you drive a tractor?”

  “I learned to drive anything with a gas pedal and a steering wheel in the army, and we had to improvise if either of those pieces got shot out.”

  She hid a grimace but nodded. It’d been over a year since her grandfather had been able to help her with any of the heavy chores. Working in tandem with Zeke cut the time by more than half what she’d thought it would take to attend to the herd.

  “How many cattle did we just feed?” he asked as she broke apart the last bale.

  “A hundred fifty, plus or minus any that wandered off or were taken down by coyotes. There are close to a hundred moms with yearlings that we put in the grassy pen by the barn. Those youngsters will be sold before true winter sets in. You calve in the spring, sell in the fall.”

  Zeke looked around at the snow falling in earnest. “This isn’t winter?”

  She rolled her eyes. “Far from it. For a Montana winter you’re talking snow too deep to trek through. Once the calves are shipped, you’ll bring the main herd down to pastures around the barn. Even then it can snow so hard you’ll have to take grain out on a sled. Every day you’ll break the ice on the water troughs.”

  He hunched over the steering wheel and followed their earlier tracks back to the barn. Parking, he let the motor idle. “What next?”

  “I’ll store the tractor and see to the horses. Then I’ll go in and start supper. Why don’t you go on to the house and get settled. I cleared out Gramps’s bedroom and put fresh sheets on the bed and towels in the bathroom. It’s the room to the right of the living room. My bedroom is at the back of the house. I could pack up and head out tonight, but with this storm I’d rather wait until morning.”

  Zeke studied her as he took his ball cap off. “I thought maybe you’d spend a few days showing me the ropes. But we can discuss that later. Tell you what, I’ll take KP duty tonight while you finish up out here. Then we can talk, and maybe you’ll go over the ranch accounts. Your dad said you kept the books and your mom jumped in to tell me you’re a high school math teacher.”

  “I was. I won’t turn down your offer to cook. It’s my least favorite chore. The kitchen is old and small, but at least everything is functional and stocked.”

  “Your father mentioned the house might need some work. He said not much has been changed since he was born and raised here.”

  “I like it as is. The roof doesn’t leak and the fireplace works. So do the showers.”

  “Uh-huh. It’s snowing harder. How much time do you need, so I know when to have supper on the table?”

  “An hour should do it.”

  He tipped his cap and made tracks for his pickup.

  Myra climbed onto the tractor, ratcheted up the engine and backed the trailer into its spot in the shed. She watched Zeke take two duffel bags from under his pickup’s canopy and hike on to the house.

  Sighing, she went in to take care of the horses, dialing her brother on the way to inform him that due to the snow she wasn’t leaving the ranch just yet. She contacted Eric instead of her parents because she still resented how they had given away a ranch they should have known she loved.

  * * *

  HIS EARS STUNG from the cold as he walked into a warm house he now owned. It all still felt surreal to Zeke. Particularly since he hadn’t realized the house would be occupied by Eric’s sister. He’d spent half a day with her, but as yet couldn’t pigeonhole her. Figuring her out became more difficult once he entered this home. At his first glance around the living room, on nearly every flat surface in the living room sat dollhouses. A grown woman had dollhouses? They were all so elaborate. On closer inspection he saw not all of them were complete. Several had walls but no roofs. A few were unpainted. Taking care not to knock into any of them with his duffels, he located the bedroom Myra had mentioned. He flipped on a light switch that lit two bedside lamps. The big bed, covered with a thick quilt, looked inviting. Thankfully, the decor was neutral. No frills. Having noted ruffled curtains on some of the dollhouse windows, he hadn’t known what to expect.

  Since he’d promised to cook, he dropped the bags and found the kitchen. Vintage didn’t begin to describe the space. Outdated but spotless. He didn’t see a microwave, and the stove and fridge were surely older than his thirty-one years. He opened cupboards and took stock, then peered inside the fridge. A clicking sound, like dog toenails striking the linoleum, had Zeke straightening and looking around. The noise was coming from the corner where the back door was, behind a dinette set with four chairs. A pen fashioned by baby gates held a quilt, plastic toys, metal dishes of water, lettuce and some kind of pellets. Therein roamed a pig. A pig. Small and white with gray spots. A door with a doggie flap opened onto what looked like a screened porch.

  He was still shaking his head in disbelief when his cell phone rang. Plucking it from his pocket he saw his twin’s number. “Seth, buddy, where are you this month?”

  “I’m back in Afghanistan. My gem contact phoned to say his men found an area of pure lapis. I flew in yesterday to have a look. He was right, and it’s rare to find lapis without occlusions, so we’re dickering on price. I got your text saying you were going to Montana. The family of one of the guys you saved gave you a ranch? Is that true, or did you injure your head as well as your shoulder?”

  “It’s true. In fact, I’m there now. I spent my first afternoon hauling hay to cattle in a snowstorm.”

  “You’re kidding! What do you know about ranching, dude?”

  “Nothing. But Eric Odell’s sister—his folks are the ones who gave me the ranch—she’s been running the ranch. Their grandfather owned it before he died. She’s a teacher, and Eric’s parents told me she wants to get back to her career. But I had to admit, trekking after her today I saw how much I don’t know. I had hoped she might stay awhile to give me pointers.”

  “But?”

  “But...then I came in the house. She’s got dollhouses everywhere. Like, is it a fetish? And, Seth, I discovered she keeps a pig as a house pet. Now I wonder if she’s been tucked away in this remote spot to hide the fact she’s eccentric, to put it mildly.”

  His brother laughed loudly. “If you have the deed, kick her out. Hire an old cowboy to teach you what you need to know. Seems to me you’ve stepped into a sweetheart deal. I’m envious that you get to live in wide-open spaces. Sometimes I’m so tired of eating and sleeping in hotels.”

  “Take a break and come visit me. We can learn how to run a ranch together.”

  “Maybe. Not for a while. I have this lapis I want, then I’m off to Tanzania. Tanzanite is getting scarce. I’ve got a friend who has staked a claim that he’s sure will yield a vein. I haven’t actually done any digging in months. It’ll be fun.”

  “Yeah, yeah. I’ve heard this song and dance from you for years. You don’t want to set down roots. You’ve got the wanderlust, bro.”

  “Hmm. We’ll see. It gets to be a hard-knock life. Email me pictures of your ranch. It’ll remind me what it’s like to have a home.”

  “Sure. I’ll take some after this snowstorm passes. You take care. Especially in the Hindu Kush. Our forces have drawn down. It’s less safe than when you visite
d me there.”

  “So I hear. We’ll keep in touch. Good luck with Pet-Pig Woman.”

  Zeke grimaced, gave the round little pig a last glance then started fixing supper. Midway through preparations, he heard the front door open and close, and then footsteps going toward the back of the house. Then he heard water running and figured Myra had opted to take a shower. It was probably something he should have done, he thought as he found dishes and set the table. Were they really going to eat next to a penned pig? Apparently so.

  It wasn’t long before Myra appeared in the doorway. She wore slippers, clean jeans and a checked flannel shirt, and her shoulder-length, tawny-gold hair fell in damp waves around a face scrubbed clean of makeup. Zeke hadn’t paid such close attention before. Framed in the doorway, she seemed younger and prettier than he recalled while she’d dragged him through a snowstorm.

  “Wow, something smells good. Can I help? Oh, I see you’ve even set the table. Sorry I was so long. I took time to oil the tack. Saddles and bridles are expensive. Oiled, they hold up better in the weather.”

  Zeke shook himself loose from eyeing her. “Your timing is great. Go on and choose where you normally sit. I’ll bring everything to the table.”

  Myra crossed the room and pulled out a chair. Like magic, steaming dishes began to fill up the table. Her mouth dropped open. “You made scalloped potatoes and green beans with almonds?” She blinked up at Zeke as he set a basket of homemade biscuits in front of her, followed by a slice of sirloin steak he pulled out from under the broiler.