From the Boots Up

by Marquette, Andi

  Anna giggled as she reached for another carrot.

  Meg grinned. “I guess I might need to work on that a little bit.”

  “Don’t hurt yourself,” Alice said with a smile.

  Anna finished with the carrots and put them in a plastic tub that she carried into the walk-in. She had to duck her head, since she was pushing six feet tall. She’d never played team sports, for which her height probably would have served well. She was, however, an excellent barrel racer.

  “I’m not going to screw this up,” Meg said. It still stung a little, that her dad thought she might.

  “No, you’re not.” Alice brought the plate over to her. It looked like something out of a food magazine, with the pickle and chips arranged artfully around the sandwich halves.

  Meg smiled. “Thanks. I love your sandwiches.”

  She squeezed her shoulder. “Iced tea?”

  “Yes, please.” She turned so she faced the counter and bit into the sandwich. Alice made the best. “How is it that your sandwiches always taste so good?” She said after she’d swallowed.

  “Made with love.” Alice winked as she put a glass of tea and a napkin on the counter next to Meg’s plate.

  “You’re the best-kept secret in the West. Please don’t ever leave us. But if you do, mention the Diamond Rock on your cooking show.”

  She laughed and went to clean up. “You’re your father’s daughter.”

  Meg continued to eat, Anna and Alice chatting amiably behind her. When she finished, she took the plate into the dishwashing room then went back into the kitchen where Alice was checking the chili. Anna must have gone into the dining room, because one of the swinging doors was moving.

  Alice handed her a spoon. “One taste. No double-dipping.”

  She laughed and took a spoonful, holding it over her cupped left hand so none would spill. She blew on it and tasted it. “Oh, my God. Best. Chili. Ever.” She finished the spoonful and Alice took the utensil from her.

  “Make sure you tell the reporter that.”

  “I won’t have to. One taste will prove it.”

  Alice set the spoon aside and continued to stir one of the big pots on the stove.

  “He’s still acting weird,” Meg said after a few more moments.

  She stopped stirring and gave Meg her full attention. “About your break-up with Amanda?”

  She nodded.

  “He’ll come around.”

  “I think he’s hoping that I was just experimenting, and now I’ll go find a boyfriend.”

  “He also just wants to make sure you’re happy.” She reached up and brushed Meg’s hair out of her face, like a mom might. “Sweetie, your dad loves you more than life itself. But he’s a little traditional in some ways, and it’ll just take him a little bit to get used to the idea. Parents always have expectations for their children, and he’s having to revise some about you.”

  “I feel like I screwed up. Maybe I shouldn’t have told him.” A knot tightened in her chest, and she hated this wedge that seemed to have come between her dad and her.

  Alice pulled her into a hug. “You had to. Because this is part of you, and it’s not healthy to keep that all bottled up inside. I’m proud of you, for telling not only your dad but your mom.”

  Meg groaned as Alice released her. “I’m supposed to call her.”

  She gave her a sympathetic smile. “You are who you are, and you’re choosing to live your life on your terms.”

  “She doesn’t like my terms.”

  Well, it’s not for her to decide, is it?”

  “She makes it seem that way.”

  “You’ll get through.” She pecked her on the cheek. “Come and talk to me later tonight if you want.”

  Meg nodded. “Thanks.”

  Anna came back into the kitchen and Meg waved at her before she moved to the back door, where she retrieved her hat before she went outside. Across from the dining room and kitchen about thirty yards away stood the two-story structure dubbed “the motel,” modeled after a Northwoods hunting lodge for the guests, its rooms accessible from the outside. Covered verandas sheltered the walkways. Her father lived in quarters just off the office building, also across from the motel, and the hands lived in bunkhouses. All the structures surrounded a large packed-dirt parking area, like wagons circling a campsite.

  She took the outside steps of the lodge to the second floor, where she lived. She alone occupied this level, unless they had extra guests. Otherwise, she kept the extra rooms closed up. Maybe the reporter’s story would bring them enough business that they’d be able to open these extra rooms. Her bootheels made hollow sounds on the wood and the metal roof of the veranda creaked and popped in the sun. She sighed as she opened the heavy wooden door into her foyer, hung her hat on one of the pegs near the entrance, and walked down the hallway toward her bedroom, where she kept a phone.

  Two

  “Looks like we’re in luck with a reporter,” Stan said as he leaned against the corral’s fence next to Meg. She’d been watching Jackson work with a horse, along with a few of their current guests, who weren’t within earshot.

  She smiled with relief, because it was already Tuesday.

  “She’s supposed to get in this Friday.”

  Another woman. Could be a good thing or a bad thing, depending on whether Davey took a shine to her or not. He could be kind of charming, but also kind of annoying. “Does someone need to go pick her up at the airport?” she asked.

  “No. She’s got her own transportation, apparently.”

  “Who is it?”

  “Don’t know. But the editor assured me that she’ll get here Friday.” He pushed the brim of his hat back a bit from his forehead. She’ll be here a week, which I guess is a full immersion experience or whatever they call it these days.” He shrugged.

  She nodded. A week on ultra super-good, keep-everything-perfect behavior. A week with Stan on high alert. “It’ll be fine. You’ll see.”

  He looked at her, surprised.

  “Alice said so.”

  He laughed. “Oh, well, then it must be true.”

  “Hey, if anyone would know, it’d be her.”

  He nodded and watched Jackson. “Yep. It would.” He looked back at her. “I need you to make a couple runs to the feed store this week. And on Wednesday, could you go to Laramie and pick up a couple of saddles I dropped off last month for repair?”

  “Sure. Do we need anything else from Laramie?” She’d combine one of the feed store trips with the Laramie trip.

  “Nah. Don’t want you having to run around the big city too long.” He gave her a grin.

  “Yeah. Booming metropolis of Laramie. Scary, trying to find my way around.”

  “Speaking of finding your way around, can you go with Davey this afternoon for a horseback tour? I’ve got nine people on the schedule.”

  “Yep.”

  “Thanks.” He squeezed her shoulder. “It’s not so bad, having you around,” he said, droll.

  “Yeah, well, it’s not so bad hanging out with you, either.” She poked him in the arm.

  “And I’m sorry about what I said the other day. I know you won’t screw anything up when the reporter’s here. I’m just a little—”

  “Stressed. I know.”

  He gave her a sly look. “But no snipe hunting with the reporter.”

  Meg laughed. “Damn, I was going to take her out with the kids. See if we could catch one. Maybe she could get a photo of the elusive snipe. Along with a jackalope.”

  He chuckled and gave her a quick squeeze around the shoulders. “Davey’ll be saddling up in about an hour.”

  “Okay. I’ll go help.”

  “Thanks, hon. See you at dinner.”

  She watched him walk over to chat with some of the guests, then headed for the horse pens and stables to help get set up for the trail ride. She checked the paddock on the way. Davey had already saddled three horses and he was in the stable when she walked in.

  “Hey.
You gonna be my riding partner today?” he asked.

  “Yep.”

  “Cool. I’ve got Jester, Jim, Tom, Spots, and Dex ready for saddling.” He took his baseball cap off and ran his hand through his close-cropped hair. He was just twenty-one, but he already had the tight, rangy build of a guy who spent a lot of time working outdoors. In twenty years, he’d probably have the classic Marlboro Man look to him. He brushed his faded blue tee off and took a drink from a water bottle he’d placed on a nearby hay bale.

  She draped a bridle and bit over her shoulder than pulled a saddle off its sawhorse and walked it out to the horses. Dex was closest, so she saddled him first.

  “Heard we’re gonna get a reporter after all,” Davey said from behind her.

  “Yeah. She’s supposed to be here Friday.”

  “She?”

  Meg rolled her eyes but Davey didn’t see because her back was to him and she was focused on adjusting Dex’s belly strap.

  “Yeah. She’s about sixty-eight, wears frumpy dresses, and plays bridge. She’s hoping a few of the folks here are into that.”

  “Bet she’s not. Bet she’s a babe. California girl, after all. Bet she’s blond, and that she wears tight jeans.”

  At least he didn’t talk about her boobs. Meg turned toward him. “No fraternization, dude,” she said with a surfer accent. “That’s the rule.”

  “There’s no rule against looking. Or talking.” He gave her a toothy grin, edged with a little bit of flirtatiousness, which probably would have worked on a straight girl. Davey had that kind of charm to him.

  “Is that all you ever think about?” She turned back to Dex and fitted the bit into his mouth.

  “What? I’m a healthy young guy.”

  “There’s more to a woman than tits and ass,” she said as she worked the bridle over Dex’s head.

  “Oh, I know. Believe me, I know.”

  She shook her head and looped the reins loosely around the saddle horn.

  “C’mon, Meg,” he said with his “aw shucks” tone. “You know I’m only teasing. But I do appreciate a woman’s assets.”

  “I’ll bet. But the reporter’s are off-limits.”

  “No harm in looking.” He flashed her another grin and retreated to the stable for another saddle. She shook her head and patted Dex’s neck. It was going to be hard enough being under an outsider’s scrutiny for a week, trying to make light conversation when your every word was up for examination. Unless she was Davey’s type. In which case it wouldn’t be such a bad thing for him to do a little flirting with her. It would keep her off Meg’s back, at least. On the other hand, it might annoy the hell out of her, if he wouldn’t leave her alone. She’d have to keep an eye on the situation, regardless. She gave Dex another pat and went to get another saddle.

  Highway 230 in southern Wyoming cruised north over the rolling prairie of the North Platte River Valley that spread-eagled between the Medicine Bows to the east and the Rockies to the west. The road jagged through Riverside and became 130 on its journey north into Saratoga, population about seventeen hundred, and distance about fifteen miles from Diamond Rock Ranch.

  This time, however, Meg approached Saratoga from the north, because she’d had to go to Laramie to pick up the saddles Stan had requested. So she’d taken I-25 north-northwest from there to Walcott, and turned south onto 130. She hit the outskirts of town twenty miles later and slowed. Saratoga maintained a loose-limbed western feel, as if the original Anglo newcomers had just decided to park their wagons among the tall cottonwoods and Chinese elms then build houses nearby, keeping a respectable distance from neighbors. Downtown, which encompassed barely a few blocks, was easy to find off Highway 130, a main artery, and once Meg got past the residential areas on the outskirts of town, she hit the area zoned for businesses, too.

  Several locals gave her the quintessential rural wave—a raised index finger off the steering wheel of a pickup—and she returned the greeting in kind. Tourist vehicles she recognized, as well. Those were the sport sedans, usually with out-of-state-plates. They came for the fishing and outdoor recreation, including Saratoga’s mineral hot springs. The North Platte River flowed through town, and it harbored some of the most active in the state, known among Indians for generations before the city fathers harnessed it in the late nineteenth century and created an outdoor municipal pool, the Hobo Hot Pool, free of charge, for sitting and soaking. If you wanted to pay a little more, you could indulge in the nearby resort, just off downtown. Meg had enjoyed both over the years, though now that she was in school, she didn’t get back enough to do it. Maybe if she got a little time off later this summer, she could. She’d also recommend the springs to the reporter, give everybody a break at the ranch from scrutiny.

  She pulled Stan’s big Ford F-350 off 130 into the dirt parking lot of Saratoga Feed and parked right near the entrance. She got out and stretched, the afternoon sun of mid-May warm on her back through her tee. A couple of older guys leaned against a beat-up blue Chevy truck nearby. One, with features as craggy as a canyon wall, nodded at her in greeting as she walked toward the store’s entrance. She gave him an answering nod before she went in.

  “Hey, Chet,” she said to one of the men behind the counter as she approached. He was a living embodiment of a Wyoming landscape—big, raw-boned, wind-blown. His voice rumbled from his chest like a train. He’d been doing business with her father longer than she’d been alive.

  “Meg. Good to see you. When did you get in?”

  “Couple weeks ago. Had to finish up finals.”

  He nodded, approving. “Your dad says you got straight As again.”

  “I did.” She gave him a grin. Worked her ass off, but it was worth it.

  “Good to hear it. Vet school still in your plans?” he asked as he pushed the brim of his worn ball cap back on his forehead a bit. The Justin Boots logo on the crown was wearing off. It said “stin Boot”.

  “Yep. I’d like to stay at CSU, but I’ll apply to a few others.” She handed him the list of items her father had requested. “Unless I decide to be a bull rider, of course.”

  He smiled. “Taking any classes this summer?”

  “Nope. But that’s okay ’cause I’ll still graduate in December.” And she was already preparing for her classes, with a reading list she’d put together before the previous semester had ended.

  “I reckon there’ll be a hell of a party this side of the Tetons after your last semester.” He glanced down at Meg’s list.

  “Well, you’re invited,” Meg said.

  “Much obliged. Where are you parked?”

  “Right out front.”

  “All right. Give us a few.”

  A bow-legged older man plunked two new pairs of leather gloves and two tins of gall salve on the counter. A young man Meg vaguely recognized rang up the items while Chet took care of her list.

  Two more locals approached the counter with items in hand and she turned to wander down the aisles. The feed store was as familiar to her as home. She loved how it smelled like the barns on the ranch, a pungent mixture of molasses from omolene and other animal chows, alfalfa, and leather. She studied the shelves of fly and lice control products and listened to random snippets of conversation about the things that mattered here. Weather, cattle health, livestock for sale, who was sick, who just had a baby. Cycles of life and death, the natural rhythms of lives lived close to the land.

  She never got tired of it, and she knew that this would always be home, as much a part of her as her bones and blood. Maybe that was another reason that she and her mom didn’t see eye to eye. Meg had too much Wyoming in her, too much West, like her dad and his dad and his dad. Her mom had been the newcomer, the outsider, and she couldn’t find purchase in the hard-packed ethos of a state that hadn’t moved too far past its pioneer beginnings. She grimaced.

  That and the gay thing.

  “All right, got you all loaded up,” Chet said, clumping toward her. He handed her the list.

  She fo
llowed him back to the counter, where the young man was helping an attractive blonde woman wearing skin-tight Wranglers and dark blue ropers. Meg let her gaze wander down the other woman’s back. Not quite her type, but nice to look at. Definitely Davey’s type, though. And he’d let this woman know, too, if he were here. What he lacked in subtlety he made up for with good humor, at least.

  “Here’s the invoice,” Chet said as he tore it off the printer. “Good to see you. Come and bother us again.” He winked as he handed her the paper. “And practice that bull riding.”

  “Maybe I’ll test it out at Frontier Days,” she deadpanned as she folded the invoice and slid it into her back pocket.

  Chet chuckled. “You do that.”

  She grinned and left, but held the front door open for an older woman carrying a box. “Thank you, honey,” she said.

  Meg nodded at her and headed to the truck. A gray Nissan Pathfinder was parked next to the driver’s side and she noticed that it listed at an odd angle in the back. She watched as the left back end started to rise. Somebody was jacking it up. Flat tire, probably. She went around the vehicle to see if she could help.

  A woman was concentrating on the motion of the jack as she cranked the handle, one knee in the dirt. Meg approved. She appreciated a woman who didn’t mind getting her jeans dirty.

  “Hey,” Meg said.

  The stranger looked up and brushed a lock of dark hair off her forehead. “Hi,” she replied.

  Meg stared at her for a moment, transfixed by her dark eyes, and the warmth that sparked within. “Need some help?” she managed.

  “Not sure there’s much you can do. Kind of a one-person job.” She smiled up at her.

  “True. Okay. . .how about I get your spare?” She returned the smile, and her palms were suddenly sweaty.

  “Thanks. In the back, underneath the mat. It’s open.” She resumed cranking and Meg turned to the back of the truck. The back window was indeed open, and the tailgate was down, as well.

  “Okay if I move your stuff here?” she asked.