Jamie opened his mouth to remark how differently people in Wyoming gave directions than people in Denver. Telling Jamie to go south or west made it sound like he was about to embark on an adventure, rather than just walk along a sidewalk till he hit the middle of town. West was where the mountains were, that he did know, making it easy to get where he was going, if he just stayed alert. So with a nod of thanks, he hefted his duffle bag over his shoulder, left the bar, and started walking.
Following the directions was easy enough, and he found himself headed west on Main Street inside of two minutes. What the guy at the bar hadn’t told him was how long it was to the ranch. He had to walk a good mile beneath the bowl of blue sky before he reached the bare-board sign that saidFarthingdale Ranch.
He paused at the sign, which stood on top of two rough poles on either side of a green-painted metal gate. Dust coated him all over and he was tired. There was gravel in his old sneakers, the left sole flopping against the duct tape he’d wound around the toe. He sighed as he looked beyond the gate at the dirt road that meandered through the low scrub, a road that seemed to go on and on and was, yes, uphill. Going through and shutting the gate behind him, he changed his duffle bag to his other shoulder, and kept on walking.
Inside of half a mile in the blazing sun, he entered a group of trees and crossed a stone bridge, where water spun itself around in the air and sprayed up gusts of coolness. It was nice to finally be in the shade as he walked, and the slight June breeze through the pine trees smelled nice, much nicer than the diesel fumes of the Greyhound bus he’d taken from Greeley.
He scraped his hair out of his eyes as he walked. His feet ached, and he cursed the holes in his shoe, and the flopping sole of his left one as he went up the dirt road. The sun shone through the branches of the pine trees like dappled lace, and he might have been able to finally draw a deep breath if he wasn’t so tired. Here and there, squirrels darted, and altogether it was a whole lot more nature than he was used to.
It had been desperation that made him shell out a chunk of cash for that bus ticket to the end of nowhere, which had landed him at the edge of the world in Farthing, Wyoming. He hoped for a better life, but he had damn little hope left after learning what kind of ranch it was. What was he supposed to do now? Staring up at the sky as he paused in a bend in the road was like staring up at the opening of a deep well he was at the bottom of.
Desperation would turn into insanity because what if the guy at the Rusty Nail had been lying to him and there was no job at the ranch? Then he would be stuck in the hind end of Wyoming with no other prospect but that of returning to Denver to take up cheap work like a delivery job and maybe find another apartment to share with strangers.
At least he’d have a roof over his head. At least he’d be in a city he knew. Maybe he could even figure out a way to go back to college. But at the end of getting his degree, where would he be? Probably right where he was this very minute, walking along a dirt road, kicking up clouds of dust as he walked, no job, no home, no hope.
His sneaker came untied just as he got to the edge of the glade. Setting down his duffle, he bent to tie the laces, and then straightened up. To the left was a narrow dirt track leading up and around a small hill. Another dusty road went off to the right around a low hill that flowed along a glassy calm river. Beyond the glade, the trees opened up to a field of tall grasses, green and pale yellow in the sunlight, going on forever as fresh and as new as an untrammeled promise.
Ahead, the road went up to a round area, a dusty, lightly graveled parking lot where a few cars were parked. A low split-rail fence curved around the edges of the parking lot, with small stones lined beneath the fence, sort of as decoration. Two buildings sat side by side, tucked into the arms of a low hill. There were wooden barrels lined up in front of one of the porches for no particular reason, at least none he could figure out.
Three flag poles stood between the two buildings, one flying the American flag, the other flying the state flag of Wyoming, and a third flying what looked like the flag for the ranch, with the name of the ranch in red against white, and three pine trees curving around those letters. Beyond the parking lot, amidst cottonwoods and aspen trees, budding green in springtime, were a few more buildings. Beyond that were even more buildings, and a corral perhaps, but the trees got in the way and he couldn’t be sure.
Nothing was like a ranch as he’d imagined it, or like he’d seen in the movies, except maybe in a Disney movie. It wasn’t a cattle ranch, that was for sure. It was more like what the guy at the Rusty Nail had described: a place for fancy people to go to escape their own lives, spread over acres and acres of land.
One of the closer buildings had a sign on the door, so he figured he would go up to that and check it out to see if anyone was inside who could give him a thumbs up on that job. Not that he had any experience with ranches at all, no way. But here he was, all walked out. What other option did he have?
As he mounted the wooden steps of first building, he would have paid his last dime for a glass of water, which would be stupid, because where was more cash going to come from if they didn’t hire him? A friendly moose?
The wooden sign on the wall next to the door indicated the building was the ranch office and welcome center. But the paper sign on the door said someone named Maddy had gone on an errand and would be back later, and that Bill had gone to Chugwater to take care of some permits and would also be back later. Which was when, exactly?
The place looked deserted. Although he could hear sounds in the air, they shifted around him and he couldn’t pin them down. It was not quite lunchtime, but maybe people were eating already or something?
He had no idea how ranches worked, or even, really, what it would feel like to have a regular sit down meal again. His last sit down meal had been days ago, the night before he’d handed in his notice. He’d eaten his favorite meal at a diner, breakfast for dinner, biscuits and gravy. His mouth watered as he thought of it, the salty taste, the spices. Then he’d headed to the Greyhound station and shelled out cash for as far as he dared go.
Giving himself a shake, he hefted the duffle to his other shoulder, and went back down the wooden steps to the parking lot.
The other building was a store of some kind, but though it was open, people in stores rarely liked people coming in without the intention of buying anything. Though he probably could get a bottle of water, in a place like this, with sky-high prices, well. He was better off finding a water hose and getting a drink off that. Water from a hose in early June was just about the best tasting water anyhow, and he would save a few bucks besides.
Going on up the road, he staggered through a little copse of aspens, bright green at the tip of each slender branch, and found himself in another open area. The blue sky blazed above him, and a jagged, rusty-edged mountain stood stark against the cloudless sky in the distance to the west. Ahead, through the trees, he could see more buildings. A lodge maybe, or perhaps it was a barn, people in cowboy hats going into them.
He thought he could smell something cooking, but he couldn’t tell where that was coming from, though his stomach stood up and growled and demanded to be fed. To the right, as he walked along, was something that looked like an open fire pit with hay bales and rocks circled around it. Beyond that was a glassy pond, fed by the creek water, draining away to a bright, sparkling creek. Beyond that were more trees, open fields, and a whole lot of sky.
It was all quite pretty and somebody had probably put a lot of thought into the layout, planting trees between buildings all the time, but it also meant he had no idea where to go next. The ranch seemed to spread out forever and forever, and he was just too tired to want to walk any further.
He passed what looked like a giant hotel made of logs and stone; two people sat on the shady porch with glasses of wine and laughed out loud, maybe at him. Jamie kept walking, eager to enter the shade of pine trees once more. As he stepped out of the glade, he saw a barn-looking building, where one man on a horse was talking to another man standing next to the horse.
The tall guy on the horse had long legs and broad shoulders, and wore the same kind of crisp-collared blue shirt that the ranch guy at the meat packing plant had. This man looked completely at home as he patted the neck of the horse, which was a tan color with a black mane and tail. The other guy looked up at the taller guy as they talked, their cowboy hats bobbing as they nodded in agreement over something.
The tall guy pulled on the reins to circle the horse around, and the other guy pointed at the horse’s hooves, or maybe he was pointing at the saddle, which looked shiny and new.
As Jamie got closer, he could see that the guy on the horse was handsome in a tough, cowboy way, sitting there in that saddle on that horse like he knew he was cock of the walk. Or maybe that’s just the way it was with cowboy guys when they sat in saddles, which made his shoulders look even more broad than they probably were, his hips tucked beneath him, rounding his ass, drawing his blue jeans tight.
Jamie shouldn’t be staring, but of course he did, at that hard jawline and those blue eyes glinting at him from beneath the brim of his straw cowboy hat. Jamie recognized the posture right away. It was one of appraisal and, of course, a total lack of approval.
He looked down at himself, at his scuffed sneakers where the one shoelace was already coming untied again, at his dust-covered blue jeans, his thin black leather thrift-store jacket with the ragged cuffs, and finally, his t-shirt. He had purchased an egg sandwich from the bodega at the bus station, but he’d been startled to hear the bus was leaving, all of a sudden, and so the sandwich had fallen out of his hand, leaving stains on the shirt. He felt a bit like a bum in their midst.
He’d not taken the time to clean up, even though he had a clean t-shirt in his duffle. Well, it was too late now. Mr. Tall was riding right up to him, directing the horse with a purposeful air, probably with a broad-shouldered intent to throw Jamie out on his ass, right then and there.
3
