If he ever expressed interest in hearing about it in the days after Saturday night, he was met with surprise that he was willing to hear about it, and, as always, that he’d even want to be invited.
“Didn’t seem like your kind of thing,” Brody, the ranch’s head wrangler, had once said in passing.
Of course Marston would have loved to be invited, but pathetically when unasked could not bring himself to insert his presence into the mix. So he’d end up, as always, alone again. Naturally.
Which was a dumbass way for a grown man to behave, he knew that. But the idea of taking up as little space as possible and not being a bother had been instilled in him for so long, since as long as he could remember, that he tended to vanish from everybody else’s event horizon, so to speak, and his loneliness had grown.
At first, of course, he’d been thrilled to be hired by Leland Tate for the summer season. He’d be joining the team at the Comeback Ranch, which was what Farthingdale Guest Ranch was known as along the grapevine. Even in the limited circles Marston ran in, he’d heard about the time, two years prior, a guest had gone missing from the guest ranch, which the ranch into a downward spiral and the local news media into a feeding frenzy. The mystery about the missing guest deepened when he’d shown up briefly, and then disappeared again.
In spite of that, Marston wanted to work for the man who had thrown everything he had at getting the ranch back into the black, increasing staff when he could, by offering discounts when the books would allow it. Leland quickly grew a reputation for hiring only the best at the guest ranch, thus delivering the highest, glossiest dude ranch experience to each and every guest.
To be associated with that kind of place had taken Marston from a lonesome on-the-road cowboy who was good with his hands and earnest in his desire to put in an honest day’s work, to someone who was part of a highly respected team on a five-star ranch.
In the beginning, it’d been head-spinning, and he’d laughed to himself and pinched himself and felt like smiling more often than ever in his life up to that point. A sense of depression always lurked, but he kept it at bay, throwing himself into his work, his daily chores, and any tasks that Leland assigned to him on the side.
“I need the frame over the gate replaced,” Leland had said one time. “Jasper’s created a new iron sign, but the frame won’t handle it, as the new sign is heavier than the old one. So I need a new gate frame. Can you do it for me?”
“Yes, boss,” Marston had said, and set about making a new frame out of railroad ties, renting the posthole digger, buying and mixing cement. All on his own, only to find out that Leland had expected Marston to pull a few guys from their regular duties to help him.
The only part he’d needed help on was erecting the railroad ties and putting them into the newly dug holes, and even then he’d been trying to figure whether he needed to rent a crane, just to avoid bothering anyone else by asking for help.
Leland had admired the work Marston had done, then tapped Clay and Quint to help Marston finish up. Which they were happy to do.
For a day or two, Marston truly felt like part of a team. But then Clay and Quint had gone back to their regularly scheduled jobs, and Marston was on his own for the cleanup. Wood scraps in a bucket, chunks of dried cement collected. Paint properly stored in the supply shed behind the main barn.
“It’s your strength,” said Leland, obviously making a point that Marston had struggled to absorb. “But it’s your weakness, too. You can be trusted to complete any task with very little direction, which makes you a valuable asset. But you never ask for help, either, even when you should.”
“I’ll do better, boss,” said Marston, just about cringing beneath the weight of Leland’s stern expression. “Honest I will.”
“You will because you’re going to dry up,” said Leland. “You’ll miss the rest of the week, and all of next week, which is the last week of the season. I might be able to use you for shut-down, after which you and I will have another chat about where the best fit for you would be.”
The fact that Leland had not said anything aboutwhether or not you’re a good fit for the ranch, but instead,whereMarston would be a good fit, was almost like a promise that Leland wasn’t about to fire Marston outright. Sure, Marston could get a job on the road, following the rodeo, or signing up for a cattle drive, but he’d fallen in love with the idea of putting down roots, and other than feeling lonely most of the time, he’d been happy at the ranch.
To keep himself afloat, Marston had found a part-time job at the Chugwater granary, renting a room at the motel and thinking he’d eventually have to hoof it back to the slaughterhouse. It was a complete surprise when, after Leland had called Marston back to the ranch for shut-down, he’d pulled Marston into his office again, only this time with the door open.
“I’m setting up a new program,” Leland had said. “We’re going to develop the land south of the ranch to create a laid-back sleep-away camp for adults. Something relaxing and lush and high end, and I need you as one of my team leads.”
“Me?” Marston had asked, drawing back, incredulous.
“You’re good at giving direction and guidance,” Leland said. “As one of my ranch hands, I’ve seen you with guests when giving lessons. You’re very good at it. You’re also good with your hands and are just the person I want making signs in the valley.”
Leland’s proposal was that Marston be in charge of a small team who would be dedicated to creating signage and installing those signs anywhere they were needed in the valley.
When Marston suggested that maybe those signs could be made by a sign shop, of which there were several in Cheyenne, Leland shook his head no, and then explained what he was after. Which, as usual with Leland, was not at all what Marston would expect from such a straight-laced, straightforward kind of guy.
“By doing all the signs by hand,” he said, explaining in his slow and careful way, “making them unique, we’ll not only impart a sense of them being handcrafted, they’ll look antiqued as if the valley had been around for a century, giving the whole enterprise a sense of venerability. D’you see?”
Leland’s somber attitude sometimes belied the dream-maker that lurked inside of him. He was a guy with a vision that was as wide as a Wyoming sunrise that came in streaks of gold and rose over a wild and unharnessed horizon.
Leland never ceased to surprise Marston, and he let himself be caught up in the passion of the dream.
“Sure, okay,” he’d said at the time, willing to try anything to keep working for Leland Tate. Doing well at this task might currently be his last chance, but the fact that Leland was willing to give him that chance meant everything.
Only now, having spent time in his tent on Monday morning, he’d just spent going over Lomax and Hicton’s folders one more time, he was being told that they weren’t coming and that he had no team to lead.
“If we can move some men, we will,” said Gabe, not backing down, or moving away from the wooden platform of Marston’s tent, as if Marston’s glower had no effect on him whatsoever.
“So I’ve failed before I’ve even begun,” said Marston, the words coming out like a bark as he threw up his hands. It wasn’t something he’d normally have said out loud, but, once again, he was on his own.
