Only this time, I don’t believe him.
FOURTEEN
JESSE
I watchAubree run away from me. Everything in my body is screaming to stop her, but I can’t. There are things I have to do tonight to get prepared for our next job. Looking back at the feed sitting there, I sigh. It’ll still be there tomorrow.
Truett comes into the barn, water dripping from the brim of his hat. “Are you ready? You got rid of Aubree?”
“Yeah, she’s back up at the house. Pissed her off, so she’s not coming to look for either of us for a while.”
He laughs because he probably thinks I did it to keep her from being interested in where we’re going tonight. He doesn’t think about us actually having an issue with each other. Clapping me on the shoulder, he gives me a grin. “Good job. Now we don’t have to lie. Well, at least until I get back to the house tonight.”
Lying. It’s what we’ve done since our parents died. It’s what we’ve had to do. Those first few months and years were lean. No one knew how bad it was, though, because we didn’t let on. I’ll never forget how fucked we realized we were when we took a look at the financials for both of our ranches. Our parents were living on credit, and they owed everyone, which means we did too.
Needless to say, two young kids, trying to keep their families together, made decisions, and for better or worse, they’re what have kept us going.
“Can you drive?” Truett asks. “Your dad’s old truck still runs, and the last thing we need is for someone to see us.”
“Yeah, let’s head on out.”
My dad’s old truck stays in the garage behind the barn, just in case we need it. We both grab jackets and head out into the storm that’s still raging.
The rain hits us like a wall as we make our way across the yard. Lightning illuminates the landscape in brief, stark flashes, and thunder rolls across the valley like God’s own fury. Weather like this is perfect for what we’re doing. It keeps honest folks inside and provides cover for those of us who aren’t so honest anymore.
The garage door groans as I pull it open. Dad’s old Chevy sits there like a sleeping beast, covered in dust and regret. I run my hand along the hood, remembering when he taught me to drive in this thing. Back when I thought I’d follow in his footsteps, be the kind of man who built things instead of stealing them.
“You getting sentimental on me?” Truett asks as he climbs into the passenger seat.
“Just thinking.”
“Don’t. Thinking gets us in trouble.”
The engine turns over on the third try, rumbling to life with a deep growl that reminds me of better times. I back out into the storm, headlights cutting through the darkness as we head toward the county road.
“Tell me about the Morrison place again,” I say as we drive.
“Three hundred head of Black Angus, mostly heifers. They graze the north pasture closest to the road.” Truett pulls out a crumpled piece of paper with notes scrawled across it. “Old man Morrison’s been in the hospital for two weeks with a heartattack. His son Jimmy’s trying to run things, but he’s green as grass and dumber than a fence post.”
“Security?”
“One ranch hand lives on the property, but his trailer’s on the south end, at least two miles from where we’ll be working. No cameras that I could see when I drove by yesterday.”
We’ve been planning this job for three weeks. The Morrison ranch sits in Jefferson County, just far enough away that no one would immediately suspect us, but close enough that we can get cattle moved and sold before anyone notices they’re gone. It’s not the first time we’ve done this, and it won’t be the last.
The guilt eats at me sometimes, especially when I see the fear in other ranchers’ eyes at the feed store or the diner. These are good people, hardworking folks just trying to make an honest living. But then I think about the stack of overdue bills on my kitchen table, the bank notices, the threat of losing everything my family built, and the guilt gets pushed down deep where it can’t touch me.
“How many you thinking?” I ask.
“Ten, maybe twelve. Enough to make it worth our while, but not so many they’ll be missed right away.”
The windshield wipers fight against the rain as we drive deeper into the countryside. This part of South Dakota is all rolling hills and barbed wire, ranch land that stretches to the horizon under normal circumstances. Tonight, the world ends twenty feet in front of our headlights.
“You ever think about what our parents would say if they could see us now?” I ask.
Truett is quiet for a long moment. “Every damn day. But they’re not here to see the bills pile up or watch us lose everything they worked for. They’re not here to figure out how to keep food on the table or make payroll for the hands. Notto mention, they left us with a fucking mess. What were we supposed to do?”
“We could have found another way.”
