I bring it back to the stable and opt for waiting until he’s moved on from the water to fill it. It’ll need to be taken from the pen and filled away over here.
“Do you want me to saddle him for you?”
I look over my shoulder, taking in the obvious fear flashing on Brock’s face. He clearly didn’t mean his offer. The other hands would be cleaning his shit off the dirt instead of the horses if he tried.
“No.”
“He’s been in there all night.”
“Yep.”
“So . . . you’re not going to ride him?”
“No. He’s not ready.”
“When will he be?”
I lean my front against the railing, watching as the horse abandons the water tub and goes back to the far side of the pen, resuming his pacing.
“Not for a while yet. I don’t want you doing anything for this one. No food, no water. Don’t open the fucking gate either.”
“Are you going to be able to help him?”
Pushing away from the fence, I raise my arms above my head and stretch. My forehead is already slick beneath my hat as the sun warms the ranch quickly.
“I’ll help him. We don’t give up on horses here,” I say, a lethal edge to my words.
Brock’s swallow is audible. “Got it.”
“Tell the other kids what I told you. If they don’t listen, they’ll be lucky to wind up in the hospital instead of dead on the dirt.”
He pales, and I’m glad to see it. Means he’s listening to me. Working here sounds fun when you’re a high school kid looking to make some money hanging around horses in the sun all summer, but they learn quickly it’s not that simple. There are risks with this job, and they’re far deadlier than flipping burgers or telling ghost stories at a summer camp.
“Okay,” he mutters, nodding too quickly.
I move around his partially hunched figure and leave him standing there. The holler of deep voices from down the roadsnags my attention. Otis leads the pack, his old knees probably creaking with his slightly limped steps. His brown hat is tipped low on his face as he puffs his cigarette and punches Tanner’s arm when he spits what I know is the chew he always keeps in his lip.Nasty habit.
The wranglers nod at me as they pass on their way into the stable, but it’s Otis who lingers back a few steps. I don’t say a word as I lead him to the side of the stable, but he follows nonetheless.
“Morning, Rowe. You look like shit again.”
The smell of the smoke puffing out of his mouth makes my muscles stiffen, memories of fighting for prison cigarettes trying to fill my head. Tonguing my cheek, I snatch the smoke from between his lips and drop it to the dirt, crushing beneath my boot.
“Need more hay in the feed room,” I snap, chest tight.
Otis’s brow twitches before rising, squinting as the sun crests behind my head. “Early morning chores?”
“Fed the penned horse. Not fucking chores.”
“What’s your plan with that thing?”
“Gonna be slow work. I’ve got a show in Lethbridge this weekend I’ll be gone for. I’ll try and get him alright with being fed by others by then.”
Otis nods, leaning back on his foot. “You run that by your dad?”
“I’m thirty-three,” I grunt, wishing I’d kept his smoke so I could have puffed on it.
Not to mention, he wants me performing. Anything to bring in money for the ranch. Bucking on horses at shows with the Painted Sky name branded all over the chutes and winning has always been the only way I’ve captured even a sliver of his approval. Now that my sentence is officially done, I can travel outside of Alberta, which means even more money for him.
