Wes
The cows and calves aren’t too pleased at being separated. Their bellowing echoes all around the ranch, and I struggled to sleep last night. They’ll quit their bellyaching in a week or two. Until then, we’ll have to put up with the general ruckus they’re creating in the pens.
I eye my old Stetson, hanging on the wall in the spare room I’m staying in. I haven’t done a single day of roping without it. It feels like an ill omen to leave it here, even if I’m not sure how it will feel to have it on again, so I snag it off the hook and drop the hat on my head.
It’s worn and smells like leather and dust, but it feels like putting on a piece of myself I’d forgotten I missed. I glance in the mirror and shake my head at the sentimentality that’s so unlike me before hauling ass downstairs so I can get some coffee in me before we need toleave.
Pops does a double take from the little round table when he sees the Stetson on my head before hiding his grin in his coffee mug.
“Something funny, old man?” I ask.
“Oh, no. Nothin’ funny at all. Just thought I saw the ghost of a boy I used to know once upon a time.”
“That so?”
“Mm-hmm. Maybe there's some cowboy still in there after all.”
My heart pinches at that statement. I had thought the cowboy in me was long gone, but being out here has that dormant cowboy perking up in his boots again, reminding me of all the months I spent learning and working side by side with Pops on the ranch. “We’ll find out soon enough.”
“You ready to get to it?”
“Ready as I’ll ever be,” I mutter and down the coffee with a grimace. It's strong and bitter, just like Pops has always liked it. Pops can barely keep his smile contained as we head out to meet Tripp and Sawyer.
We need to drive the feeder cattle that aren't ready to be culled to the pens today so they can be vaccinated. Horses are the best way to do it out here. Pops has always liked doing things the old-fashioned way. Change isn’t something he’s a fan of, and that fact makes me think about what Sawyer said last night. That leaving the ranch would kill Pops.
It had sounded dramatic, but he doesn't know anything else. Ranching is his entire life. I know he loves it, but I can’t see a way to get around the fact that he’s getting too old to run this place on his own, even with Tripp helping daily and Sawyer lending a hand when she can.
I look up at the cloudless blue sky, the sun painting the horizon in shades of yellow and orange that reflect off the fields, lending them an echo of warmth on this cool fall morning as we pull up to Sawyer’s.
There’s a large training arena behind the stable I hadn't seen when I was changing my tire the other day, and a pen where goats are bleating in welcome. Sawyer hops off her porch in jeans and another graphic T-shirt I can’t read from here with a flannel thrown over the top and a cowgirl hat on her head. She gives a low whistle, and her dog tears around the side of the house, tongue lolling out of her mouth in a happy doggy grin.
Tripp and Pops get the horses, and I give Dixie a scratch behind her ears before wandering over to help Sawyer grab the saddles out of the tack room. She stiffens when I stride in to help, but she silently avoids my gaze, still giving me the cold shoulder after last night.
I want to tell her to get off her high horse and put herself in my shoes, but now’s not the time with Tripp and Pops listening in.
I gaze at the four horses that are snorting, hooves pawing at the sandy soil. By all accounts, they look ready to work.
“You gonna introduce me?” I ask Sawyer.
She finally swings that cool blue gaze toward me, and her eyes snag on the old Stetson that still rests on my head. I fight the urge to tear it off as she gives me a cynical once-over in jeans that cling tightly to her thighs. Her attention trails over me from head to toe before lingering on my mouth for two drawn-out heartbeats. The way she stares for these brief moments makes me grateful I wore the hat. I used to believe this thing was lucky and with Sawyer's gaze thawing as she drinks me in, I'm thinking I was right.
Her study of me is brief, but the effect lingers. My body hums under her attention, heat curling through me as her tongue darts out to wet her lips before she answers.
“June is the sorrel mare. She loves to work.”
I rein in the urge to step closer as Sawyer moves down the line to a dun mare, smaller than the rest. “This sweet little thing is Dolly. She’ssmall but mighty and hates to be left behind.” Sawyer’s features soften as Dolly nuzzles into her neck and snuffs out a breath. She strokes the horse’s nose and moves on to a dark gray gelding. “This is Willie.”
My lips twitch. “As in Nelson?”
“Of course.”
She moves toward the black gelding and strokes his nose. “And this is Cash. He’s the most tolerant of new riders, so he’ll be yours today.”
I draw back to stare and she bites back a smile at whatever face I’m making. “New rider, my ass,” I mumble. I feel the heat of indignation climbing up the back of my neck.
“Well, you haven’t been in a saddle for over a decade, so excuse me for picking a horse that won’t throw you off if you don’t know what the hell you’re doing up there, city boy.”
I scoff. “Guess I’ll just have to prove to you I still have a little country left in me after all these years.”
