After pulling into the snowplow turnaround, I check the area for signs of wildlife that Tater might go after before letting her out of the truck into the dark.
“No squirrels, missy. Or skunks. We’re almost home.”
Tater barks once before bouncing off and sniffing along the edge of the woods.
Home. Such a weird word. But that’s what you call a place you leave your possessions, I suppose. I’ve not had a real home in a long time.
The trailer door creaks when I swing it open, and Wilbur huffs his greeting with a stamp of his foot.
“I know, boy. It’s been a long day for me, too.” He backs out of the trailer just as easily as he always does, and I tie him to the side with fresh water and hay. Tater bounces along at her buddy’s feet, being a pain in the ass, and I have to close her in the truck cab before she tries to eat horse shit. Again.
I love her, but not when she smells like a horse’s back end while panting in my face.
The evening is quiet, and traffic is minimal along this final stretch of highway. I don’t know why I never considered moving earlier. Nothing tethered me to the expanse of prairies in northern Manitoba, except the gorgeous sunsets I’d grown to love.
It’s likely I just kept returning because it’s where my first home was. Family was complicated. There were no ties obligating me to stay. Especially after my grandfather died.
I was married once, and that didn’t turn out as great as the movies make it out to be. I suspect we just weren’t a good match, and that’s why things went sour. I had loved him with everything in my heart, but I guess that wasn’t enough.
So, yeah, returning home to Manitoba no longer held an appeal, and the drives to the best rodeos were a killer. Kissing Ridge is smack in the middle of rodeo central, and it makes sense for it to be my home base. Plus, the offer of a job during the off-season with the new rodeo training facility was something I couldn’t turn down.
Before re-trailering Wilbur, I lean on the side of my truck and look up at the night sky. It’s the same sky I’d see in Northern Manitoba, but it looks different here. More clear? Maybe hopeful? Not that I need anything to hope for. I have all I need with Tater, Wilbur, and Rodeo.
But maybe one day I can think of more again.
With a sigh, I run a hand down Wilbur’s side. His skin ripples, and he twitches an ear before turning his black head towards me. The best non-human friend I’ve had. Wilbur has been my rock for the last ten years. He’s better than most people, and even though he doesn’t talk, I know he loves me.
“We’ll be okay, boy.”
I’m not sure if I say that for his benefit or mine, but I feel a little more right since I did. You’d think a decent bronc rider like me wouldn’t need reassurance over anything, but you’d be wrong.
Wilbur goes back into the trailer like he knows the faster he’s settled, the faster he gets out, and I slide back behind the wheel.
Tater settles with a huff, propping her head on the passenger door, watching the darkness go by. Dogs don’t seem as bothered as humans to never have a permanent place to settle. A wandering lifestyle seems to suit them as long as they have their human with them. Tater certainly never complains about our frequent changes in living arrangements.
Tater turns her head, like she knows what I’m thinking about her, and I chuckle in the truck cab’s silence. “Are you happy, Tater?”
Tail thumping on the seat, she crosses quickly and settles her head on my lap. Her ears are soft and soothing under my hand as I pet her head. As the truck tires hum along the pavement, bringing me closer to Kissing Ridge, I feel a contentment wash over me.
This is the right thing.
The right place.
The right choice.
Tater and Wilbur might be all I have that I cherish, but they deserve a nice life, too. Kissing Ridge and the cowboys I’ve come to know a little on the rodeo circuit seem like stand-up guys. They’ve been nothing but kind. When Hunter reached out about the job—a job that would fill the winter months doing something I loved—it was the sign I couldn’t ignore that maybe it was time to break away from the stagnant life I’ve lived for so long.
This is fresh and new. And a little nerve-inducing, but it’s a cowboy town. I’ll fit right in.
When I finally pull into Hunter’s ranch, my brows furrow at the number of vehicles in the yard. Several trucks and a car sit in a line in front of the farmhouse, and the porch light shines a welcoming glow in the yard. He didn’t warn me he had company, but I hope I’m not intruding.
After parking close to the barn and making a quick promise to the animals that I’ll be right back, I approach the door of the rambling farmhouse and knock.
A voice rings out, Hunter’s, I think, yelling that the door is open and to come in. I do, and I’m greeted with the sounds of a gathering in full swing. Voices and laughter fight with each other to be heard, as I wonder if I should walk down the hall or just call out.
“Uh, sorry if I’m interrupting, but Hunter is expecting me.”
The chatter of voices falls silent as Hunter walks down the short hallway toward me. In socked feet, with a drink in his hand and no cowboy hat, he’s warmer than usual, and I wonder if it’s because he’s been drinking or if this is how he usually is. Relaxed and friendly rather than the man with a cutting glare and sharp tongue for business matters.
