Easton surveys the scene quickly, his eyes tracking the grazing cattle, a tinge of nervous unease creeping in as we spread out.
’Bout to see what he’s made of.
Herding isn’t about brute force. It’s about pressure and anticipation. Easton starts strong, guiding his horse to block a steer attempting to veer off. But he overcorrects and pushes too hard. One of the younger calves bolts and nearly slips past the tree line.
“Easy!” I shout.
He reins back hard, but the calf darts between him and Knox.
“You tryin’ to steer him to Idaho?” Knox teases with a whistle.
Easton mutters under his breath, and I can’t help but laugh. “You sure you’ve done this before?” I taunt over the rustling of the cattle separating us.
He shoots a glare at me, and I can tell I’ve hit a nerve. “I spent time on ranches as a kid. I didn’t say I was good at it.”
“Clearly!”
He makes another attempt, this time approaching slower, taking a better angle, and using less force.Still, not great.
“Think like water,” I shout. “Not like a wall. Ease them where you want them.”
He purses his lips and clenches his jaw, but heeds my advice. Adjusting his path, he eases pressure instead of trying to be brute force, and the cattle respond more predictably.
“Better,” I admit, begrudgingly.
One of the steers—a big, mean bastard—breaks hard toward the creek bank. The dirt running along the steep slope is slippery, like wet clay. If he goes down, we’ll have a problem. I start to angle toward it, but Easton is closer. He doesn’t hesitate, spurring forward and cutting the steer off with surprisingly sharp precision. His horse pivots cleanly, blocking the steer’s path just enough to redirect without spooking it further. It snorts, tosses its head, then reluctantly turns back to the small group.
Caught up watching him, I slow and nearly lose a calf of my own as Easton guides the animal calmly into the fold like he’s done it a hundred times.
Knox whistles. “Well, I’ll be damned.”
“Good job,” Deacon agrees with a slight tip of his hat.
We finish the drive without further incident, guiding the cattle toward the main pasture as the sun climbs high in the sky. The frost has melted, leaving the grass damp and shining.
On the ride back, Knox and Deacon pull ahead, arguing about something that sounds a lot like fantasy football, as Easton and I fall into step a few lengths behind them. For a while, we ride in silence. It’s not awkward, but it isn’t exactly comfortable, either.
“You were right.” He speaks first.
“About what?”
“Water. Not a wall.”
I glance over to find his gaze settled firmly on the horizon again, his expression thoughtful but his eyes distant. “You learn quick.”
“Good teacher.” He smirks faintly.
I huff a quiet laugh as the ranch house comes into view in the distance, smoke rising from the chimney.
“You don’t totally suck as a cowboy,” I offer the halfhearted praise. “Don’t let it go to your head, though.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it.”
Squeezing my legs tighter against Daisy, I click my tongue. “Race ya, boys.” My horse jerks forward, quickly passing Deacon and Knox, and I shout over my shoulder, “Last one back untacks the horses!”
“Cheater!” Knox yells, quick on my heel.
The four of us race the last stretch, the midday sun warming our backs, and I find myself wondering, what exactly brought Easton Callahan here?
