1
GRAYSON
There’s no feeling more freeing than riding a horse across the land your family has owned for centuries. With the cool breeze whipping past, I push my horse, Cash, harder, before guiding him to make a sharp turn.
We’ve moved around three hundred cows today; my thighs burn from the hours in the saddle, but I still push through like I always do. The sun beats down, cruel and harsh, but it’s something we’re used to this time of year because the work never stops.
The summers are always the hardest on the ranch. Costs increase, and the work feels harder as the weather gets warmer. But we persevere, just like our ancestors did. Although, while I’d argue we have it easier, Wyatt and Kade, my brothers, would disagree.
“Woah,” I urge, pulling on the reins when one of the heifers that we’re moving into a new pasture circles back, a wild look in her wide eyes.
Cash rears up and lets out a loud snort as I grip the reins a little tighter and we move forward. The heifer falls back, her ears twitching as she submits.
“Good boy, Cash,” I soothe as the cow turns and hurries off to catch up with the other cattle.
Wyatt closes the gate, securing the lock in place as I move out of the way. I don’t stick around to check his work; instead, I ride down the fence line, checking for any damage.
A bead of sweat trickles down the center of my spine and into the fabric of my worn, dark denim jeans. It’s not even midday yet, but we’ve been out since five-thirty, and the sun is already blazing hot. I shift in my saddle, scanning the field in front of me. There isn’t much more we can do here, and I don’t know about everyone else, but I could do with getting out of this sweat-stained shirt.
“Let’s head back,” I call, my attention turning to the six men dotted around on their horses.
They’re all a version of me, worn out and weathered from the early morning work. But we get up every day because we have a purpose. To look after the land and animals that grace it.
I follow behind, ignoring the pain as we ride back to Wild Heartlands Ranch. It’s affectionately called Heartlands for the backdrop of Montana you get from every vantage point.
My ancestors built the place from the ground up when they arrived in Montana with only a dream and a few horses. Legend has it that my great-great-great-grandfather used to say, “This land doesn’t break a cowboy, it makes him.”
He was right.
This work isn’t for the faint-hearted. I’ve seen many men come and go, looking for work and thinking they’ll try something new, but they never last. Montana, as beautiful as it is, is unforgiving. This land will test you and push you to the edge.
Where many might turn on their heel and run, I live and breathe for Heartlands, for this land. I want to make sure there is something to pass on to the next generation, just like my family who came before us did.
A familiar ache settles in my chest, and I rub at the spot with one hand as I grip my reins a little tighter. There’s no use thinking about her and what could have been. It never gets me anywhere new other than in a bad headspace.
My attention shifts to Wyatt as he rides a few yards ahead of me. His hat is tipped low, his light brown hair curling at the nape of his neck and peeking out. He keeps his posture easy, despite the long day, showing none of the physical pain I’m feeling after nearly two decades of working the land. There’s no doubt about it; he was born with the grit and endurance needed of a cowboy.
I was like that once, but now, I feel every second of the six hours I’ve been sitting in this saddle, and I will for days. But I’ll push through and make sure the ranch continues, upholding my family’s legacy, just like I promised my dad I would. He passed when I was twenty-five, ten years ago, leaving me to run the ranch and look after my siblings and our mama.
“You okay there, old man?” Wyatt teases over his shoulder, a playful glint in his eye.
Trust him to pull me out of the funk I was dangerously close to slipping into. He always was a carefree wild child. Kade is quieter, more reserved and watchful. Then there’s Gracie, the baby, the one we all spoil rotten.
“Shut the hell up, Wy. When you’ve actually worked a day in your life, then you can come for me,” I grumble.
We both know that Wyatt puts in the work. Anything I task him with, he shows up and puts his all into it, but it feels different for me. There’s always been a suffocating pressure, forcing me to put my life on hold to make sure my younger siblings can live theirs.
Wyatt cocks a brow, falling in line beside me. “You know, Lacey gives a good massage.” He pauses, and I grind my teeth, waiting for him to continue. “I can get you booked in; have her ease some of those aches.”
Shaking my head, I chuckle, a smile pulling at the corner of my mouth. “The day I let your ‘happy ending’ masseuse touch me will be the day I die.”
I kick Cash, forcing him into a gallop, and we eat up the distance between us and the ranch hands, leaving Wyatt laughing in our dust.
Forty-five minutes later, we crest the last hill, the main house and barns coming into view ahead of us. From this distance, you can’t tell that the red paint on the biggest barn is chipped or that some of the wooden boards that make up the walls are a little warped, but they’re things that are somewhere on the never-ending to-do list of chores we have.
I tip my head back, staring up at the bright blue sky, the brim of my Stetson still covering my eyes from the glare of the sun. When I look back down, I can see the ranch hands we left behind clearing up the yard and Kade exercising one of the older horses in the training paddock. No doubt we’re all ready for a break and some homemade food. I know I am at least.
We ride across the last pasture and down into the yard, the familiar sounds comforting as we come to a stop. With a practiced move, I jump from Cash, wincing when my feet hit the ground. A day of sitting on my ass always makes my legs stiff, and although it feels more prominent as I get older, it’s something that comes with being a rancher, given that 80 percent of my time is spent on a horse.
