“Used to be cattle out here,” he said. “You ever work with livestock?”
“Not cattle,” I said, thinking of the goats I’d fed at a summer camp job when I was sixteen. “I always wanted to, though. My folks had chickens, but that’s about it.”
He eyed me, then went back to wrestling the wire. “You learn quick. That’s good.”
We crossed the open ground, then dipped into a stand of pines where the earth went dark and root-tangled. It was quieter here, the wind breaking up in the branches, the air thick with sap and decay.
I let myself fall a few steps behind, just to watch how Rawley moved through the trees. He was built for this—every motion direct, no wasted energy, like he could walk all day and never tire. I envied it, but more than that, I admired it.
After an hour, we reached the river: a narrow ribbon of clear water running fast over stones, banks scabbed with last year’s cattails and willow. The old fence stopped at the water’s edge, and Rawley scanned the other side, looking for a crossing.
“We’ll wade it,” he said. “It’s cold, but not deep. You good?”
I nodded, and he led the way, stepping into the current with no hesitation. The water bit through my boots, but I clenched my teeth and followed. By the time we climbed the far bank, my toes were numb, but the adrenaline masked most of it.
We took a break under a fallen log, and I dug out my thermos, pouring coffee into the lid. Rawley declined, but watched as I drank, his gaze never quite meeting mine, but always near.
I filled the silence with talk. “My grandpa’s farm was smaller than this—only fifteen acres, but it felt huge when I was a kid. He let me plant my own row of beans every year. Called it my ‘harvest share.’”
Rawley nodded, looking off toward the horizon. “You close with him?”
“Yeah. He died when I was twelve. After that, my folks sold the land. Said it was too much work for not enough money.” I sipped coffee, feeling my throat tighten. “They moved us to a subdivision. I didn’t fit in there.”
He grunted. “People like us don’t fit anywhere. Not unless we make the space ourselves.”
That caught me off guard. I glanced at him, but he was staring at the distant hills, eyes narrowed against the sun.
I shifted gears. “You ever run a place this big before?”
He shook his head. “No. I was always moving. SEALs, then security jobs. Never in one spot for more than a year. I figured I’d die in the sand or the jungle, not on a ranch in Montana.”
“Do you like it?”
He thought about it. “It’s honest work. No bullshit. The land gives back what you put in.”
I smiled. “I always thought so, too.”
We finished the coffee and got back to it. The walk back followed the river, the path muddy and slick. At one point, I slipped, boots skidding out from under me. I caught myself, but not before landing in a heap, knees and palms coated with black, peaty muck.
Rawley laughed, a rough bark that made the birds scatter. He offered me a hand, and I took it, his grip strong enough to lever me upright with one pull. The contact lingered for a beat longer than necessary, and my pulse went crazy.
He let go, then reached into his pocket and handed me a bandana. “Wipe off, city boy.”
I did, cheeks burning, but he just smirked and kept walking.
The land got rougher as we neared the north end of the property—hills steeper, brush thicker, ground studded with fallen branches and old, half-buried fence wire. I kept close, watching how Rawley picked his footing, how he scanned every rise and hollow as if expecting trouble.
“Did you grow up in Montana?” I asked, panting a little to keep up.
He shook his head. “Texas. Fort Worth. Family had money, but none of it ever felt real. I liked it better here.”
I tried to imagine him as a kid, probably the biggest and quietest kid in any room, never fitting the mold. “You ever miss it?”
“No,” he said, flat. “Nothing there worth missing.” He stopped at the crest of a hill, scanning the fields below. “You see that line of dark trees?”
I squinted, then nodded. “Yeah. Cottonwoods?”
“That’s the old property line. Used to be a creek there, but it dried up. If we ever put in irrigation, that’s where I’d run it.”
