Maybe not ever.
“Just making a mental list is all.” That sounded reasonable, right? But considering who his brother was and the connection they shared, probably not.
“That’s why we have this.” Gael lifted his clipboard. “Both of us have had too many concussions to remember shit or keep it straight when we do.”
“Yeah.” He crushed the empty water bottle in his hand and tossed it into the trash can next to the fence. “Let’s finish this, then go grab food. My stomach is starting to think my spine looks tasty.”
“Yup.” Gael scribbled on the corner of a page on his clipboard, then flipped the page over to do it again on the bigger bank pack side. “I’m gonna need a hell of a lot more coffee to survive today. Toss me one of your pens, will ya? This one’s jacked.”
“I’d say six cups and a shot of something stronger.” Colson tossed a pen Gael’s way. “Scout drinks some sort of nasty-ass cinnamon shit, but at least it don’t taste like the horse manure crap Edge has been forcing on us.”
“Fuck you, bro, I just spiked my coffee with Fireball.” Jericho saluted them with his travel mug. “It’s effective, not nasty.”
“It’s disgusting,” Gael said. “Stop that shit when we’re working stock. Our insurance won’t pay for your funeral if you’re working drunk.” He waved a hand between himself and Rowan. “We don’t want your momma crying over your damn casket on our consciences, neither.”
“Toss that shit out.” Rowan made a mental note to talk to Jericho about drinking on the job. He and his brother understood using alcohol as a crutch more than most. Hell, when he injured his leg enough to end his career in teams, he’d gotten lost in a bottle of Irish Whiskey more than once. Until Gael had kicked his ass and dragged him home to their mom to knock some sense into him. But they couldn’t allow these men they trusted, not only on their property, but to have their sixes if and when they took the rare government jobs that even the CIA’s covert teams wouldn’t touch, to drink when they were supposed to be sharp.
“Okay, okay.”
He noted Jericho took a final long sip before he emptied the dregs into the dirt.
“If the fumes from that shit upsets my horses, I’m gonna kick your ass, Scout.”
They fell into motion again, the quiet rhythm of working hands and trained eyes, but the anticipation inside Rowan kept niggling at his insides. He knew Theo was digging, and that silence on that front was starting to mean something was coming down the pipe.
Good.
I need to stretch my reflexes.
Retired.
Kinda.
Semi-re-fucking-tired.
But somehow the reminder didn’t really matter. His blood screamed for action. His soul craved to return to a time when he’d been at his happiest. He ignored the twinge of guilt that filtered through him as he and his brother went through the merits of the next yearling.
He was more than aware that the only reason Gael kept gearing up and following his ass into whatever hellhole on earth the USG sent them to was to ensure he stayed alive. Gael was more than ready to sit on the front porch sipping some fancy-ass Italian wine that Joel had brought back from Italy.
Gael climbed out of the corral and adjusted the cap on his pen. “Alright,” he said, flipping the clipboard toward Rowan. “We’rekeeping five, sending three for the sale, and watching two for another week.”
Rowan took the board, eyes scanning the shorthand. “Yeah.” He tapped his finger on the board at filly number two. “Just this one, I like her style. I need to think about her for a bit.”
“Maybe call momma and get her take on her,” Gael agreed. “She knows that line better than us.”
“Yup. And I’m not trailering her all the way down to Ocala only to change my mind when I see her go under the hammer and then be stuck.”
Colson leaned his elbows on the top rail. “I’ll grab some more salt licks from the feed room and put them in the pastures.”
“I’ll go call the vet.” Rowan glanced at his watch. “We need Coggins and health certs on the ones we’re shipping.”
Jericho pulled a sheet from his back pocket and handed it over. “Pre-filled the IDs. You’re welcome.”
Rowan raised a brow but didn’t comment. He took the sheet, then reached for Gael’s clipboard. He tapped the sheet flat onto the board and tucked both under his arm. “Get some hay out into the pastures and move those pregnant mares back into the dry lot; they’ve had enough grass for today.”
“Yes, sir.”
“You got it, boss.”
