She sat there, listening to the distant nickering of the other horses in the barn, the rustle of wind through the bare branches of the oak tree, and the distant hum of the highway. Sounds that should have meant she was home, but instead felt more alien than ever.
How am I supposed to fix this?
How am I supposed to fix me?
I can’t.
I don’t know how.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Rowan easedoff the gas and guided his Ford F-350 around the back of the feed store and pushed it into reverse. He lined up the side mirrors with the loading bay and moved backward until the gap between bumper and concrete closed. He cut the engine, and the sudden silence was replaced instantly by the metallic groan of the bay door rolling up.
Hay ducked under the door before it was fully open. “Ought to put a beacon on that beast of yours, Rowan. Be a shame if someone didn’t see ya comin’.”
Rowan climbed out and leaned against the truck, arms crossed, one corner of his mouth twitching at the familiar teasing from his buddy. “If they can’t spot her by now, Hay, they oughta trade their glasses for a telescope or something, because I got nothing.”
Hay barked out a laugh, shaking his head as he ambled toward the back of the truck. “Got your order ready soon as you phoned in.”
The feed bags were stacked in neat rows, much like his men did when they were waiting for orders. Rowan grabbed one and hefted it into the bed of the truck. The bag hit the metal with a solid thud. “We’ve got a bunch in from the range.” he went back for another bag. “Grass is poor this year, so they need some filling out. I’ll take some mineral licks if you have ‘em too?”
Henry passed him a bag of sweet feed. “I sure do. How many you want?”
“Gimmie six. If I need more, I’ll send one of the boys in before the weekend.”
Hay paused, leaning against the bumper. “Got something new if you’re interested,” he said, pulling a creased brochure from his pocket. “Supposed to help with building up horses saved from a kill pen. At least that’s how they’re talkin’ it up. Might be worth giving it a shot on those range beasts of yours.”
Rowan took it and skimmed the front page. “A miracle cure from Idaho?”
“Miracle? Nah.” Hay reached back, snagging a small satchel from the stack. “But it’s got enough backing that they’re sending even me samples down here in Bell County. No harm in trying.”
Rowan turned the satchel in his hands, testing its weight.
Worst case, it’s just more grain to run through them and more shit to pick up in the pens.“Sure, why not. Thanks, Hay.”
“Don’t mention it.” Hay wiped his hands on his apron. “You heading home soon?”
Rowan scanned the bed of the truck and counted the bags. “Not before I grab pie at Nora-Mae’s.”
He handed over a few bills for the extra feed. “You coming over for a piece?”
“Nope, I’m waiting on someone from the T-bar-T coming in.”
“No worries.” Rowan climbed back into the F-350. Hay and his wife had a baby due any day, no doubt he was anxious to get home to his wife. Rowan figured it couldn’t hurt to be neighborly. He had to pass right by the T-bar-T on his way home anyway. “If they haven’t gotten here by the time you see me leaving town, let me know, and I’ll drop it off on my way.”
“Appreciate that.” Hay tapped his hand on the roof of the truck. “Thanks, Ro.”
Rowan drove down the street and found a spot outside the diner. There was peach cobbler in there with his name on it, and he refused to leave town without it.
Nora-Mae’s peach cobbler is one hell of a reason to leave the ranch and deal with people.
The diner’s bell clanged as Rowan pushed through the door. He paused for a second to appreciate the scent of fried bacon and coffee. The air buzzed with conversation, the clatter of cutlery, and the occasional hiss of grease on the grill. The place was packed as usual with locals in dust-caked Carhartts, what looked like a road crew in neon vests, and there, at the far end of the counter, old man Higgins sat hunched over his usual milkshake, his gnarled fingers clutching the glass.
Nora-Mae didn’t even glance up from the grill when the bell announced his arrival. “Took you long enough,” she called, her voice rough but not unkind. “Thought maybe you’d finally figured out how to live without my cobbler.”
Rowan eyed the wooden spoon in her hand. He was sure her gramma had chased him a time or two with that when he was a wild kid, who had zero capability to stay out of trouble.
“Hell no, I could smell those peaches cooking all the way out to the ranch.” He slid onto a stool near the register. “Why do you think I’m the one doing the feedstore run today?” he said, grinning. “Your cobblers summoned me from my bat cave.”
