"That you are." He pulls back, kisses my forehead, sets the hat on his head. Looks at Spur next to me. "Spur."
"Holt."
"You owe me a phone call when you put a ring on her."
"You got it."
Holt almost smiles. "All right then."
He embraces Pops on the porch and walks down to his truck.
Wells and Tread are behind him the second he turns out.
Uncle Roan stays until late afternoon.
He stands at the round pen with Spur for a long time after lunch—leaning on the rail with one boot up, the way Spur always stands at the round pen, and they're talking about something I can't hear and don't need to.
The mustang Spur tamed two summers ago is moving easily in the pen. Roan watches him work the air the way men who grew up around horses watch a good one.
Spur's the one who came down off the pen and walked into the clubhouse and brought Roan back out.
I'm on the back porch of the clubhouse with Bex when I see them coming back.
Spur looks at me across the gravel, and his face does something I haven't seen it do since the morning he came home from Big Spring.
He's smiling.
Roan walks up the porch steps to me and pulls me into his chest. His days of beard rough against my temple. "Kiddo."
"Uncle Roan."
"I'm gonna head out."
"Yeah."
"You call me. About anything."
"Yes, Uncle Roan."
He kisses my forehead. Looks at Spur. "Brother."
"Roan."
"Take care of her."
"I will."
"Take care of yourself too."
"I’ll try"
Roan walks down the porch steps, finds Coyote, and the two of them get in his F-350 and roll out of Sharp at five-twenty in the afternoon.
With my uncles gone, the property seems more quiet than usual.
* * *
Bex finds me on the back porch around six.
