A ranch without Derrick? No. He fits too well. They actually all do. It’s a peaceful piece of land, and the three cowboys make it even more beautiful.
“He was a city boy before this. Traveling around, got famous as a bronco rider. He always liked flashy stuff.” She sighs. “But then the accident happened. Things changed.”
My mind goes straight to Derrick’s scarred hand. I’m bursting with curiosity yet never felt right about asking him what happened. I shouldn’t ask his mother—it’s wrong—but her face is far away, and she’s not noticing my distress.
“I noticed that he holds his breath when I even look at it. As if I shouldn’t make eye contact or something.”
I don’t say I was bold enough to touch it one day. I ignored the soft hiss that escaped him and let my thumb explore its ridges. It’s part of him, so of course it’s beautiful.
“He had a fall, but he held on to the rope for far too long. Stubborn boy. His hand got mangled. It messed up badly, and he went througha lot of surgeries to reconstruct the tendons. I’m grateful that he’s here and healed. He’s not so thankful.”
I wince, trying to imagine how painful it was to go through it all while also burying a dream. Words fail me as I try to make sense of this version of Derrick with the one I know. He’s quiet with a smirk that melts me each time, but I can’t imagine him liking fame and the overwhelming attention that only fame can bring.
“It must be difficult for him.” The words are not good enough to express what is in my chest. The way my heart squeezes just thinking about the pain he went through.
“I thought I was never going to see my boy smile again. And you know what? Major came here and took his little brother. Told him he was done moping and brought him to the ranch.”
“Wow.”
Anne laughs at my reaction. “Major is not a gentle soul, God love him. He is all action. He saw his brother in need and came for him. He’s a good boy.”
Boy is not the word I’d use to describe someone with gray hair over his temples, but this is his mother. Of course, she thinks he's still a baby to her. The care of a mother doesn’t end because her baby is six foot six. It’s a tenderness that I’m never going to go through.
Anne leads me to the side of the mountain, to the small road that leads to more houses and a few trading shops. The walk is steep, and my lungs soon burn.
Since labor, I’ve been having shortness of breath. I’m usually good at hiding it from Jesse while we go around the ranch at a snail’s pace, but the excitement of today is getting the best of me. Anne leads me as she keeps talking, but I’m slow, gasping for air, my breasts feel particularly heavy as I drag myself all over the township, and I’m suddenly scared that I’m about to lactate all over again.
How long will my body punish me? This is how it feels.Punishment.
I wonder if it’d feel like a miracle if my daughter were here, if I’d feel grateful for producing milk for her. If any of this would make sense, but instead, I’m out of breath, with breasts hard with milk in a town where everyone keeps staring at me.
We walk in silence for a little longer until I have to stop, hands on my knees, tired of even pretending. I need a nap. Hopefully, if I’m inside a cabin, people will stop looking at me.
“I just need a minute.” I wave a hand at Anne.
She hums under her breath, and then she stills mine as she asks,“How long since you had the baby?”
The question takes me for a loop, and I straighten up my spine and look at the woman with a new set of eyes. How? She watches me carefully. It wasn’t a question anyway. She knows. I look down my shirt, expecting to see at least some breastmilk to explain her knowledge, but I’m blissfully dry. I shake my head in confusion. How can someone who just met me twenty minutes ago tell?
“I’ve lived with them for weeks now, and they—”
“Men.” She rolls her eyes, and a soft smile comes to her lips. “I can scent your breast milk, and your perfume is especially sweet right now. That happened to me, too.”
I swear out loud, forgetting the good manners hammered into me since infancy. “Does everyone have a super nose around here?”
“No, not me.” She laughs. “But I’ve been around enough postpartum women to know the signs. I used to be a midwife.”
“Used to?”
Her smile is sad as she tilts her head to the side. “Not many babies are being born these days.”
My eyes fill with tears suddenly, surprising even me. My body is at odds these days, emotions always getting the best of me. I shouldn’t be so sad that babies aren’t being born here. Babies are being born everywhere, though, now that she mentioned it, people around here are on the mature side. I haven’t seen anyone around my age.
My tears are a catalyst, and Anne springs into action. Her arms are on my back quickly, and she leads me to a bench right in front of one of the homes. I look around, not wanting to be found crying on someone’s porch, but Anne waves my worries away.
“This one is empty. I’m so sorry, Veda. I wouldn’t have brought you around like this if I had known. How many weeks postpartum?”
“Two.”
