“You just worry about celebrating with the people who love you,” Abigail squeals, no longer letting him bring her down. “This is gonna be so much fun! You only turn fifty once, Stetson. Better make it count.”
Sure thing.“Can’t wait.”
“Vet just left.Gave the all clear, sir.”
“Even Nellie?”
Granger nods, throwing me a bale of hay off the trailer. “Exam checked out perfectly, sir. Should be set for a healthy delivery.”
Excellent.
“Good work today.” I nod to the remaining three bales, signaling for Granger to hand them off. “Toss those over, then get started on replenishing the troughs.”
“You got it.”
Once I’ve got the bales situated and organized for feeding, I make sure the trailer gate is secured before knocking on the side. “All set, Creek. Load her up.”
Creek, my other ranch hand, takes off with the trailer while I enjoy what feels like my first break of the morning. You’d think with it being the beginning of March in Texas, we’d still have a decent chill in the air.
But not today. It’s as hot as Satan’s piss outside, all telltale signs of the summer temperatures ahead.
I sidestep into the barn enclosure, opening the deep refrigerator I keep stocked full of water and electrolytes, and grab myself a Gatorade. I bring the hydrating liquid to my lips, appreciating the cool sensation. The busy season on the ranch is approaching faster than is manageable at times. I get why Clay is always so insistent on hiring extra hands, but ranching is more to me than just a job.
It’s my lifestyle. Which is partially why being in Miami last week threw me for a fucking loop. Coming back to the ranch afterward forced me to face the reality of my culture shock.
Cove and I live very different lives. And I’m still not quite sure what us together could look like. Can she get her hands dirty? Would seeing what my everyday life looks like scare her away?
I have too many questions with hardly enough time or manpower to ask them.
This time of year is typically when I have Waterstone’s cattle vet, Dr. Gilmore, come take a look at my cows that have almost reached full gestational term. Nellie is theoldest of her herd, and the one I consider more at risk for giving birth.
But my little Nellie is a strong one, and I’m grateful to Dr. Gilmore for coming out and taking extra precautions to make sure baby girl is good to go. By the looks of it, she’s nearly three weeks out from delivery, and then Nellie and her newborn calf can be transported to a higher-quality pasture. That’s if I don’t let my attachment bond make the rules, somehow deciding I’m better off raising her to old age. Which is a high possibility.
I take pride in the way Coleson Ranch is run. It’s why Coleson Bulls is such a reputable name. I make a heavy investment in my cattle, raising Angus and Highlander to pristine health. My bulls are protected and tested, making sure breeding is as simple as living for them.
There’s also no shitting where they eat for these cows. Three pastures along my private land are maintained for rotational grazing. This style of cattle farming has become more popular for those who have the funds to preserve their pastures correctly.
I like to use the twenty-one-day rule of thumb. Every seven days, we rotate pastures and move cattle around between the three. It’s a shit ton of work, but it ensures all cows receive proper nutrients. It also kills worms and gives them fresh crops to graze on.
Healthy cattle mean pure organic meat.
Right now, our male bulls are kept in a more isolated bull pen, as Clay has primarily been working with Kyle, who also helps out at Coleson, making sure they’re prepped, screened, and their diet is maintained before breeding season begins again in April.
Lots of lather, rinse, and repeat going on here.
Setting my drink down, I walk around the other side of the barn where the stables are. I haven’t had a chance tocheck on Dutton and Bluebell today, and I’ve got a feeling they’re itching for a bareback run.
I know I am.
The moment I unlock the stable door, I’m met with the most nostalgic feeling—being new to ranching in these very stables with my pops all those years ago, helping him wash and clean Dutton as a baby colt. We’ve grown up together, in a way. It’s hard to believe he’s the oldest of all our horses, yet the one that still means the most to me.
“What’s up, my man?” I holler at Dutton as I approach him, his long brown tail swishing along the water trough against the wall.
Dutton is a chestnut and white pinto stud with a patchwork coat. He’s glossy and sharp for his breed, and makes the best damn ranch horse. We move cattle together, and I like to think of it as my time to reflect during the week—his turn to exercise.
Believe it or not, I’ve got the best sounding board in all the land. I pat Dutton’s back for reassurance, giving him a rough pet. “You miss me?”
His low nicker vibrates up the back of his throat, making me chuckle. I bring my palm to his snout and softly wipe the dirt along the side. “I know, boy. We’ll get ya out there for a good run in just a bit. I wanted to check on ya before I finish up for the day.”
