The humidity clings to you, thick enough to nearly suffocate you. By the time the sun clears the tree line, sweat is already soaking through my t-shirt, leaving dark patches in its wake. I make my way along the fence with a five-gallon bucket sloshing against my leg.
The horses crowd the trough, waiting impatiently. I top it off, even though it’s half full. In this heat, I can’t take chances on the water supply running dry.
Dropping the bucket on the ground, I stretch my arms above my head, yawning deeply. With Wren’s ex looming in the darkness, I haven’t been able to let her out of my sight, especially at night. Even with her lying in my arms, I wake damn near every hour to do a perimeter sweep. It’s intuition from my years in the military, but it feels different. Here, we’re supposed to be safe, not hiding from an enemy at large. But until he’s caught, hourly sweeps through the night will be my routine.
A whimper sounds beside me as a large head nudges the backside of my arm. I glance over and find big brown eyes watching me.
“Hey, buddy.” I nuzzle Copper’s nose as he waits his turn at the trough. He’s quite the gentleman, my old Quarter Horse. Since he was little, he’d stand back, allowing the other horses to eat and drink first, especially the females.
It’s funny how his mind works. The old boy is begging for a ride, but I’ve been too wrapped up in Wren to take him for a run. Not to mention, it’s been so damn hot.
“We’ll go riding soon,” I promise. He nuzzles his nose deeper into my touch, head bobbing. I scratch along his neck, spending extra time beneath his mane where sweat gathers.
“You got room in the truck for this old man?” A familiar voice drifts across the driveway. The water truck idles near the barn, ready to deliver fresh water through the fields.
I glance over my shoulder and grin. “Thought maybe you’d need a break from the heat.”
“I’m old, not dead. Don’t treat me like a feeble man. It’s insulting.”
I laugh, and something in my chest loosens. It’s been doing that more lately, easing open when I least expect it. A pretty brunette is the reason for the change.
“I still need to fill it.” I give Copper one last scratch on his nose before digging out a carrot from my pocket. He takes it from my outstretched hand, and I walk up the drive.
Grandpa claps me on the back before pulling away with a grimace. He shakes his hand dramatically. “Jesus, boy. You’re drenched.”
“It’s hotter than Satan’s asshole.”
“Now that’s an image I didn’t need,” he grumbles before climbing up into the rig.
I round the front and do the same. A blast of cold air greets me, and I’m grateful I had the sense to start the ignition and crank the A/C before watering the horses. “Port A” by Treaty Oak Revival plays through the speakers. I reach for the dial, but Grandpa bats my hand away. When I think he’s going to turn it down, he does the opposite.
“I like these guys. Something about their voice.”
I huff a laugh. “For me, it’s their sound.”
“Very distinguishable.”
I stare ahead in disbelief at Grandpa liking something other than music from his generation. Looks like you can teach an old dog new tricks.
Shifting the truck into drive, we head to the water tanks. The drive is short and quiet, both of us listening to the song. I’m still in shock over Grandpa being a closet Treaty Oak fan.
It’s not long before we’re driving toward the first pasture with a tank full of water. The tires crunch over gravel before opening into flat land. The grass is losing its green, turning a shade of brown each day Mother Nature doesn’t bless us with rain.
Water isn’t optional right now. Not with the heat this high. It’s survival for these cattle.
Even with the small ponds scattered across the property and the river running through, I don’t trust them alone when the heat clamps down like this. There are too many factors that can turn their water bad. One bad stretch without clean water can turn a healthy animal sluggish, then sick, then worse.
Dad instilled in us the importance of water for our livestock. Stay ahead of problems and they won’t find you.
I’m trying, Dad. But it feels like when one problem vanishes, ten more appear.
I slow as I pass the pond, watching the surface ripple from the aerator. It seems to be working properly.
Cutting the engine near the first trough, I hop down, boots stomping on the hard ground. One-inch cracks line the ground. This drought needs to end before hooves start getting stuck in cracks.
I drag the hose out, twist the valve, and listen as water gushes into the trough.
Something’s grounding about the rushing water. A reminder I’m doing good, providing for our cattle.
