"Yes?" I think I am.
“Do you want to talk about it?” she asks, stopping now in the middle of Main.
“No, I think I need to think this one through first. Rain check?” I ask, not knowing what to do at the moment.
She looks at me for another second. "I've got a farm call out on Route 9. I'll be at the clinic after two if you change your mind."
"Thanks, Millie."
She gives me a small nod and drives on. That's Millie. She seems to know people as well as she knows animals. No wonder she’s a good vet.
I'm still standing there, paralyzed with indecision, when Mrs. Winslow stands up, paper bag from Dawson's tucked under one arm. Her eyes move from my face to the direction Kevin walked, and back again. She's eighty-one years old, and she doesn't miss a single thing.
She looks at me for a long moment.
"Pain is a dreadful architect," she says. "It will build you a prison and call it wisdom. Truth’s always better. Wait until it can be looked at plainly."
She pats my arm once. Then she walks away. Mrs. Windslow’s like that.
I stand there until the sound of her footsteps fades.
Then I get in my truck, and I drive home.
The Blue Heelers meet me at the gate. Oliver first, then Atlas, then Cooper, and Aries coming in from the barn at a run when they hear the engine. They circle the truck while I park, then follow me to the barn in a loose, easy cluster. Waiting for their next orders. I loved working dogs; they thrived on jobs, and a ranch had a never-ending list.
I change into work clothes and get moving.
I did the errand list, including the Kevin line I didn’t want to add, now I needed to conquer my to-do list. There's a section of fence line that has needed attention for two weeks. I load the posts and wire into the truck bed and drive out with the dogs following along. The work is hard and my hands and my body work, but I’d hoped it had done more to keep my head from running in circles.
I set posts. I stretch the wire. I work the fence pliers until my forearms ache.
The dogs settle in the grass nearby, watching, occasionally lifting their heads at something in the tree line. Oliver comes and sits beside me twice, just presses his shoulder against my leg for a minute, then goes back to the grass. Dogs always know.
I'm working the last post into the ground when I hear Hank bleating.
He's at the fence by the barn, watching me with those knowing goat eyes, his chin resting on the top rail. He makes a low sound when I look at him. He talks like that, and I love him.
I walk over and lean my arms on the fence rail beside him.
I stand there for a while, murmuring to him about everything and nothing. Then, back to work when Hank jumped onto the wire spool in his pen. He likes high places. The Heelers follow me back to the fence and listen to memumble under my breath about how many ways I’m going to beat Tyler to death. Aries doesn’t seem to care, but the Heelers are different. They look at me like I’m going to do something amazing, and they're ready for it. They are always ready.
I just finished loading when Frank crows from the chicken run.
I think about what Kevin said. What was he hoping I'd do with it? Yell at Bo for lying to Tyler and me for getting in the way, then run into his arms? Yeah, that was never going to happen.
Here's what I keep circling back to.
Why did Kevin have to tell me? Why not Bo? Or Tyler?
Kevin was drunk and mean and angling for an outcome. Bo has been on this ranch for weeks, and each day was an omission.
Every almost-moment. Every time he pulled back. I thought I knew what that was. I thought I was watching a man fight himself.
Maybe I was. But there was more he chose not to tell me.
I don't know yet if I'm angry at Kevin for using the truth like a weapon.
Or at Bo for making it one by not telling me first.
