Although waking up this morning to the sound of hammers pounding nails into the studs of the barn could be considered a bad thing.
I’ll be honest.
Itisa bad thing.
Santiago wants the barn completed as soon as superhumanly possible, which I understand. The barn is central to his livelihood, and he has other people depending on him.
But allowing the construction crew to start when the bunkhouse wakes up is inconvenient for the rest of us.
With a warm coffee in hand, the crisp morning air fills my lungs as I step out onto the back porch with Bear weaving between my legs as if he believes he’s a small cat.
Falling Sky is already bustling as the sounds of construction ring through the valley. Someone laughs boisterously near the corrals. Diesel engines rumble somewhere beyond the equipment shed.
The skeleton of the new barn stretches toward the velvet and amber-streaked sky. Every day, another wall goes up, another reminder disappears.
Maybe healing works the same way.
Strolling down toward the corrals, I pass by Todd, who is carrying a fence post over his shoulder.
He tips the brim of his hat in my direction. “Morning, Blake.”
“Morning.”
Brandon waves from the tractor.
Sam is halfway up a ladder, aiding in the construction. He balances a nail gun in one hand and somehow drinks coffee with the other.
That’s ranch life.
I cup my hand next to my mouth and shout, “Pretty sure OSHA would have a problem with that.”
Sam’s shoulders shake with laughter. “Good thing OSHA doesn’t live in Wyoming.”
Bear trots between wranglers and construction workers like a foreman making inspections. Every now and then, someone bends down to scratch behind his ears before getting back to work.
Javier stands on the edge of a corral, his forearms resting on the top of the pipe fence. He watches as Jack works with a young, speckled gelding.
Curious, I wander over beside him.
“Buenos días.”Good morning.
“Morning,” I return. “How’s your head?”
“Better.”
Jack doesn’t hold a lead rope, and there isn’t a saddle on the horse’s back or a bridle around his head.
It’s just the two of them inside the circular pen.
The gelding trots along the perimeter with his ears pinned halfway back, tossing his head every few strides. Jack will change direction arbitrarily with nothing more than a shift of his shoulders and a wave of one arm.
No yelling. No whip. No force.
Watching Jack and the horse, I tip my head to the side and ask Javier, “What’s Jack doing?”
Javier smiles. “Listening.”
I frown. “Looks more like the horse is avoiding him.”
