Page 7 of The Wrangler and the Tenderfoot

“First month’s free for new folks. We’re not so hard up that we can’t extend a little neighborliness.” She said it with a kind of flourish, but it felt genuine, which only made me more suspicious.

Dottie squared the papers, then eyed me with a level, kindly stare. “I expect you’ll be riding the property some, with the work you’re doing. If you get turned around, the Maddox spread is to the south and west of the Coleman. You’ll know it by the fences. They keep them high and tight. Don’t let folks through unless you ask first.” She said it as a warning, but softly. “The Maddoxes are good people. They just like their privacy.”

“I can respect that,” I said. “Most places I work, the neighbors keep to themselves unless there’s a lawsuit.”

Dottie barked a laugh. “Out here, we’d rather just fix the fence and split a beer. The other side of the Coleman Ranch is the national park, so no worries about going over there.” She straightened her shirt and thumbed through some letters. “You got any other questions? I know just about every inch of this county.”

Pressing for more would look like prying. “Nothing yet,” I said. “But if you hear of any good barbecue spots, I’m always interested.”

She gave me the address of a place two towns over and then, with practiced economy, went back to sorting the day’s incoming letters. I said goodbye and headed out before she decided she needed to know any more about me.

The air outside was even hotter now. I walked back to the truck, turning the box key over in my hand. I sat in the cab for a while, letting the AC fight the sun, and decided to make one more stop before heading back. If there was a pecking order to this town, the next spot on the list was the feed store. Not because I needed anything, but because that’s where people went when they wanted to be seen, or to see who else was in town.

I killed the engine and walked across the sun-bleached gravel. I could’ve just ordered the drone parts to be delivered to the post office and called it a day, but that would have been too easy. Out here, nothing ever was.

Inside the Hollow Ridge Feed Store, the air was thick with sweet feed, mineral blocks, and a faint after-smell of rodenticide. Floor-to-ceiling shelving divided the room into canyons of product, five-pound bags of starter, salt licks the size of bowling balls, and everywhere, the omnipresent green and yellow of John Deere. A row of battered chairs sat up front for old-timers to occupy while waiting for their orders, but no one was sitting. Instead, the two men behind the counter bantered in a local patois I’d need a few more weeks to fully decode, each sentence ending in “ain’t that right?” or “so they say.”

I grabbed a handcart and did a slow loop, pretending to compare grass seed blends. I didn’t need anything, but the point was to seem occupied. After a minute, one of the clerks, tall, red-faced, and so thin he seemed to rattle, asked, “You need a hand, miss?” with the upbeat defeatism of someone who had asked this question every day of his working life.

I smiled. “Just browsing. I’m new on the Coleman ranch, doing some soil work.”

The clerk’s head bobbed, once, exactly. “Sure, the Colemans. We deliver bulk up there every month. Big operation, lot of turnover.”

I asked, “Do you know if there's any difference in hay quality east of the creek? I heard the drought a few years back really knocked the local supply.” I’d researched a lot about being a geologist, and a geologist would be interested in how the hay grew, because that would tell them about the soil.

The clerk considered, then pointed at a man outside, older, with a ponytail of white hair and a Maddox Ranch logo stitched over the heart pocket of his shirt. “You want to ask that fella out there. He knows the land, all of it.”

I strolled out, hands in my pockets, and found the man loading fifty-pound bags of mineral into a battered Silverado with a tailgate painted a different color than the rest of the truck. Up close, he was every inch the lifer, hands like knotted wood, a nose that had seen every bar fight in two counties, and a confidence of movement that was nearly silent. I caught his eye and got a faint nod, enough invitation.

“Excuse me,” I said, “I hear you’re the man to ask about hay quality.”

He sized me up in three blinks. “Maybe. Depends who’s asking.”

I introduced myself as “Jennie, with the geology contract for the Colemans,” saying that was getting hella repetitive. I extended a hand, which he considered before shaking. His grip was loose, but not in a weak way. More like he was being polite to a woman and not squishing my hand.

“That’s right,” he said. “Buck. You’re the lady Reid saved from the big bad boar?”

I chuckled. “Yes, he came to the rescue for sure. I’m just mapping, for now. The survey line is a mess out past the east pastures. Seems like each time I check it, the damn thing’s moved.”

He gave a low, throaty laugh. “That’s about right. There’s an old joke around here, if you can see the fence, you’re on the wrong side of it.”

“Guess that explains why I get lost every other day,” I said. There was a pause, just long enough for the temperature to shift between us.

“Hell of a place, the Maddox spread,” I said, trying to sound just a little envious. “You’ve been with them long?”

His smile was quick and then gone. “All my life. Only way out is the grave or the state pen, and I never did like traveling.” He grinned again, more genuine this time, wiped his hands on his jeans and got back to work, conversation closed. Not rude, just final. The way people do when they’ve learned the value of not saying more than they mean.

Back inside, I bought a cap with the store logo on it and paid cash since I didn’t want to have loitered without buying anything. I got a receipt with a smile, but none of the easy banter Dottie Crane had offered.

I left the store and crossed the street to the Creekside Diner, which lived up to its name by being close enough to the actual creek to smell the silt through the open windows. The inside was classic Texan diner, tan vinyl booths, a Formica counter lined with rotating stools, and a pie case near the register that looked like it had survived three tornadoes. A half-dozen tables were full, all with men, ball caps or cowboy hats on the table or resting on the seat beside them. It was a place where a person got served by their mother’s best friend or their cousin’s ex-wife, and nobody complained either way.

I chose the counter, three seats down from a man reading the sports section and two up from an older couple sharing an omelet. The waitress, in a white uniform and blue apron, had strong arms and a badge that said “Marge.” She poured me coffee before I even asked.

“Hot enough for you?” she said, the ritual greeting.

“I’ve felt worse,” I said. “But not by much.”

She snorted. “You want anything else, hon?”