Crybaby Ranch by Tina Welling Page B

Mother’s Day presents from now on. I like books and pajamas.”
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    Cows and their nursing calves dot the fields far into the distance at Chloe Hanes’s ranch, and the party spreads across the ranch yard into the fringe of Engelmann spruce that lace the base of the grassy butte. Mountains lasso the farthest perimeters of sight. And sky—blue as the gas flame on my water heater—cups us overhead. I stand listening to some old-timers tell tales on one another as a form of flirting with me, the new woman among them. Far, far across the yard is the Marlboro Man, cowboy hat propped on the buck-and-rail fence he leans against. He is lifting a can of Coors to his mouth. Eyes meet. Can jerks down from his face without one sip and jaw drops into a shocked and delighted smile. The act is clean, without blemish of self-consciousness or forethought. The reflex of a young boy. Without hesitation he starts across the yard toward me.
    My smile grows as he nears, but keeps within boundaries of politeness in case any of these old-timers glance my way for an appropriate chuckle to their outrageous lies. I realize now I’m just a talking stick to be passed around their circle and used as a focus for stories they might not remember without me.
    â€œBark, here, was tossed so swift from that bronc, he landed straddling a fence rail and never knew he weren’t still hanging on Young Major—just thought he’d tamed him to a standstill! We holler, ‘You done it, Bark. That bronc ain’t going nowhere.’ Bark here just sits, holding tight. Had to pry you off that fence rail, Bark.”
    The man keeps walking toward me with his openmouthed smile, teeth glittering so brightly in the sunlight they flash silver for one moment like his belt buckle.
    I am not so at ease as the Marlboro Man; my own can of half-empty Coors buckles once in my grip and pops back into shape with a loud noise. Part of me is taking inventory of my appearance, part putting on the necessary facade of appreciative audience for these storytelling Big Bellies, yet veiled over that is a wonder at this man’s candid reflex at seeing me, his unshielded advance across the yard. It’s all so simple for him. I am the new bike under the Christmas tree. I have his name on me.
    A shadow falls across his chin; his eyes spend a moment longer with me before he drags his glance downward; my glance follows, and we both see the woman who earlier arrived at the party in a helicopter. She is Caroline Donnell, married to Dick Donnell, pilot of the helicopter locals say he uses like a Jeep, despite its burning twelve to fourteen gallons an hour of fuel. Their large spread is less than five miles away by road. The Donnells, too, are newcomers, but not as new as me. All this I learned earlier from the ranchers around me, as together we shielded our eyes from the dust and chaff that was rotor-whisked by the Donnells’ landing.
    The Marlboro Man glances once more toward me, and I adjust my position in order to appear as if I was expecting nothing. I laugh at another bucking-bronco tale, in which the rider is “so buggered up he can’t walk nor talk till spring.” I drop the sunglasses propped on my head onto my face so I can watch anybody I care to for long as I wish.
    Possibilities for my life are suddenly endless. I could take on a cowboy lover. I smile at the cocky thought. I feel like someone I knew once—a potential version of myself. Someone who could actually be as confident as I am acting. I move to another gathering of people.
    This group, I assume at first, is discussing breeding stock. “Smokey, he come out of Lucille by Chet, but Davy was out of Stella. Her daddy was once a banker back in Michigan someplace.”
    I see I have a long way to go before I’ll fit in here. An hour later I am walked across the yard to be introduced by my hostess, Chloe, to the Marlboro Man and the Donnells.
    Chloe says his name as