kidding, don’t kill me,” she said, as she tumbled out of the vehicle and then managed to get her feet under her.
I pulled away and headed down to the pasture. By myself again, I could physically relax. Completely inappropriate. She’s my ranch hand, not my friend, for God’s sake. Maybe she’s just having trouble finding her center . After all, sounds like she kind of got shipped out here as a favor. I was probably a smart-ass myself when I first arrived, using jaded humor to cover up for plenty of times when I wanted to kill people for their cruelty or cry from loneliness or simply run away. The prairie had grounded me and held me to the earth, and the wind whipped me back into shape, reminding me that if small, helpless creatures could survive on the prairie alone, I should be ashamed to do anything but thrive. Maybe with time Cash would even out. Perhaps that’s why Buck sent her—thinking I could possibly help her.
Restless, I made a U-turn, parked the XUV, hopped out, and got into my truck, the destination unimportant, moving rather than thinking, perhaps “driving myself out of my mind.”
Exiting the front gates, I drove two miles south of the ranch, then west down a dirt road to a twenty- by thirty-foot white metal building with a hand-drawn sign nailed to a post saying Feed Store.
The makeshift store was run by a young couple, Jock and Sara Goodie, who’d just moved to the area. She was a petite blonde who often worked behind the new plywood counter, and her stocky, buffed husband was nowhere in sight, by his own admission on the road every Thursday night to satisfy his rodeo habit.
Like a lot of local boys, he welded pipe and plowed fields during the week to earn entry fees and gas money for weekend bronc riding. Farming and ranching were high-risk businesses that after twenty years could often end in broken equipment, bones, and marriages, but the rodeo circuit seemed to deliver the same pain in record time. And I wondered if Sara and Jock Goodie would be married in five years, much less in business.
I hopped out of the truck and walked past a pickup with a bumper sticker proclaiming BEHIND EVERY SUCCESSFUL RANCHER IS A WIFE WHO WORKS IN TOWN.
Sara brightened on seeing me, greeting me with a smile and a strong handshake, as if I was the only customer she’d had today.
She quickly went about locating the fifty-pound sack of sweet feed, another of rolled oats, and an equally large sack of dog food.
I dropped the tailgate and she slung them into the truck bed with ease.
“You like this old baby blue bomber?” She patted the faded truck fender as if it were an animal, and I told her I liked it when it ran. “We’re looking at a really cute Ford truck for me. If Jock gets into the money on his next ride, I think we’ll buy it.”
“I’ll keep my fingers crossed,” I said, as a gust of wind blew loose dirt and hay up from the adjoining field and slapped it into my face. I turned and sputtered, trying to get it out of my mouth.
“Been blowing like this for weeks. Don’t know if it’ll ever stop.”
“You doing okay out here?” I asked somewhat obliquely, looking out over the prairie as if I might be asking about her chosen location and not her sales figures.
“I think business will pick up once people know we’re here.”
Her doubt was evident behind the cheerfulness. I wanted to tell her that folks knew she was here but hadn’t decided if they wanted to let her in. A hazing period seemed to follow the warm welcome a person got when they moved to Little Liberty. Just because town folks welcomed you didn’t mean they were encouraging you to stay.
They waited to see if the grit in your teeth would make its way to your resolve. No need to start liking somebody only to feel sorry for them and be downhearted when they left.
I thanked Sara and wished her well as I climbed into the truck cab. Dust kicked up on the driveway ahead of me, and Stretch Adams’s shiny fifth wheel
I pulled away and headed down to the pasture. By myself again, I could physically relax. Completely inappropriate. She’s my ranch hand, not my friend, for God’s sake. Maybe she’s just having trouble finding her center . After all, sounds like she kind of got shipped out here as a favor. I was probably a smart-ass myself when I first arrived, using jaded humor to cover up for plenty of times when I wanted to kill people for their cruelty or cry from loneliness or simply run away. The prairie had grounded me and held me to the earth, and the wind whipped me back into shape, reminding me that if small, helpless creatures could survive on the prairie alone, I should be ashamed to do anything but thrive. Maybe with time Cash would even out. Perhaps that’s why Buck sent her—thinking I could possibly help her.
Restless, I made a U-turn, parked the XUV, hopped out, and got into my truck, the destination unimportant, moving rather than thinking, perhaps “driving myself out of my mind.”
Exiting the front gates, I drove two miles south of the ranch, then west down a dirt road to a twenty- by thirty-foot white metal building with a hand-drawn sign nailed to a post saying Feed Store.
The makeshift store was run by a young couple, Jock and Sara Goodie, who’d just moved to the area. She was a petite blonde who often worked behind the new plywood counter, and her stocky, buffed husband was nowhere in sight, by his own admission on the road every Thursday night to satisfy his rodeo habit.
Like a lot of local boys, he welded pipe and plowed fields during the week to earn entry fees and gas money for weekend bronc riding. Farming and ranching were high-risk businesses that after twenty years could often end in broken equipment, bones, and marriages, but the rodeo circuit seemed to deliver the same pain in record time. And I wondered if Sara and Jock Goodie would be married in five years, much less in business.
I hopped out of the truck and walked past a pickup with a bumper sticker proclaiming BEHIND EVERY SUCCESSFUL RANCHER IS A WIFE WHO WORKS IN TOWN.
Sara brightened on seeing me, greeting me with a smile and a strong handshake, as if I was the only customer she’d had today.
She quickly went about locating the fifty-pound sack of sweet feed, another of rolled oats, and an equally large sack of dog food.
I dropped the tailgate and she slung them into the truck bed with ease.
“You like this old baby blue bomber?” She patted the faded truck fender as if it were an animal, and I told her I liked it when it ran. “We’re looking at a really cute Ford truck for me. If Jock gets into the money on his next ride, I think we’ll buy it.”
“I’ll keep my fingers crossed,” I said, as a gust of wind blew loose dirt and hay up from the adjoining field and slapped it into my face. I turned and sputtered, trying to get it out of my mouth.
“Been blowing like this for weeks. Don’t know if it’ll ever stop.”
“You doing okay out here?” I asked somewhat obliquely, looking out over the prairie as if I might be asking about her chosen location and not her sales figures.
“I think business will pick up once people know we’re here.”
Her doubt was evident behind the cheerfulness. I wanted to tell her that folks knew she was here but hadn’t decided if they wanted to let her in. A hazing period seemed to follow the warm welcome a person got when they moved to Little Liberty. Just because town folks welcomed you didn’t mean they were encouraging you to stay.
They waited to see if the grit in your teeth would make its way to your resolve. No need to start liking somebody only to feel sorry for them and be downhearted when they left.
I thanked Sara and wished her well as I climbed into the truck cab. Dust kicked up on the driveway ahead of me, and Stretch Adams’s shiny fifth wheel
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