1. Stetson
ONE
STETSON
March 7th, 2024
I have always attracted trouble. Drowned in it. Been suffocated by it. Trouble is my closest lover, and no matter how hard I’ve tried, it’s always had a chokehold on me.
From bad friends to worse boyfriends. From insane choices of mentors to wicked parents. From careless money decisions and unsupported living situations. From unhealthy mental habits to even worse sexual habits.
I have seen and done it all. I am filthy, used up, a hazard.
I know it must be true—so many people have told me as much. Regardless of the constant reminders, it doesn’t stop me from trying to be better.
Or at least pretending to be better.
I am good at pretending—a master, really. Almost as good as I am at getting into trouble.
I know who I am; the morally gray character in my own morally gray story. I know who I am, even if I don’t always love the choices I make.
Trauma, am I right?
I huff angrily, shoving the long golden blonde hair out of my face for the millionth time. The wind, an offensive curse with its humidity and pelting sand companions, ranks in my top ten least favorite things about Texas. Compared to the cool March temperatures in Colorado, I know I’ve successfully landed in Hell. It is the bane of my existence, and like all things, tests me every chance it gets.
“Fuck. You,” I grind out, looking up at the sky, hoping it might heed my warning. Instead, it whips again, driving impossibly sharp specks of red dirt into my face.
An obvious fuck you , back.
Grinding my teeth and smashing my lips together, I turn back to the task at hand. I have miles of fence to fix, and it’s obvious I will need to hire help—the kind of help that will require more money than I have and more humble pie that I can chew.
In the two weeks since I’ve moved here, I have accomplished ninety feet of pole and barbed wire fencing. It has broken every callus on my hand and bruised every finger. But for someone with no experience, and even less interest, it is an accomplishment, nonetheless.
Albeit poorly, but accomplished all the same.
The problem is, I’m running out of money, and running out of stubborn willpower—I had no money to begin with. This place is like trying to find a vein in a corpse; dried up and pointless. Every day, I come out and face the endless fence work, and a dwindling pile of pennies feels like a noose on my neck—tightening slowly for dramatic effect.
It isn’t my fault. I’m not irresponsible.
I may have been careless in the past with my money, but that was before Bob and Linda passed away. Now, I have it together. If I don’t, no one will.
The thought of them makes me reach up with a gloved hand and rub at my chest. Even thinking about them still makes my heart ache. They had been my only truly good influences in a long line of horrible ones, and when they suddenly passed in a boat wreck, my fragile life crumpled completely. I hit rock bottom, and that was when I found Reckless Abandon, a Wild Horse Rescue in the cool mountains of Colorado.
I know, nonprofits don’t exactly pay well. And no matter how much I loved it, how much it saved me in more ways than I am willing to admit, it didn’t pay the bills. It had been more than enough for me, though, for five years. I gladly exchanged any kind of life of luxury for one spent in a dusty old saddle.
I still would.
But then, I didn’t have a three-hundred-acre ranch and just over two hundred hungry cattle to feed. Not to mention miles and miles of broken fences, dried-up water wells, over-grazed pastures, and a crumbling barn.
And now I do. Lucky me.
I can no longer afford to stay working in the one place that makes me feel like I’m worth something.
It has been two weeks since I got the call ; two weeks since I uprooted my life to chase the ridiculous notion of being the kind of woman I could be proud of—that my mother could be proud of. And I am paying for it, every second of every day.
I loved my life in Colorado, my small simple room on the Reckless Abandon Ranch. I loved the smell of horses and the ache in my legs after an especially hard day of riding. I crave the silence that follows a young horse surrendering for the first time, finding peace and love for the first time, feeling safe for the first time. I miss being one of them, feeling all the same ways as my wild horse companions.
But now I have cows. And I don’t know a fucking thing about cows .
Here I am, covered in the sandiest dirt imaginable, sweating before nine a.m., in a wind that likes to piss me off. All because I want to be the kind of woman who makes a dead person proud.
I angrily throw the wire cutters to the ground and wipe my arm across my forehead in an attempt to keep the beads of sweat from falling into my eyes.
What a stupid kind of woman.
My mother, Poppy, as I had known her, was the dreamer behind The Spurrin’ L Ranch. She came from a long line of Texas cattle ranchers and always dreamed of running her daddy’s ranch the way he had. She was proud of it, but knew even less than I do about cattle ranching; she didn’t want to—she had a handsome cowboy willing to take over for her from the time she was sixteen. And when she inherited the ranch at twenty-five, she was so blinded by love and loyalty that she didn’t see the snake who had constricted around her neck.
The snake, with the name of Gibson, who also happened to be my father.
Gibson had been a cowboy through and through. He liked working outside and riding horses. He liked pushing cattle and checking fences. And he liked drinking and smoking, and hitting anything that moved. His fancy for drinking and smoking, and getting in fights with every other cowboy in town, quickly led to debts. Debts that then led to selling off pieces of the once famous Spurrin’ L Ranch until there were only the last three-hundred dusty acres I look over now.
I lean over and spit onto the ground, half to try to rid my mouth of the gritty dust coating my gums, and half to rid my mind of the man I hated more than anyone.
I spit again as if I’m standing on his grave, just for good measure.
I would like to kill him—even if that makes me fucked up. He deserves the most slow, torturous death. My lips lift at the corners; I can think of a million different ways to do it, and not one makes me feel the slightest bit guilty. Too bad the old bastard is missing, assumed dead already.
Good riddance!
I flip my hair, now completely yanked from its braid thanks to the wind, over my shoulder, and peer down the fence line again, groaning. The two posts I had gotten in the ground since starting two hours ago are sagging to the side. The wind rustles again, and they wobble, looking quite possibly like they will blow over.
I kick at the tin of u-nails in front of me, effectively knocking them over, and decide to pack it up for the day. This fucking work is useless.
With my arms full of materials, I turn around to head back to the barn. I pile everything into the bed of the beat-up old work truck my parents so kindly left behind and head back toward the house. I had started in the farthest corner of the field, running the fence through an old rock pile here. I’ve always been a believer of doing the hardest part first— good in theory, but fuck am I tired . I would be happy if I never had to see this corner of the pasture again.
Waves of heat already shimmer above the sandy soil in translucent ripples, and my tanned skin bakes, even beneath the layer of my pearl snap shirt. I learned quickly that I have to always be covered up or I will no doubt burn alive.
After standing in the ice-cold stream of water from the shower for thirty minutes, I feel finally ready to go. Firing up the light blue work pickup, its gears whining angrily in the heat, I head into town. I am supposed to meet an old friend from years ago for lunch, and I’m already running twenty minutes late.
I look down at my plain white t-shirt, faded Wranglers I found in the men’s section of the thrift store, and black cowboy boots.
What does one wear to meet an old friend? Will she still be my friend?
I have to hope so. I don’t have any here and desperately need one.
If it wasn’t for the turquoise hoops and black trucker hat that says “Cowboy hat” on it, I would be embarrassed. All the ladies I’ve seen in town like to get done up, and I have even less money for that than I do for fencing supplies.
Driving over the bumpy road, my thoughts wander to the encounters with the locals I’ve had so far, and I cringe. They all sneer at me; a horse girl from nowhere, Colorado. What do I know about cattle ranching in Texas?
Not a fucking thing, Karen.
It’s better to stride on past their sneers and not-so-silent whispers, even if it makes my teeth grind.
Women always gape at me, too, making me feel like I am parading around naked, when in reality, I have always fit like a glove in my clothes unwillingly.
I have curves, so what? Sue me.
I don’t have money or nice things. So, I work with the one thing I know how to work: my figure, even if it leads to nasty looks and walking red-flags.
Fuck ‘em. They won’t like me even if I try.
Moztecha, Texas is small—smaller than small—with only four places to eat: a steakhouse, a Tex-Mex place, the bar which does late night pizza, and a grocery store with an attached coffee shop that sells questionable breakfast. There are also a few small shops, mostly feed stores and part supply stores, but as more people move here, a few more buildings are starting to pop up. I’m holding out hope for a bookstore, but it feels like a lost cause in a place like this.
Pulling up to the brown adobe building, the windows painted with cartoon cattle and the words “Come on in, Pardner”, and the old-wooden sign reading “Bovine Steak House”, I turn off the rumbling engine. My hands are clammy with nerves, and I rub them down the fronts of my thighs. I don’t have much for friends; it’s just easier being alone.
I’d rather never pursue a friendship than be rejected. That’s your abandonment issues talking Stet.
That’s the truth. I’m lonely as fuck, and I miss Dale, even if I don’t know the woman she has grown up to be. So even though I’m terrified, and feel completely out of control, I know I need to see her.
I pop down the visor to get a final look.
My gray-green eyes are framed in a light dusting of mascara, and my cheeks have a small streak of blush. Without much money for makeup, I have to make do with the essentials.
Luckily, I was born with impossibly pouty, pink lips, a fact I hated when I was little, but later in life realized are a death trap for hungry men. They look at me, and think only one thing: how do I get those wrapped around my cock?
I smirk at my reflection, smacking them together for effect. I have obliged many of them.
Sighing, as I see no escape from my fears, I jump out of the pickup and slam the door shut with a squeak.
Better get this over with.
Butterflies erupt in my stomach as I step into the restaurant, my face assaulted with a blast of cold air and the smell of grease .
The room is packed, and every head turns to look at me as if on cue. Wrinkled faces and cloudy judgment-filled eyes rake over my skin like hot coals, and I fidget with the hem of my shirt. As usual, muttering quickly fills the space.
A woman in a fraying brown booth is eyeing me outraged, her manicured hand slapping the man leaning over the edge of the booth to look me over too. A bearded man, well into his sixties with gravy clinging to the gray hairs around his mouth, looks at me with part disgust and part desire.
They all make me want to scream.
I don’t even know what my friend looks like anymore. I stand, frozen to the spot, and contemplate bolting out.
Will she even care if I bail?
As soon as the thought takes a solid hold in my mind, my feet already lifting to attempt a sprint, a deeply tan-skinned woman peeks her head over the top of the booth. Her hair glitters like a black lake in the fluorescent lights, and her brown eyes are rounded like saucers. She raises her hand, waving above the top of the booth, and I take a single grudging step toward her.
She can’t even be bothered to stand up?
I step closer and inhale sharply, biting my tongue.
She is standing.
She just happens to be barely above five feet tall, her black hair swaying in a braid that playfully slaps the back of her knees. Her brown eyes crinkle at the corners as I step up to the booth, and her plum painted lips pull back in a dazzling smile.
She scoots toward me, her small hands grabbing mine in a warm but iron grip.
“Stetson! I barely recognized you! Still turning heads.” She winks, her joke at the not-so-pleasant entry easing my nerves just a fraction, and pulls me to her with surprising strength. With her face resting between my B-cups and her arms around my plump waist, she giggles.
“Dale,” I whisper and hug her back tightly. I don’t even remember the last time I hugged someone, and it’s better than any drug I can think of— this warm acceptance.
“Oh my gosh, sit! The old bitty’s over there are about to fall out of their chairs.” She shoots a vicious look around my elbow, and I hear the scooting of a chair as someone coughs. I gingerly sit in the brown leather booth, squeaking as it molds to my weight. Dale sits with a huff, her frown quickly lifting in another beaming smile.
“You look… so grown up,” I state, not sure what else to say. Dale laughs, a throaty sound, and I can’t help but smile in response.
“It’s been ten years. I didn’t get any taller, but I did finally grow these.” She points at her large breasts pressing against her black lacy top. “The boys love them, just like you warned me they would.” She giggles again, picking up the menu.
Ten years —the reality of just how long I’ve been gone hits me like a physical blow. I didn’t mean to cut her out, but it had been what I had to do to survive. I don’t regret protecting her and myself, but will she forgive me for it?
“How’s ranching life? I can’t believe this is the first time I have seen you since you’ve been back! You’re the talk of the town; nothing interesting ever happens around here.” Another huff sounds behind me at Dale’s words, but I don’t dare turn around.
“Ranching.” Where to begin? “It’s going good.”
Dale sets her menu down and looks me dead in the eye.“Don’t lie. I could always tell.”
I sag, relief at being caught in my normal lie like a weight lifting from my chest. There’s no judgment on her face, so I restart. “It sucks. ”
Dale nods, but remains silent, her eyes soft, waiting for me to continue. I shift nervously in the booth, the plastic squeaking again. Being with her here, now, feels both like no time has passed and a lifetime has passed.
Where do I start? How do I begin?
“My, um, parents—” The words taste bitter in my mouth, but I push through. “They left it in a wreck. There’s more bad fence than good, the grass in the pastures all the cows are in is nearly mowed over, the barn is a hazard to even walk next to, and there’s only one lonely horse—the gelding I brought with me.” The last words came out as a whisper.
I miss being surrounded by horses.
“Do you need help?” Dale asks, her tone sounding genuine.
I shake my head, and then think better of it and nod. I should be begging for her help, not pretending I don’t need it.
“I’ll come over this weekend. I’m not the biggest person,” she states, “but I know a thing or two. I’m more than happy to help you.” She reaches across the table, a silver bracelet dragging over the wood, and grabs my hand. “I want to see you succeed. I always have, Stet.”
I relax at that, my back leaning into the seat. Dale seems mostly like the friend I remember, even after all these years. Kind, compassionate, thoughtful—but so much has changed, too. She’s darker, fiercer, and there’s a shadow in her eyes that didn’t used to be there.
It’s not the same level of darkness that clouds my own vision, but it’s darkness all the same—the darkness given to those who no longer see the world through the bright haze of innocence and positivity.
What has she seen, been through?
“Tell me about you. You’re teaching or something now? I can’t imagine you with students. You always hated kids.” I’m not sure if I’m being rude or not, but I never have been good at small talk. Dale smiles and leans in conspiratorially.
“Don’t tell anyone, but I still do.” She sets the menu down. “I’m an agriculture teacher now. I teach plants and animals, and leadership from time to time, at the high school. It’s fun, and I’m honestly better at it than I thought I would be. Kids, as annoying as they are, also give me a purpose. As much as it drains me, it also fills my cup!”
“That sounds pretty cool, honestly. I’d love to see you in action sometime.” It’s true, seeing what she does would be inspirational, if not a little funny, too.
“Don’t make promises you can’t keep. You don’t know it, but us agriculture teachers will use anyone we can get our hands on!” Dale snickers, and I raise an eyebrow—she doesn’t come across as the kind of person who asks for help from anyone. Not because she’s too good for it, but because she doesn’t think she deserves it.
“What else is new? How are your parents?”
“Good. Now that Amelia and I are grown, they moved back to Mexico to help with my grandparents. I miss them, but I also love that I don’t have to leave this town to get away from them.” She pauses, seeming to look for the right words. “And you? I know your parents, um, weren’t, um…”
I just shake my head, not even close to ready to dive into that shitshow.
Dale nods. “Some other time, maybe.” Her face splits into a grin, eyes glittering with mischief. “Do you like to drink?”
I laugh at that. “Do you like to drink? Can teachers drink?” Dale rolls her eyes at my questions.
“We are humans, you know. Humans who have to deal with shitheads day in and day out. Hell yeah, we drink!” She slams her hands on the table and looks around. “Want to go get a drink instead? ”
“It’s barely noon.” I laugh nervously.
Dale shrugs her shoulders and stands up. “Yeah, and? I only suggested we meet here because I wanted to be proper. I was worried you had gotten all grown up on me.” She eyes me as if trying to peel back my skin and see what lies beneath. “I want to see how wrong I was.”
Without another word or a comment to the waitress, she strides toward the door. Her long braid swishes over her ample backside, and I notice she is wearing dark black pants— Latina Sandie, right here in small town Texas. Seems so odd for an agriculture teacher.
But what the fuck do I know?
I hurriedly scoot out of the booth, afraid she will leave me behind if I don’t catch up.
“You can wear that as a teacher?” I ask, my voice barely above a whisper.
Dale looks me up and down and laughs so loud someone drops a cup.
“You can wear that as a rancher?”
Touché.
We step out into the humid air, and I wrinkle my nose in disgust.
“I still hate the heat,” I hiss, looking up at the sun.
“You didn’t use to. It was a good excuse to wear even less clothes.” Dale waggles her eyebrows at me and walks over to her black, shiny Dodge.
I whistle, the sound a shrill ringing in the parking lot.
“Get in, bitch. We will get your truck tomorrow.”
I stare at Dale, her small frame bouncing into the truck with practiced ease. She might look small and poised, but I can sense the wild animal just beneath her skin. Dale was always good at wearing a mask, and I have the aching need to see what is beneath it—everyone deserves to have someone truly see them .
Dale leans out of the window, the truck roaring to life, and I can’t help but smile. She looks like a little girl messing with her daddy’s truck, but I know that’s not true. Everything Dale is and has is because she worked for it; I desperately want to be like her when I grow up.
Tapping on the side of the truck, her tone teasing, Dale shouts above the grumble of the engine, “I’m getting you trashed!”