Chapter Colt
Colt
Turns out, I’m insufferable with a mustache, but there’s something about having what my uncle refers to as a “cookie duster” that feels really fucking cool.
I should’ve guessed based on how often I need to shave my face normally that this new style would have no problem growing in thick.
And I’ve been channeling Burt Reynolds, putting time into styling and trimming it, in the hopes that the only body hair one might compare to pubes is… well, my pubes.
I run my index finger over my upper lip and lean against the wall beside the tack room.
I feel energized for the first time in well over a week, thanks to being back in the saddle all morning, rather than the tractor.
We moved a herd of heifers from one section of grazing land to another, starting the moment the sun peeked over the mountain.
Breathing in the fresh outside air, lightly scented with the aroma of tanning skin and horses, I was reminded of when I first came to work here.
Turning to head out of the barn, I sling back the rest of the coffee in my travel mug when Denny smacks me hard between the shoulder blades.
He fumbles with the saddle tucked against his side. “Hey, almost forgot to tell you we’re going to a bar in Sheridan tonight.”
I guess I could get behind going out, instead of doing what I’d planned to do tonight—shower, eat some half-assed dinner with the guys in the bunkhouse, play some online Scrabble with my mom and brother, jerk off while I think about Whit, fall asleep before nine o’clock. You know, the usual.
“Where we going?”
“Not sure yet. Guess it’ll be up to Whit, since it’s her birthday.”
It’s…her what?
“Huh?”
“It’s Whit’s birthday—”
“Today?” I interrupt, my wide-eyed stare earning a weird look from him.
“I don’t know, to be honest, but we’re going out tonight to celebrate. She didn’t want to go to The Horseshoe.” Denny brushes past my bewildered body to put his saddle away. From the tack room, he yells a casual, “You coming?”
Chill. Casual. Noncommittal.
“Yeah, sure…”
I speed-walk the fuck out of the barn, kicking up dust and feeling the wind in my mustache. I’m cruising so fast down the driveway, it takes more than a couple seconds for Betty to catch up. And when she does, she’s nipping at my heels to encourage me to go faster.
“Betty Spaghetti, we gotta find Jonas.”
Thankfully, I spot him from a mile away.
On top of a pile of soil Austin had trucked in last week to double the size of Cecily’s garden, Jonas and Odessa are playing with yellow metal Tonka trucks.
I don’t know how Whit can be so worried about him growing up to be well-adjusted when he puts up with Odessa’s shit without so much as an eye roll or raised voice.
I’m sure playing dump trucks with a six-year-old is the last thing he wants to be doing.
“Hey, dude,” I call out, approaching the dirt pile. “Is it your mom’s birthday today?”
“Uh, yeah.” He tips the dump truck, pouring soil all over Odessa’s bare foot.
“Did you get her a present?”
The look he gives me says he hasn’t even considered it. “No.”
“Shit,” I mumble.
“Swear jar,” Odessa says unhelpfully.
“We should hit up Anette’s on our way home today and buy your mom a cake.”
Odessa crosses two fingers in front of her, making the sign of a…cross? No, an X. The definitive buzzing sound that follows from her lips makes that clear. My suggestion was the wrong one.
“My mom always says mommies only want homemade presents,” Odessa says, returning to the hole she’s dug with her toy excavator.
Even though it’s way more work, and I have no idea how to bake, the six-year-old is onto something.
“Okay, in that case, give me ten minutes to shower. We’re gonna bake a cake.”
I don’t give Jonas enough time to argue or point out that I’ve lost my mind. I know I have. But I’ll be damned if I don’t give my future wife the birthday she deserves.
After ten minutes—not a second longer—I’m freshly showered and striding up the steps to the big house with Jonas reluctantly following, leaving Betty to play with Odessa. Apparently I found the one thing he enjoys less than keeping a six-year-old girl company, and that’s helping in the kitchen.
“Hey, ladies,” I shout down the hallway as the screen door slams shut behind me.
The main house, where Kate and Jackson live with their kids, is expansive and fully furnished in antiques, most of which have probably been here since the Wells family started this ranch a century ago.
The space is filled with warm wood tones and the ever-present scent of freshly baked bread.
Chatter springs from the kitchen, where you can always find at least a couple of the wives and girlfriends.
In the mornings, they’re sipping coffee and setting out bagged lunches for the cowboys.
In the afternoons, they’re drinking beer or sangria and gossiping while they bake bread for the next day’s lunches.
Sure enough, I stroll into the kitchen right as Kate’s emerging from the fridge with a dark amber bottle in her hand.
The kitchen manager, Beryl—an Indigenous Secwépemc woman with long silvery-gray hair and eyes that are constantly smiling—looks over at me and waves with a flour-coated hand. “Hey, kid. Hungry?”
She gestures to some sort of pastry-looking thing.
“Nah. I mean…yeah, fuck it. I am.” I skirt around Kate, careful not to bump her as she pops the top off her beer, and grab what turns out to be a Danish. “I actually wanted to see if Jonas and I can borrow a bit of counter space in here.”
She looks at the small boy and beams. “After he washes his hands, of course.”
Probably should’ve hosed him off first.
Jonas has spent enough time in the kitchen to know better than to question Beryl, and he immediately gets to rolling up his sleeves on his short walk to the sink.
“What do you need counter space for? Is this another science experiment?” Kate raises an eyebrow.
I shake my head vigorously. “No, no, no. I learned my lesson about Mentos and Coca-Cola. It’s Whit’s birthday, so Jonas and I wanted to make her a cake.”
“Colt wants to make her a cake,” Jonas corrects me.
Kate and Beryl stare at me. Unblinking. Knowing.
“Well, in that case.” Beryl wipes the flour dust from her hands with a tea towel. “How much time do we have? Maybe we should make cupcakes so it’s a bit faster?”
Instantly she’s milling about, making trips to and from the pantry for supplies, and setting it all out on the counter while softly humming to herself.
Kate follows suit, but in a slightly less kindhearted way. She insists we wear aprons—adorning me in a particularly cute pink one that’s covered in red hearts.
Nobody makes mention of why I’m so invested in making sure she has birthday cupcakes, even as I grill Jonas about whether Whit prefers vanilla or chocolate, or when I spend the entire bake time deciding between frosting colors.
Beryl pulls them from the oven, dipping a clean finger into Jonas’s batch of frosting to taste. Since black wasn’t an option, Jonas suggested orange frosting so our chocolate cupcakes look like Halloween. Apparently, it’s his mom’s favorite holiday.
Something to note.
“I think we might have some Halloween sprinkles in the pantry,” Kate says without looking up. She’s been sitting at the kitchen table the entire time we were baking, flipping through a magazine. Occasionally, she’d lift her head to make a loud observation about how poor my baking skills are.
Beryl gestures toward the pantry door, silently asking if I’d like her to grab some.
“Nah, we’ll stop by the corner store and grab some sour keys to put on top. They’re her favorite.”
The corner of Beryl’s lip tugs upward. “I’m sure they are, and I won’t ask any questions about how you know that.”
“Colt came over to play video games and he bought a ton of candy because he didn’t know what kind we liked.
The pile was probably this big.” He moves his hands in a half-circle above the quartz countertop to show a comically large height—definitely way bigger than the real amount of candy I brought.
“Wow, that was really nice of him.” Beryl shoots me a look.
“Super nice,” Kate quips.
With the actual worst timing in human history, Denny saunters into the kitchen. “Aww, you guys are talking about what a nice guy I am again, aren’t you?”
He sidles up next to Beryl, eyeballing the cupcakes, and she smacks at his hand.
“Colt’s the nice guy this time,” Kate says. She’s set the magazine down now—fully invested.
“What did he do?” Denny asks, then follows up with, “And also, can you stop swatting at me and let me have one of these?”
“These are for Whit,” Beryl says, shooing him away while simultaneously sliding the plate of pastries across the counter. “Have one of the strawberry rhubarb Danishes instead.”
“For Whit, hey?” His tongue skates between his teeth.
I point to Jonas, who’s so focused on getting the perfect frosting swirl, his eyes are crossed. “The kid didn’t have a present for her, and we couldn’t turn up empty-handed.”
“I was born at night, but it wasn’t last night.” Denny takes a bit of Danish, licking a piece of flaky crust from the corner of his mouth. “You sly, sly dog.”
Guess I am. Whit can put me on a leash and ask me to beg any day.
Bark fucking bark.
· · ·
Jonas cradles the box of cupcakes in his lap, fighting off Betty with his left arm. “We shouldn’t have brought her. She’s going to sit her big butt down on the cupcakes.”
“Miss Spaghetti.” I pat my lap, calling her over. “She loves birthday celebrations. Poor girl would be heartbroken if we left her behind.”
He side-eyes the dog, wary that she’ll barrel toward him at any second. “Does she love the birthday celebrations or the treats?”
“All of it.”
My pickup rounds the corner, and Betty leans hard into my rib cage. Then it dawns on me that we’re missing something crucial.
“Hold on tight for a—” Before I finish the sentence, I veer the truck down a side road shortly before the town’s limit.