Chapter 40
It’s been sixteen hours. We’ve gone back and forth through the fields about a hundred times. We clear as much of the hay away from the cattle as we can, exchange it for clean stuff, and bring the sick cows down.
Every field is manned with at least two hands to watch the herd, and my legs are so stiff from getting on and off Kelpie that I’ve started to make the same sound as old wood flooring. It’s going to be a long couple of days.
“Meetin’ in the house in ten,” Ford barks, stomping out of the barn. It’s pretty clear that he’s in the same mood, if not a worse one.
“Bunkhouse,” I corrected him. I don’t wanna be having these conversations in the same house as Maggie. She’s sick and doesn’t need to worry about it all.
“Dot’s making dinner.” He argues, not stopping even for a moment, as he hands off his reins to a hand.
“I’ll bring it down to the bunkhouse.”
“You’re getting soft, Walker,” Ford growls in passing, and doesn't look up at me as he redirects himself into the bunks.
“By choice, Lawson,” I call back with a smile on my face, and he grunts before swinging the door open and disappearing inside.
I run up to the house to update Dot and hear voices coming from inside the kitchen.
I knock off the mud on my boots and pull off my beanie as I make my way inside.
“Dottie?” I call out, and she guides me toward the kitchen with her voice.
“How's Maggie?” I ask as I round the corner. There’s a woman in the kitchen I’ve never seen before, and Dot’s leaned over her, cleaning a bloody bottom lip as I pause.
“Bode,” she huffs, “this is Dylan.”
The woman turns, and I try not to grimace.
Her lip is swollen, and there’s a nice bruise forming around it as Dot does her best to stop the bleeding.
A long braid, twisted in strands of caramel and brown, matted and fuzzy from work, hangs down her back.
I pause when I recognize the jacket she’s wearing, it’s one of those stupid breakers, the black ones with the Twelve Acres logo on the back.
It hangs over her shoulder, showing off another nasty but fading bruise that looks like it hurt.
“And we’re being polite to Dylan, why?” I ask, and Dot scowls. Dylan stares at me cautiously, like a caged animal ready to run. Her eyes a darker brown than her braid, and bouncing around terrified beneath long lashes. She’s built like a ranch hand, but looks like a beauty queen.
“Because,” she glares, “Ms. Dylan has information you’re going to want to hear.”
“Get her patched up, she can join us for dinner,” I say gently. Dot nods, knowing better than to mess with an instruction or dinner. “And Maggie?”
“Still sleeping, Bode-boy. I’ll feed her when she’s able to sit up a little, don’t you worry.” She winks at me.
“Sweet as ever,” I say, moving around and kissing her cheek while still keeping an eye on our visitor. I grab the big bowl of buns and balance them on top of the stockpot that holds something that might be beef stew. “On your feet.” I tell her. “Bring those.” I nod to a basket full of cookies.
Dylan looks between me and Dot like she’s going to stop it from happening, but Dot just steps out of the way. “Go on. They won’t hurt you.”
She doesn’t move for a second longer, her suspicion valid if whoever gave her those bruises was just another cowboy. I nod toward the back door, and she swallows tightly, rising from her stool and grabbing the basket.
Dylan keeps her distance, and I turn back to make sure she’s there as I take the drive down back to the bunkhouse. “How did that happen?” I ask her, nodding to her shoulder.
“Oh,” she says, like she’s surprised I’m even acknowledging her.
But something in her voice catches me off guard.
It’s goofy, not from around here. It’s further south.
“Fell off a horse a couple of days back. She was a real mean one-” Dylan trails off when she realizes that I’m only interested in its connection to her lip. “This is a different story.”
I nod in understanding and use my back to push open the door to the bunkhouse. Almost all the guys are inside, aside from the ones watching the herd. Ford’s eyes are instantly on the jacket, and I regret not telling her to remove it because the logo means war.
“What the fuck is this?” Ford stands, and I set down the pot as Crew moves to assist in damage control.
“I,” she starts, “am Dylan.”
Logan snorts loudly at the sass, and Crew gives her a dirty look that makes her shrug.
“Alright,” Ford snaps, “What the fuck are you doing here, Dylan?” He changes his question, but it’s venomous all the same.
“I came down from Twelve-"
“We know where you’re from,” Ford cuts her off as some of the guys start to get food. They’re used to his attitude and are accustomed to working while he’s letting off steam. “Why are you here?”
“Well, when you’re finished talking, I’ll tell ya.” She smiles at him, full set of perfect white teeth. She looks like a shark.
Ford puts both hands on his hips and drops his head with a dark laugh. “You’re outnumbered down here, sweetheart, you better watch that tongue.”
“Unfortunately for you, handsome, I need my tongue to help you take down Twelve Acres.” Dylan doesn’t back down, and the caged animal I saw up at the house has turned into a predator.
Logan looks like she’s in love, and Ford’s two more sentences from having to bury a body in the thawing ground out back.
“Talk then,” Crew prompts for everyone.
“I was brought onto the ranch a few months back. Good pay, good housing, but shit started to get weird. The lead hands started getting us to do sketchy stuff, and usually I’m all for trouble-making, but this was different,” Dylan says.
It’s not uncommon for ranches to partake in questionable behavior now and again but something about the way she’s telling the story feels wrong. Feels targeted.
“They had us memorizing land maps. Gerald, one of the older guys, quizzed us on fence lines and herd counts randomly through the day. Eventually, it became us running those lines,” she says, looking over at me. “Cutting them.”
“So they were sending you out to sabotage fences,” Ford asks.
“Correct,” she hums. “I didn’t see much harm in it, I was getting paid, fed…” She cocks her head to the side and sighs. “But they wanted us to bring in alfalfa, truckfuls. Cover your fields in them…”
“It’s a little too late to warn us,” Ford snaps.
“They aren’t done.” Dylan is quick to shut him down. “I refused, so they knocked me out and locked me in a stall. I draw a line at using animals in a fight they didn’t start,” she explains. “They aren’t going to stop until they hurt you.”
“They already have. We lost forty-two cattle.” Ford steps forward.
“When they had me in that stall, I heard something else,” she says, and Ford stops. “They have more trucks of it, three full.”
“Fuck.” I throw my hat across the table, and Crew runs his hand over his face.
“So what do we do?” Peter asks, a mouth full of bun. Levi looks at me like I should already have the answers. But all I can think about is how dangerous this all is and how Levi should already be back on the road. But he’s not. He’s here, wanting to help in a fight that isn’t even his.
“I’ll tell ya what I’d like to do,” Dylan says. “I’d like to hogtie those motherfuckers and roll them through a poison ivy bush.”
Logan laughs and Crew sighs. “What? It’s creative, and I don’t hear you giving suggestions.”
“That’s because I can’t give my suggestions in front of a lady.” He shakes his head at her, and she just smiles wider at him.
“I don’t see no ladies,” Dylan scowls.
“I beg to differ,” Dot’s voice follows the sound of the bunkhouse door closing softly. When I look over to her, she’s got Maggie, looking pale and pissed off beside her.
“What are you doing out of bed?” I move toward her and wrap my arm around her, kicking Peter out of his chair with my boot to his ass so she can claim it.
“I couldn’t stop her. I was doing the laundry, the blankets from Wanda’s stall you bought up, and she caught me, started asking all kinds of questions, and I’m not leaving her in the dark. It’s not the time for that,” Dot scolds me, and I nod in understanding.
“Who’s this?” Maggie’s eyes are locked on Dylan.
“Dylan.” She tips her head at her. “A jailbreak from Twelve Acres.”
“And why is your face messed up, Dylan?” Maggie questions, and Ford groans.
“Because men are bossy and rough,” she answers. “And mean.”
“Very,” Maggie agrees. “Are these the same men who got Wanda sick?” Maggie turns her attention to me, and I nod again, just once, a chill running down my spine. “Then what are you doing about it?”
“We need to get rid of the rotten hay,” Crew says before I can curb the conversation.
“And we need to find out why the hell they’re doing this,” Ford adds, and Maggie flinches at his language.
The ideas thrown out next range from mediocre to just plain stupid and dangerous. Nothing is going to have the outcome we need or want. And none of them are going to help us keep the ranch in one piece.
“I say we light some trucks up.” I wait until the room quiets. “They can’t kill cattle with alfalfa they don’t have, and we even the numbers. Take back what they killed in the chaos.” I suggest.
“Cut some fences?” Crew crosses his arms.
“Peter’s good with bolt cutters,” Levi says, and Peter clams up.
“I don’t want to know how you know that,” Dot huffs gently from her position near the door.
“You wanna create a distraction, steal cattle, and then what? Pretend like it didn’t happen?” Ford pushes, stabbing holes in the sloppy plan.
“They can’t report it. What are they going to tell the Sheriff? That all their rotten hay is destroyed?” Logan defends me. “Besides, we sort of have him in our pocket.”
“Don’t say that out loud, it makes us sound like criminals," Crew scoffs.
“Huckleberry,” Logan chuckles, her ponytail swaying behind her as her shoulders shake. “You’re all criminals.”
He sighs, pulling off his baseball cap and tucks it under his arms in annoyance. “Alright, but this is going to mean war. Then what?”
“They started it, you’re just finishing it.” Maggie’s voice is loud and clear, it silences all the doubt in the bunkhouse, and all the men nod in agreement.