5. Stetson
FIVE
STETSON
March 17th, 2024
“Okay, but was the date that bad ?” Dale questions between bouncing in the saddle and cackling. I roll my eyes but can’t stop a chuckle of my own; around Dale, it’s easy, infectious almost.
“Yes, Dale. He’s a schmuck.”
“Stetson! He’s hot,” Dale chides.
“Yeah, and?”
“So, he’s a hot schmuck. You can’t have it all!” Dale’s eyes shimmer with mischief. She’s so carefree—her black mane whipping like a flag behind her in the Texas air. She looks how I want to feel: alive .
“You have him, then.”
Dale’s smile drops at my suggestion, her nose scrunching. I don’t get the impression that she likes him all that much, rather wants me to find someone, anyone , to be with. Why? Does she think I’m lonely or something— is it that fucking obvious? “He’s too much of a, uh, how do I put this? Pretty boy, for my taste.”
“Yeah, me, too. And he doesn’t open doors.”
Dale’s face wrinkles in confusion. “He doesn’t open doors?” She says each word slowly like there is some hidden meaning she is missing.
I roll my eyes again and turn forward, ready to drop it. “Never mind.” It’s a dumb hill to die on, but it’s the principle. He has no respect for me, and the more I’m around him, I don’t think he has interest, either. I’m more of a convenience, an opportunity to get something for himself, even though I haven’t figured out what that is yet.
Money? Land? Power? What does the richest guy in Moztecha even need?
“Oh, honey, let yourself like him. Even if it’s just for a while, so you can get fucked. You need it.” She states it like she is telling me about the weather. I spin on her, the action making my saddle creak, and Winston’s ears flick back toward me. Dale shrugs, all nonchalance, but the smirk that means trouble pulls at her dark-painted lips.
“What? You do, Stet! You’ve got this whole, dark downer vibe about you. You need dick, bad.”
“Dale.” I hate that she sees my vulnerabilities so plainly. I feel naked and exposed.
“Well, it’s true! I would know. I was the same way until I got some good dick recently. Trust me!”
I quirk my brow at that. “Who’s the lucky guy?” I force a hint of laughter in my voice, but the truth is, I do really want to know. This is something Dale has always teased about, but never really divulged. I want to know all her dark secrets, the same way I want to share all of mine with her— someday.
Dale shakes her head. “A story for another time.” She points her finger at me. “A drunker time.” She smiles, and I can’t help but follow suit.
We near the end of the last decrepit line of decaying barbed wire, my notebook full of notes and scribbles of where the fence is falling apart, what wells aren’t working, what grass is bare and gone. It would have made more sense to note where things aren’t falling apart instead— it would have been a shorter list.
The ranch has fallen into a state of shambles; anyone with eyes can see it. It isn’t my fault—I know that much—but it is my job to fix it, and that weighs on me. That is, unless I am ready to sell it. And there’s no way I’m ready to do that, either. I want to fix it up. I want to make my mom proud, even if I’m not sure she deserves it.
My mother, always kind and loving toward me, had failed me in almost every way that mattered. Most frequently, and painfully, by failing to protect me from the snake in our lives. I understand my mother got it bad too, worse than me if I have to imagine—the end was proof of that. But Poppy had chosen him; I had simply been born to him. And therefore, my mother should have fought harder, if only for my sake.
But she hadn’t, and as much as I don’t want to hate her, I can’t fight the acidic taste of hatred from climbing up my throat at the memory of her.
Yeah, it’s a hard place to be in—hating someone I also want to make proud.
Who is also dead.
Why am I doing this to myself again? I squint into the brutal sunshine, searching the sky for answers.
“Earth to Stetson.” Dale’s voice slices through the hot, muggy air. I turn to look at her, noting the sheen of sweat on her deeply tanned skin, and the crinkle of concern in her forehead. “Where’d you go?”
What can I possibly say? How can I ever explain my fucked up feelings about my mother to anyone? So I turn back toward the sky with a shrug of my shoulders .
It’s unbearably hot out, the sun an open flame lapping at my skin. Dale is already naturally tan, but I know she has to be burning her exposed shoulders in the cut-off button-down she wore. I will no doubt be sporting a permanent farmer’s tan for the rest of the year from today alone. I’ll be lucky if I don’t blister.
“A lot of work to do,” I finally admit, and Dale whistles.
“Girl, there’s too much work to do. You need help in a big way, and not just your charming, and extremely talented, friend helping out on the weekends. You need a hand. Maybe a man’s hand, even.” Dale’s observation is obvious, and I can’t stop my eyes from rolling dramatically. I know I need help, but I can’t afford it. So instead of acknowledging it, I focus on things I can hopefully fix— on my own.
Always on my own.
“The fencing aside, what about the pastures? Why are some of them sporting a decent amount of grass already, and some of them completely dried and sandy?”
“Well, it’s because you aren’t rotating them properly.” Dale’s matter-of-factual statement feels like a punch to the gut. I don’t mean to bristle—I know Dale isn’t calling me dumb or lacking—but the voices in my head are, and I never have a good comeback for them.
I lean back against the saddle, sighing. I watch my horse’s blonde head and mane sway back and forth from heat and exhaustion—Winston, my trusty steed, is getting tired, and I can’t blame the old guy. These moments together are the most precious in the world to me; the only bright spot in an otherwise gloomy existence.
I love the view—between a horse’s ears—it’s the most beautiful, if I have to pick one. The idea of getting to see and experience the world through their lens always does something to calm me— center me. They do not have to worry about where their next meal will come from, or how to pay for the roof over their head. They simply get to exist and explore and appreciate the beauty of the world one open pasture at a time. It’s a good reminder of the simplistic beauty of life, and how lucky we are to be who and where we are.
I had been lucky that the horse I was working with at the rescue at the end had taken a liking to me. And even luckier when my boss gifted him to me for my years of service.
I, of course, knew better.
Winston, an overly short, squatty, palomino gelding, had been the most tiresome pain in the ass at the rescue. No one wanted to give him the time of day, much less ride him. So, by taking him, it was one less mouth to feed, four fewer hooves to worry about flying at others’ heads, and my boss felt like he could pat himself on the back for the gesture.
I don’t care, though. I won.
Everyone saw something that was too broken to fix when they looked at Winston. I looked in the mirror and saw the same thing. We were kindred spirits, me and him.
I exhale loudly, the sound getting the attention of both Dale and my horse.
“What should I do, Dale?” I hate asking for help, but I need to accept that is one of the reasons Dale is here. I want to trust her.
“You just need to create a good rotation program, and pray for rain.” Dale says it, clapping her hands on the neck of her tall red gelding, Chuck.
“A rotation program?” Sounds familiar, but I also don’t want to act like I know everything. Because I don’t—I’m closer to knowing nothing.
“Yeah, you just need to put up more fences,”
She can’t be fucking serious. More fences? I know I’m pinning her with a death glare, but I can’t help it .
Dale smiles sheepishly at me. “I know, I know. But you need to. Right now, you have two massive fields, which is okay. But when the cows are out there for months at a time, they pick it dry. And with no moisture, the grasses, roots, and all pull out of this damn sandy soil. No roots, no regrowth.” Dale tips her head back and forth as if contemplating.
“If you put in a couple more fence lines, and break up your bigger sections, you’d have to move them more often, but it would allow the other areas to grow while the cows are off them. Again, it isn’t perfect, and you still will need to pray like hell for rain, but it might help.”
I groan, the sound pathetic to my sunburned ears. “Dale, I—oh, fuck it. I have no money to hire someone to help me. I have no money to buy supplies to fix the fucking fence, much less build more.”
“I know.” Dale looks at me, sadness shining in her eyes.
I don’t want her pity, but this doesn’t feel like pity; it feels like understanding. I don’t know which is worse.
“Your parents—” I flinch at the words, causing Dale to pause, and rephrase. “Your mom and Gibson, they left you with a mess. A big fucking mess. And I don’t know how to help you, but I will do whatever I can. And maybe we can find someone in town who needs a place to stay and is willing to work for room and board plus a sum once the calves are sold in the fall.” She pauses. “What are your feelings about selling some cows to get by? Or land even?”
I shake my head, the thought of both options making my stomach churn—it feels too much like giving up.
Dale smiles, small but reassuring. “There’s gotta be something. We will figure it out.”
The words hit me so hard in the chest; I grip the saddle horn to keep from falling off my horse. No one has ever been so kind to me, and I don’t deserve it.
I’m dirty, trash— a nobody. And I do and like things nobody has the right to. Dale, she’s so happy and sunny. How can I dirty her up like this, involving her in the mess that is my life? It’s okay for me, but for her? Can I truly subject her to my darkness?
“Stet, I can see you overthinking. I want to help. I want to be here.” Dale reaches over, squeezing my hand firmly gripped around the horn.
We continue to ride in silence, the old log house coming into view. It was once shiny with sealant and dark green trim on the roof and windows. There was a green-painted swing that swayed in the summer breeze, and flower gardens that lined the pale gravel walkway to the door.
Now, the wooden logs are faded and cracking from years of moisture and lack of upkeep, and the green paint is peeling away in more places than it isn’t. The swing had broken the first night I sat on it, and now it sits forgotten on the rotting deck, sad and faded, too.
It’s all falling apart, just like everything else in my life.