Chapter 4
CHAPTER FOUR
TUESDAY. STRONGHOLD, KY
Rowan barely had time to step clear when the yearling in the pen launched sideways and reared up, lashing out with her hooves.
“Damn, she’s fast.”
Former Marine Scout Sniper, Jericho “Scout” Drummond was almost as quick, but had to backpedal a couple of steps to keep from landing on his ass. “Fucking witch has opinions,” he brushed his hands down his right thigh where one of her hooves had glanced off him. “Motherfucker, that stings.”
“Considering who her dam is, we should have known better than to turn her out on the range with the rest of the weanlings.” Rowan’s eyes followed the filly’s movements as she moved around the pen.
“But looking at those hocks and that drive under her ass, she has the makings of a good cutting horse.”
“Who’s her daddy?” Jericho adjusted his grip on the rope.
“Hotshot Grenade, who’s down out of Hot Ladies Man and that makes her a full sister on paper to Smoking Hot Southern Thang.”
“Don’t matter a damn who she’s a full sister to if we can’t get her to chill the hell out.” Gael grumbled, “She tries that crap in the trailer and we’re gonna have a vet bill and a lawsuit before the hauler even makes it to the highway.”
Rowan agreed with his brother. “She’s not leaving this ranch until she learns which end her brains are at, and right now, I’m not sure she has any.
” He gestured to Jericho, “Send her ass in the keeper pen. Give her the shots and wormer. We’ll ground work her over the winter and see what she’s looking like before the spring sale. ”
“You got it, boss.” Jericho flanked the filly to the left while Rowan and the others fanned out behind her to drive her through the gate and into the adjoining pen. “Come on, Witch, time to start learning you some manners.”
Rowan swung the gate and stepped back as the next colt trotted into the pen.
I’ve been waiting to see how you’ve been coming on.
It was one thing to see the yearlings out on the range with the herd, and quite another to see how they reacted to the pens and being handled.
He had high hopes for this boy. He noted how he held his ears forward and how his eyes, while slightly wild, didn’t show as much white as the rest they’d gone through had.
That’s in his favor.
Let’s see what you got, son.
The colt came to a snorting stop in the middle of the pen and watched the humans warily as if he hadn’t decided yet if he needed to blow out of the pen or not.
When former Army Ranger breacher, Colson “Titan” Pike, flicked the whip, kicking up some dirt behind his heels, the colt took off around the pen.
“Operator Peace Pipe.” Gael scratched something on the clipboard. “Colt number six.”
“Down out of Comanche War Trail,” Rowan kept his stance loose as the colt moved to the edge of the fence line. “And Peace Treaty. Momma’s personal mount.”
“That the one you were talking about at dinner last night?” Gael retreated out of the way, then the colt flinched away from him a little as he came past.
“Yeah. I’m liking him. His mama sure passed that eye on to him, though. Look at how he’s watching us.”
“I see it.”
Colson kept the colt moving for another couple of minutes, then let him come to a stop as they decided what his future held. “You gonna geld this one?”
“Not every colt needs to be a stallion,” Gael flipped through the pages on his clipboard. “His bloodlines are solid, but they’re gonna be tight if we ever want to breed him to any of our fillies.”
“I know.” Rowan crossed one hand over his chest and placed the closed fist of the other on his chin as he worked through the options.
“I want to run him on through winter and see what kind of mind he’s got before we cut him.
If he’s got the brain to match what’s behind him, we send him down to Texas and get him finished out. ”
Gael tapped the edge of the clipboard with his pen and nodded once. “Even if he was destined for the sale, it’s probably better not to geld him anyways. We’ll get more for him if he’s intact.”
“Right?” Rowan rolled his eyes. “It blows my mind that buyers will go to the sale, drop tens of thousands on a colt, then spend more money getting him gelded. But if he was a gelding in the pen, they wouldn’t pay half the price.
” He nodded to Jericho and Colson, “send him through to the keeper pen.”
“Roger that.” Colson swung the gate closed behind the colt, the latch snapping into place with a solid clink.
“Bring in the next one.” Gael flipped the page on the clipboard. “Three more to go before lunch.”
This colt came in at a trot, long-legged and loose-moving.
Rowan nudged Gael with his elbow. “This one thinks he’s hotter than shit.
” The colt’s ears flicked between the men in the pen, but he didn’t spook or blow up, which counted in his favor.
Rowan folded his arms across his chest and watched the colt.
Nice neck.
Decent top line.
Feet are a little clunky.
He’s a little ribby, though.
He’d learned long ago not to judge the end results by the body of the yearling going through the fuggily uglies. This one would fill out in time. “His energy is giving me more bold than smart, and that’s not always a good thing. Which one is he?”
Gael checked the clipboard again. “Colt number seven. Out of Slick Whiskey and a home-bred mare off the Gunsmoke cross.”
“Boom?”
“Yup.”
“She’s a solid little cow pony.” Rowan shifted his weight as the colt turned the far corner. “She throws good hips, and her last two foals have decent minds. I like how this one’s built through the shoulder.”
“He’s got presence,” Gael replied. “The sale barn folks will eat that up. I vote we send him through.”
“I’m leaning that way too.” As much as he hated selling animals, that was the foundation of what a good breeding ranch did.
Hoarding is not part of our business plan.
“We need to see how he handles groundwork before we give final sign-off. Send him to the sale herd.”
Gael scribbled something on the page and tapped the pen once against the clipboard. “Agreed.” He raised his voice. “Move him to the right, boys.”
“On it,” Jericho said, moving to position while Colson shifted wide to pressure the colt toward the gate on the right side of the pen.
“Take a breather,” Rowan yelled the order and climbed over the fence to grab some water from the stash they’d left on the ground earlier. He snagged a couple and tossed one to each of the others.
Theo should’ve pinged by now. Should’ve had something, even if it was a dead end.
He shook off the reminder of what was happening in the house.
If he allowed the operator he’d been trained to be to take over, then he wouldn’t keep doing the things that needed doing to keep the ranch afloat.
The yearlings needed to be sorted this morning.
The two-year-olds were at the top of his list for this afternoon.
He unscrewed the top of his bottle and drank deeply, then adjusted the brim of his hat.
Excitement at the possibility of a mission tugged at something inside him.
He refused to allow it to become the most important thing in his world. If that happened…
Retired.
I’m retired, damn it.
But he knew better than most that missions were one of the few things that kept him wanting to wake to see another sunrise. They were the fire that kept Stronghold alive. They were the reason almost all his ranch hands were operators…
One more mission.
Just one.
Then I’ll call it.
“Hey?” Gael tapped the bill of his ball cap, bringing it down to cover his face. “Where did you go, Ro?”
He swatted at his twin and used it to cover the fact that he didn’t answer right away. The last thing his twin needed was to know he wasn’t quite ready to quit. Not yet…
Maybe not ever.
“Just making a mental list is all.” That sounded reasonable, right? But considering who his brother was and the connection they shared, probably not.
“That’s why we have this.” Gael lifted his clipboard. “Both of us have had too many concussions to remember shit or keep it straight when we do.”
“Yeah.” He crushed the empty water bottle in his hand and tossed it into the trash can next to the fence. “Let’s finish this, then go grab food. My stomach is starting to think my spine looks tasty.”
“Yup.” Gael scribbled on the corner of a page on his clipboard, then flipped the page over to do it again on the bigger bank pack side. “I’m gonna need a hell of a lot more coffee to survive today. Toss me one of your pens, will ya? This one’s jacked.”
“I’d say six cups and a shot of something stronger.” Colson tossed a pen Gael’s way. “Scout drinks some sort of nasty-ass cinnamon shit, but at least it don’t taste like the horse manure crap Edge has been forcing on us.”
“Fuck you, bro, I just spiked my coffee with Fireball.” Jericho saluted them with his travel mug. “It’s effective, not nasty.”
“It’s disgusting,” Gael said. “Stop that shit when we’re working stock. Our insurance won’t pay for your funeral if you’re working drunk.” He waved a hand between himself and Rowan. “We don’t want your momma crying over your damn casket on our consciences, neither.”
“Toss that shit out.” Rowan made a mental note to talk to Jericho about drinking on the job.
He and his brother understood using alcohol as a crutch more than most. Hell, when he injured his leg enough to end his career in teams, he’d gotten lost in a bottle of Irish Whiskey more than once.
Until Gael had kicked his ass and dragged him home to their mom to knock some sense into him.
But they couldn’t allow these men they trusted, not only on their property, but to have their sixes if and when they took the rare government jobs that even the CIA’s covert teams wouldn’t touch, to drink when they were supposed to be sharp.
“Okay, okay.”
He noted Jericho took a final long sip before he emptied the dregs into the dirt.
“If the fumes from that shit upsets my horses, I’m gonna kick your ass, Scout.”