Chapter 4 #2
They fell into motion again, the quiet rhythm of working hands and trained eyes, but the anticipation inside Rowan kept niggling at his insides. He knew Theo was digging, and that silence on that front was starting to mean something was coming down the pipe.
Good.
I need to stretch my reflexes.
Retired.
Kinda.
Semi-re-fucking-tired.
But somehow the reminder didn’t really matter. His blood screamed for action. His soul craved to return to a time when he’d been at his happiest. He ignored the twinge of guilt that filtered through him as he and his brother went through the merits of the next yearling.
He was more than aware that the only reason Gael kept gearing up and following his ass into whatever hellhole on earth the USG sent them to was to ensure he stayed alive. Gael was more than ready to sit on the front porch sipping some fancy-ass Italian wine that Joel had brought back from Italy.
Gael climbed out of the corral and adjusted the cap on his pen. “Alright,” he said, flipping the clipboard toward Rowan. “We’re keeping five, sending three for the sale, and watching two for another week.”
Rowan took the board, eyes scanning the shorthand. “Yeah.” He tapped his finger on the board at filly number two. “Just this one, I like her style. I need to think about her for a bit.”
“Maybe call momma and get her take on her,” Gael agreed. “She knows that line better than us.”
“Yup. And I’m not trailering her all the way down to Ocala only to change my mind when I see her go under the hammer and then be stuck.”
Colson leaned his elbows on the top rail. “I’ll grab some more salt licks from the feed room and put them in the pastures.”
“I’ll go call the vet.” Rowan glanced at his watch. “We need Coggins and health certs on the ones we’re shipping.”
Jericho pulled a sheet from his back pocket and handed it over. “Pre-filled the IDs. You’re welcome.”
Rowan raised a brow but didn’t comment. He took the sheet, then reached for Gael’s clipboard. He tapped the sheet flat onto the board and tucked both under his arm. “Get some hay out into the pastures and move those pregnant mares back into the dry lot; they’ve had enough grass for today.”
“Yes, sir.”
“You got it, boss.”
Gael’s phone pinged, and Rowan shot him a grin. “Go talk to Joel, I’ll get started on this paperwork.”
“Thanks.”
Rowan went through the barn doors and took a moment to appreciate the fans that moved the thick Kentucky air through the center aisle. Sweat rolled down his spine and soaked into his shirt. He pushed open the tack room door with his shoulder and walked through it into his office.
If there was one place on the ranch that truly felt like his, it was this room.
It wasn’t fancy, and it certainly couldn’t be called big.
But it had a door that closed, a desk that didn’t wobble, a coffeemaker he didn’t share with the bunkhouse, and it looked like the CHU’s.
As he’d spent most of his adult life in those containerized housing units, at military bases across the globe, his office felt like home sweet home.
He flipped on the light, grabbed the half-empty pot, and refilled his mug.
The coffee was half-bitter, half-burned, and mostly cold.
The perfect mug of Navy sludge.
He kicked the door halfway shut with his boot, dropped into his chair, and set the clipboard flat on the desk. The monitor blinked awake when he jiggled the mouse. Rowan flipped to the open spreadsheet. The columns were already half-filled, with dates and lot numbers, and he sipped from his coffee.
Fucking paperwork.
We should hire someone for this shit.
He frowned as he remembered Jericho and his spiked coffee, grabbed a stack of Post-it notes, scribbled the reminder to talk to Scout, and stuck it to the monitor.
I hope to fuck he remembers what it means to communicate with command.
It would suck to have to fire him. But everyone’s safety had to be a priority.
He placed his mug out of the way of his elbow, pulled the top sheet from the pile, and started plugging in values.
Registered name. Barn name. Sex. Age. Breed.
Color. Dam and sire. Height at last measure.
String test and predicted height when full gown.
Everything they would need to make a final decision on their keepers, or that buyers would want to know when they were going to drop five figures on potential stock.
By the time he’d made it to the last sheet, he found the scribbled note Gael had put in the margin and dug out his phone.
He opened his messages, found the number for the vet, and thumbed out a request for a morning slot the next day.
There were no medals for paperwork. But paperwork and intel were what kept the Stronghold running.
He glanced at the cursor blinking at the bottom of the spreadsheet, waiting for him to finish the last field, and entered the final note on the bay colt’s vaccination record.
Then he tabbed across to flag the reminder for Coggins testing, saved the file, and emailed it to Gael to print and paper file it in the fireproof cabinet in the office up at the house.
He leaned back in the chair just long enough to crack the tension in his shoulders and sighed in relief when his back popped. The chair gave a low groan that said it had one good year left in it, maybe two if he tightened the bolts.
I’ll tighten the damn bolts.
Rowan scribbled a Post-it note for that too, and it joined all the others in the brightly colored circle around his computer monitor.
His phone pinged.
Asher Clinic: 7.30 AM. See you then. K.
Rowan: Thanks.
He grabbed a marker and left his office for the whiteboard in the tack room.
He scribbled in the vet appointment for tomorrow, then checked the feed orders and pasture schedules that were mapped out in lines of color-coded marker.
He made a mental note to confirm they had enough health cert forms before the vet arrived.
He was halfway back to the office when his phone buzzed once on the edge of the file tray.
He checked the screen, and excitement flared to life somewhere deep inside him.
Cross: Call me
Rowan punched in the speed dial button for Theo and put the phone to his ear.
“Talk to me.”
Theo’s voice came through with that clipped edge. “You busy?”
They were on a ranch, of course he was freaking busy. They were always freaking busy, and if they weren’t, then it was either Sunday or they were sick. “Just finished paperwork. Why?”
“I’ve got something,” Theo replied. “Need you to come up here and tell me if you see what I do.”
Rowan didn’t ask what it was; he’d find out soon enough. “I’ll be there in ten.”