2. Knox
TWO
KNOX
Standing in the kitchen, I down an ice-cold glass of tea. It’s uncharacteristically warm, but the seasons have become more erratic over the years, so I shouldn’t be surprised. And after the morning I’ve had, dealing with a sick steer, I can only imagine how the rest of the day will go.
Setting my glass on the granite countertop, I wipe the sweat from my brow and glance around the immaculate, industrial kitchen we rarely cook in, then into the living room decorated in earth tones and plush seats that are never used around the giant stone hearth. A house once filled with laughter and bodies is empty now and has been for years.
Predictably, my gaze lands on the only family photo displayed on the mantel. My eyes shift over my mother—too painful to linger on—then my father before resting on Kellen, standing beside a younger version of me. Kellen’s dark hair and strong features make him the spitting image of our father, despite how much they resent the resemblance. Any similarity stops there, though. In fact, it doesn’t only stop, it screeches to a halt that can be heard four counties over.
A college-educated, big-city businessman, Kellen couldn’t get away from the ranch fast enough after Mom died and couldn’t have gotten farther away from me.
My gaze shifts to the framed image of our mother beside it. Her glittering green eyes look directly at me. She’s crouched with the first calf she ever delivered cradled against her, smiling up at the camera. Her cowboy hat shades part of her face, and her smile fills my chest with an all-too-familiar ache.
The sound of Dad’s dually rumbles up the gravel road, and I pour what’s left of the iced tea into my thermos to take with me, grab an apple from the fruit basket, and settle my Stetson back on my head.
Biting off a hunk of crispy fruit, I exit the screen door. The faint scent of sulfur fills my nose, more potent than I’d noticed before, and Lucy, my Australian shepherd, leaps to her feet. Her mismatched eyes are wide and excited as she follows me toward the stable.
“I thought you were branding today,” my father grumbles as he climbs out of the truck. He glowers at me as he slams the door. Lucy lowers her head and keeps her distance as she trots past him.
“I was.” I don’t bother to slow down as I head for the stables. “But some of the steers are missing.”
“What?” His shoulders stiffen. “What do you mean, they’re missing? I’m supposed to deliver seven of them tonight.”
“Yeah, I know. Tony and I will ride to the northern pasture to wrangle them in.” I bite off another hunk of apple, hoping my father will get the hint I’m not in the mood to talk, but he doesn’t. Or rather, he doesn’t care.
“Stop and look at me when I talk to you, boy.”
Clenching my jaw, I turn to face him. Lucy stops a few paces away, watching protectively over me. I don’t bother reminding my father I’m nearly thirty as I stare at him, bored and impatient.
He strides closer with that look in his eyes, the one I was afraid of when I was younger—when I was scrawnier, less imposing, and softer. The look that told me to brace myself for what comes next. But I don’t cower around him, not anymore. I stopped being afraid of Mitch Bennett when I was twenty and threatened him within an inch of his life. I haven’t been his punching bag since.
“If you forgot to clear out that old barbed wire you tore up last week,” he warns, “and those steers are injured?—”
“The old fencing is gone,” I bite back. “They aren’t injured. Some of the steers got separated from the herd in the night is all. Probably coyotes. I’ll bring them in.”
“You better pray,” he says so low I barely hear him.
“Or what?” I taunt him because my ego and impatience won’t allow me to ignore his prodding, it would seem. I step closer and look down at him. He’s only an inch or two shorter than me, but it’s enough that I can loom over him if I try to, a reminder that I am no longer a trembling little boy. He made sure of that. “I said I’ll take care of it, and I will. Not for you, but for the client.”
I can guess who put my father in such a foul mood this morning. Resentment is all he’s known for so long, he places himself in Ava’s path so that he has a reason to be angry on a daily basis. But I don’t have time for his shit right now.
Horses stomp out of the stable as Tony leads them into the sunshine, saddled and anxious to go. “Ready, boss?” he calls.
My father’s laser glare finally releases its hold on me.
Taking another bite from my apple, I glance in Tony’s direction and give him a terse nod. “Anything else?” I ask my father, crunching the apple between my teeth to irritate him.
His hard, dark eyes narrow ever so slightly. “Get those steers ready for transport. I want them loaded by noon. I have a long drive ahead of me.” And with that, my dad turns and marches toward the house, flings the screen door open, and disappears inside.
Already anxious about the missing steers, I crack my neck, exhale deeply, and stride over to Tony with Lucy at my side.
Tony glances between me and the house. “He’s a tub of fun, as usual.”
I don’t bother replying and hand the thermos up to Tony, sitting in Poppy’s saddle. My mother’s old bay mare sniffs Lucy before the apple catches her attention. I rub her face as I take two final bites, then toss the core into the pigpen. “Next time,” I promise her. The last thing I need is my mother’s horse choking on an apple core with a bit in her mouth.
“You know,” Tony starts, hesitant. “This whole thing with him and Ava is getting?—”
“Don’t.” I glare at him as everything inside me, already coiled with tension, tightens. Tony might be happy-go-lucky most of the time—the honey to my vinegar in our friendship—but now is not the time to lecture me on Ava or my father.
Tony holds up one hand in defense. “I know it’s a touchy subject, but at some point, you and your dad need to?—”
“Shut it, Tony. Stick to livestock, would you? And stop calling me boss. You make me sound old.” I run my hand over Lucy’s head. I know I’m being an asshole, that’s all I seem to be anymore, but I can’t help it. I don’t want to think about Ava. Her name alone brings out the worst in my father, and whether I agree with his hatred or not, her family has been the cause of too many long, shitty nights in the Bennett house. “I just want to focus on the steers and getting them back to the barn safely.”
“Fine, consider my lips sealed,” Tony mutters. “But just because your dad’s a dick doesn’t mean you have to be one too...boss.” Tony stares at me as I climb onto Rooster’s back.
I glance at him and it’s all I can do not to roll my eyes. “Noted. Now can we get on with it?” Rooster’s sorrel body expands as he inhales, and I settle into his saddle and take the reins.
Tony dips his head and flicks the brim of his hat. “After you.”
With a click, I grab hold of my hat, and our horses step into a trot before we gallop away from the ranch toward the outer pastures. Lucy lopes beside us, her tongue hanging from her mouth and her gray-and-white coat catching the sunlight. What I wouldn’t give to feel as free as she is right now.
“So, what are you thinking?” Tony calls over the beat of horse hooves. “We heading to the pond?” Like me, he’s apprehensive. I can hear it in his voice.
“Yeah,” I call back. “The ash grove just beyond it.” I know every inch of the two hundred acres the Bennetts have owned for four generations, and I have a feeling the steers are taking refuge in the shade, out of the increasing morning heat.
The smell of sulfur thickens as we ride farther out, and my unease multiplies as it becomes harder to ignore. I focus on the arid breeze and the pasture stretched out before us. The terrain is primarily flat with prickly pear and desert scrub dotting the landscape. The ground is dry and the horses stir up dust as their strides devour the distance between the farm and the pond over the ridge. Coyotes don’t usually cause too many issues, but it’s not unheard of and I ready myself for what we may find on the other side.
As the pond comes into view, Tony and I slow the horses, not wanting to spook the cattle. Lucy slows, staying close and awaiting my command. But I don’t see any stragglers around the pond.
“Well,” Tony utters, readjusting his hat on his head. “They’ve gotta be in that thicket over there.”
We trot closer, around the rocky lip of the natural pond that has watered our livestock for over a century. Rooster knows where we’re headed, and I drop my hand to the saddle horn and let him take the lead. The horses slow as we reach the trees, and it’s all I can do not to gag at the pungent scent of sulfur. Even Lucy’s eyes squint against the aroma, and my unease solidifies to dread.
“Jesus,” Tony groans, raising his arm to cover his nose. “That is strong .” He nudges Poppy into the ash grove, and Rooster, Lucy, and I follow.
The instant a few of the missing steers come into view, the tension in my shoulders eases. But my relief is short-lived.
“Luce,” I warn, calling her away from the cattle.
“Um, Knox...”
We watch as a steer wanders in confused circles, lowing anxiously. Clenching the reins tighter, I spot another with his head pressed against the trunk of one of the ash trees.
“Boss!”
“What?” My attention snaps in Tony’s direction. It takes my brain a second to register five more steers lying down near the water’s edge. Some of them look as if they aren’t even breathing.
I stare at the pond. The sulfur in the air is suddenly villainous.
“It looks like polio,” Tony murmurs, slowly putting the pieces together. But I already have. My jaw aches so tight, I think it might break as I look from the dead steers to the ones soon to follow.
“From sulfur poisoning?” He looks dumbfounded. “They were fine yesterday.”
I don’t waste my time wondering how or why. Instead, I focus on what I must do. Muttering a goddammit , I turn for the rope strapped to my saddle with my shotgun. This is the part I hate about ranching—the part where nature is cruel, and I have to take matters into my own hands.
“Let’s rope this one.” I eye a male that looks borderline too ill to save, but our livelihood is these steers; I have to try to save it.
Tony nods, equally uneasy about what we must do, and unclips his lasso. Gloves already on, we each toss our rope over one of the steer’s horns and lead it away from the herd.
Head hung low, Lucy brings up the rear. She nips and yips, ensuring the rest stay in line. The steer tugs against us, but there is little muster in it, and once we’re clear of the woods, Tony takes over.
“Keep them moving!” I call. “I’ll catch up.”
He nods again, if a bit reluctantly, and I dismount as Tony and Poppy lead what’s left of the herd up the hill away from the pond.
When they’re a ways off, I walk Rooster to one of the trees and wrap his reins around a low-hanging branch. Even he seems to feel the strangeness in the air, but while he hangs back, Lucy follows protectively at my side.
“Stay,” I tell her. She watches me, her tongue hanging from her mouth and doggy eyebrows lifting as I unstrap the shotgun. I stare at her, shaking my head because I wish I didn’t have to do this. Turning on my heel, I head back for the thicket and into the trees.
Each step is a crunch in the quiet and the ringing of a death procession. With a final glance to ensure Rooster and Lucy are far enough away, I lift my shotgun, aim at my target, and pull the trigger.