Chapter 39
Jett
July in Ohio is a different kind of hell.
And we’re barely halfway through the month.
The humidity clings to you, thick enough to nearly suffocate you. By the time the sun clears the tree line, sweat is already soaking through my t-shirt, leaving dark patches in its wake. I make my way along the fence with a five-gallon bucket sloshing against my leg.
The horses crowd the trough, waiting impatiently. I top it off, even though it’s half full. In this heat, I can’t take chances on the water supply running dry.
Dropping the bucket on the ground, I stretch my arms above my head, yawning deeply.
With Wren’s ex looming in the darkness, I haven’t been able to let her out of my sight, especially at night.
Even with her lying in my arms, I wake damn near every hour to do a perimeter sweep.
It’s intuition from my years in the military, but it feels different.
Here, we’re supposed to be safe, not hiding from an enemy at large.
But until he’s caught, hourly sweeps through the night will be my routine.
A whimper sounds beside me as a large head nudges the backside of my arm. I glance over and find big brown eyes watching me.
“Hey, buddy.” I nuzzle Copper’s nose as he waits his turn at the trough. He’s quite the gentleman, my old Quarter Horse. Since he was little, he’d stand back, allowing the other horses to eat and drink first, especially the females.
It’s funny how his mind works. The old boy is begging for a ride, but I’ve been too wrapped up in Wren to take him for a run. Not to mention, it’s been so damn hot.
“We’ll go riding soon,” I promise. He nuzzles his nose deeper into my touch, head bobbing. I scratch along his neck, spending extra time beneath his mane where sweat gathers.
“You got room in the truck for this old man?” A familiar voice drifts across the driveway. The water truck idles near the barn, ready to deliver fresh water through the fields.
I glance over my shoulder and grin. “Thought maybe you’d need a break from the heat.”
“I’m old, not dead. Don’t treat me like a feeble man. It’s insulting.”
I laugh, and something in my chest loosens. It’s been doing that more lately, easing open when I least expect it. A pretty brunette is the reason for the change.
“I still need to fill it.” I give Copper one last scratch on his nose before digging out a carrot from my pocket. He takes it from my outstretched hand, and I walk up the drive.
Grandpa claps me on the back before pulling away with a grimace. He shakes his hand dramatically. “Jesus, boy. You’re drenched.”
“It’s hotter than Satan’s asshole.”
“Now that’s an image I didn’t need,” he grumbles before climbing up into the rig.
I round the front and do the same. A blast of cold air greets me, and I’m grateful I had the sense to start the ignition and crank the A/C before watering the horses.
“Port A” by Treaty Oak Revival plays through the speakers.
I reach for the dial, but Grandpa bats my hand away.
When I think he’s going to turn it down, he does the opposite.
“I like these guys. Something about their voice.”
I huff a laugh. “For me, it’s their sound.”
“Very distinguishable.”
I stare ahead in disbelief at Grandpa liking something other than music from his generation. Looks like you can teach an old dog new tricks.
Shifting the truck into drive, we head to the water tanks. The drive is short and quiet, both of us listening to the song. I’m still in shock over Grandpa being a closet Treaty Oak fan.
It’s not long before we’re driving toward the first pasture with a tank full of water. The tires crunch over gravel before opening into flat land. The grass is losing its green, turning a shade of brown each day Mother Nature doesn’t bless us with rain.
Water isn’t optional right now. Not with the heat this high. It’s survival for these cattle.
Even with the small ponds scattered across the property and the river running through, I don’t trust them alone when the heat clamps down like this.
There are too many factors that can turn their water bad.
One bad stretch without clean water can turn a healthy animal sluggish, then sick, then worse.
Dad instilled in us the importance of water for our livestock. Stay ahead of problems and they won’t find you.
I’m trying, Dad. But it feels like when one problem vanishes, ten more appear.
I slow as I pass the pond, watching the surface ripple from the aerator. It seems to be working properly.
Cutting the engine near the first trough, I hop down, boots stomping on the hard ground. One-inch cracks line the ground. This drought needs to end before hooves start getting stuck in cracks.
I drag the hose out, twist the valve, and listen as water gushes into the trough.
Something’s grounding about the rushing water. A reminder I’m doing good, providing for our cattle.
Grandpa watches from beside the truck. His hand is shielding his eyes from the sun, which seems to be climbing higher by the second. Lifting my cap, I wipe my forehead with the back of my forearm.
“Wouldn’t be July if we weren’t miserable.”
“Didn’t this shit use to start in August?” I grumble.
He chuckles, then casts a sideways glance at me.
“You’re different.”
“I’m hot.”
“Not what I mean.”
“I’ll bite. Different, how?” I keep my eyes on the trough, watching the water rise as the anticipation of this conversation builds.
“Like you’re living.”
Well, shit.
I straighten slowly, resting my forearms on the edge of the trough.
“Is that a bad thing?”
He huffs. “Hell no, it’s not a bad thing.”
A faint smile tugs at his mouth. He’s watching me in a way my dad used to. It’s as if they can read my mind. Only, I’m not the shithead version my dad had to decipher.
“Wren’s good for you. Always has been.” He says it like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. And maybe it is.
“Yeah,” I agree. “She is.”
He nods, satisfied. “You smile more, laugh freely. Hell, I even heard you singing the other day.”
I grimace, knowing he’s right. “Bullshit.”
“Fleetwood Mac,” he muses.
Busted. I was in the workshop, straightening up some tools and humming “Dreams.” I couldn’t help it. My girl loves Fleetwood Mac, and the songs are catchy.
Memories flicker as my stomach dips—not in dread, but with butterflies.
The now and then of my girl riding shotgun with the windows down as her hair flew alongside her.
She’d lean against my side—thank God, for bench seats—as she sang off-key.
I glance off in the distance to where our two properties meet and the house she’d swear we’d build one day.
It’s time I give my girl her dream.
“She always saw the good in me.”
Grandpa watches me as I turn off the hose, winding it up. “We all saw the good in you, Son. It’s you who never did.”
His words cut like glass, but it’s true.
I don’t know when it happened, but doubt crept into my head.
It might’ve started in school when teachers would question my intelligence.
I wasn’t the smartest kid in school, but I tried, until I didn’t.
I didn’t see the point in learning certain topics.
Not when I knew I’d be running the farm, which I needed hands-on experience for.
When I became good at football, it’s all people in town saw me as.
The golden boy who needed a football scholarship to go to college because he wasn’t very book smart.
It started taking a toll on my mentality, to the point I quit caring.
I just wanted to have fun and didn’t care what trouble I found myself in.
It doesn't make sense, but teenage Jett wasn’t the sharpest tool in the shed.
Our eyes meet as we share silent words.
I love you.
I love you, too, Grandson.
Thank you for believing in me.
Never doubted you for a second.
We move on to the next trough in a different pasture. As I shift the gear, uneasiness pricks my nerves. My eyes drift around the pasture, at the fence in the distance, but I come up empty. Still, the place feels…off.
I think about the latch on the gate and how it was left unlatched.
At the holes in the fence line. The way my gut twisted at the troughs being lower than they should be.
It’d been hotter than usual this time of year, but it still shouldn’t have been that low.
It felt like someone had drained some out.
Not completely, but enough to be noticeable. As if they’re sending a message.
Water contamination flickers at the edge of my mind. It wouldn’t take much for someone to mess with the water. A tossed chemical or foreign object. Enough to make animals sick before anyone realizes what’s happening. Sick cattle are detrimental to a business like ours.
But I keep my worries to myself. I informed the farmhands to be more vigilant, to keep an eye on anything that seems off. Even if they don’t think it’s anything big, if it stands out to them, report it.
My eyes dart over to Grandpa. He’s at peace with the business he helped Dad build. I won’t worry him with my concern, not when I don’t know if I’m right. He’s earned time to retire, to relax and not worry about the shit going on.
“When are you going to make an honest woman out of her?”
I swallow hard, choking as the saliva gets caught in my throat. “Jesus.”
His eyebrow quirks, waiting.
“Little soon, don’t you think?”
He tsks. “When you know, you know. You’re not getting any younger.”
I mull over his answer as the last trough fills, and water slaps against the rubber sides in a steady rhythm. I don’t get a chance to reply before my phone buzzes in my pocket. On the second buzz, I damn near drop the hose as I race to dig out my phone.
“Calm down, Son,” Grandpa shouts.
But I can’t, because this is a call. And a call means something bad. My stomach flips as worry fills my veins. What if he found Wren?
My jaw tightens as I glance at the screen.
“What is it?” I ask my farmhand, knowing if he’s calling, it’s for something bad.