Chapter 26
Chapter Twenty-Six
HARRY
“Y ou good with a stick?” I ask as Louisa slides behind the truck’s wheel. The dawn’s light seeps around the broad mountains to the east. I pluck the collar up on my jacket and throw Lou’s extra coat onto the seat beside her.
“Yep, no problem.” She fires up the old girl like she’s been doin’ it forever. I shut the driver’s door and lean through the open window. The weather is coolin’ off more, and I need to ride out to check the herd. Lou’s workin’ a shift at the diner and then one at the restaurant. It’s gonna be a late one. “I’ll see you later, sweet man.”
Dotting a kiss onto her forehead, I step back as she drives off, making her way to town. My days are long on the back of a horse, but they pale in comparison to being on your feet all day and half the night, trying to keep her dream going and scratchin’ out a livin’.
Hardest workin’ woman I’ve ever known.
Sorry, Ma.
That sees me pause. The next cold breath sends an ache spreading through me like it had fuckin’ permission. It hurts. The absence of her. The things she will never be here for. I readjust the hat on my head, swallowing past the lump in my throat. The wind picks up, changing direction, buffering against the old worn hat on my head.
I can almost hear the words right outta Ma’s mouth.
Now, don’t you go feelin’ sorry for me, my love. Things are just as they’re meant to be.
The old trees surrounding the house creak as the wind wrangles its way through their old branches.
I clench my jaw, stuffing the splinter of pain back down. Ma wouldn’t want me pining over what could have been and things that may never have been. So, I stalk my way toward the barn. The cold earth and dead grass crunch under each step. The gelding nickers as I walk through the door into the slightly warmer space.
I make quick work of saddling up, and I swing into the saddle and turn the gelding for the mountains. A few steps from the barn doors, I hesitate, looking back into the dim space. The Winchester hanging by the side of the weathered doors snags my attention. My gut flips.
I recognize the feeling, and it ain’t one I make a habit of ignoring. I trot to where it hangs and pluck it from the wall. A small bag of bullets hangs on a hook where it was. I snatch them up, too, and tie them to the side of the saddle before swinging the rifle over my shoulder and pulling the strap tight.
Past the barn and yards, I head for the foot of the old hills that have stood here for generations. They have witnessed the rise and fall of every man who’s tried to tame their surroundings and feed their families.
The secrets they could tell.
I push the gelding into a lope and tuck my chin in, shoving my hat on harder. The wind’s icy fingers sneak behind my jacket occasionally, and I make good time to the lazy blue giants. The first remnants of snow have started to show on the higher terrain. I’m not goin’ that far. Not today, at least.
I make the first pocket of the climb, and I swing out of the saddle to give the gelding a rest. He’s breathing hard from the ascent. The small herd I pushed out this way a month ago shouldn’t be too far away. If they are smart, they’ll be on the lower ridges, protected from the wind and the cold. And close to water.
I check the ground for any sign they’ve been here.
I squat down, brushing a hand over the short, frost-burnt mountain grass. After a few minutes of doing the same, I shift debris to find the round outline of a cloven hoof print. A few steps toward the rise, I find a ton more. They were here. By the manure droppings to my left that are still warm and wet, very recently.
I pull up into the saddle and push the gelding up the rise, following the tracks. I tug my collar up. The higher we rise, the sharper the cold. I shiver as we spill over a ridge and onto a plateau.
The large green span flanks the side of the mountain, and I find a small cluster of the herd grazing away contently. I trot around them, taking stock of their numbers and condition. By my count, it’s only a third of the cattle I sent out here.
When every beast counts, this is not what I needed to find.
“Fuck,” I growl, rubbing a hand over my jaw. The stubble Lou’s been hinting needs to be shaved barely registers on my cold fingers. I turn the gelding toward the rise and push him into a lope. We race toward the trees, tracking south.
The wind whips around. The horse tosses his head. The rifle slaps at my back as we make a bumpy path through the dense, woody trees. Light snowfall lets me know we’re getting higher. The fallen debris is too much, and I slow the horse back to a walk. Then I hear it.
Howling.
Howls.
Multiple.
Dammit .
I rein the gelding to halt and listen.
The coordinated calls of the wolves echo through the trees from my right. The pack must be higher up to the south. I ride toward their call. My gut tells me the sound is anything but good.
We push through the dense timber, making slow time, but when the calls pierce the air around me, I slide the reins into one hand and pull the rifle from my back. The mountain makes a sharp drop, and I ride down it. It’s like an old stream, winding around the side of the mountain. The perfect goddamn place to herd a bunch of cattle, if you’re a wolf.
I follow the depression around the next bend.
What I find makes my blood boil.
A small herd, around twenty head, stand trapped. Flanked by the pack. Six in total. The wolves have already killed. Five of my herd lay mutilated on the ground. This is more than survival, they’re playin’ with them. Probably figure they’ll eat whatever doesn’t make it out of their ambush.
Too clever for their own good, filthy mutts.
I study them for a moment, still as can be. The gelding’s ears are pushed forward, his back curled up. Two smaller dogs are to the left and right, a larger one taking point. One stands back, as if he’s backup or too fuckin’ special to get his paws dirty.
But the middle two are the biggest.
The gelding shies to the left.
A stick cracks under his hoof.
The wolves spin back. A few are still homed on the cattle.
The gelding steps back. I push him forward.
The low, feral growl of the biggest wolf vibrates through the mountain around us. I cock the lever of the rifle.
I’m gonna have to be quick.
I got five shots, six wolves.
I’ll be lucky to put down two.
The odds are not in my favor. Or that of the other prey animals on the side of this mountain.
The center wolf steps forward, head down. He snarls at me. I raise the rifle and look down the barrel. I take note of the dogs on either side of him.
He growls, lunging for the gelding.
The trigger gives way under my finger.
The rifle cracks.
The wolf slides to the ground.
I shift to the left.
Aim.
Squeeze.
Crack .
The whines and howls following have the four left hightailing it up the side of the mountain, disappearing into the trees. The gelding shifts on his feet, bobbing his head.
Poor little man, too much excitement for him.
I swing out of the saddle and give him a rub before taking the reins over his head and in one hand. I walk to the first beast.
One of my herd cows.
Fuck.
She’s still alive, only just. Lyin’ in a pool of her own blood as it turns stiff on the frozen ground.
“Sorry, girl.” I lift the rifle and shoot her point-blank. No need for her to suffer. The next two are dead, the last two not so lucky.
A small heifer and a calf, a little bull, lie gurgling in their own blood, their throats shredded. They won’t last, but I won’t let them suffer, either.
“Fuck me.” I take my hat off, shoving my hand still holding the reins over my head. “Dammit!”
Reloading, I tap the last two.
Jesus fuckin’ Christ.
“What a damn mess,” I mutter to the gelding as I swing into the saddle.
I heard the remaining cattle down the hill. It’s slow going and they are skittish, rightly so. Poor things. We reach the small bunch I found first, and I let them settle in and lope around, doing another once-over.
I wait a while to make sure they’re not gonna spook and take off back up the mountain. Two wolves down, four to go.
* * *
The house is dark again when I finally make it back to the flats before the fields between the barn and the mountains. The gelding and I are both exhausted.
I never found the remaining four wolves. Their day will come.
I estimate the loss, mentally calculating the deduction as I sway in the saddle, almost home. The loss of the breeding cow is the greatest. She would have produced calves for years. Closing my eyes, I let the long day melt from my shoulders, imagining coming home to Lou. The house lit up. Inside, the amazing fragrances of her cooking, everything warm and homey.
A fire crackling in the hearth.
Whiskey burnin’ down my throat as I toe off my old boots.
I let the twilight dream take me down...
The ruckus of family.
Little ones running amuck under her feet, her belly swollen with our latest addition to the Rawlins clan.
The gelding tosses his head, slapping me out of my wishful thinkin’.
Making it over the rise, the homestead comes into view. The house is dark and the driveway empty.
No truck.
No Louisa.
It smarts like nothin’ else.
I want her here.
I want her beside me. If the house is dark, it should be because she’s on the horse beside me.
“Hup!” I push the gelding into a lope in a hopeless attempt to catch that last dream. My rational mind gets the better of the stray hope, reminding me we lost five head. Our herd is too small already. The first mortgage payment comes due in a few months. The chance of this place turning over enough for both of us to work the ranch and have no external income is slim to none at this point.
We fly into the barn, and the gelding slides to a halt over the hay-littered ground. I’m out of the saddle and snatching the tack from his back a heartbeat later, all but tossing it back to the hooks in the run-down tack room.
The ranch is far too big for one man to work. I’d need at least another four men to cover every acre of this old place. But I can’t even afford the keep of the one man who lives here.
“Fuck!” I slam a hand into the side of the barn. The gelding jerks his head up. Cursing under my breath, I slide a rope around his neck and hose him off before tucking him away in his stall. At least he’s safe from the wolves.
I mix up his grain feed and dump it into his side feeder before replenishing his water. After I’m done, I tidy up and pad back to the house. My legs ache from hours in the saddle. The stress of losing good cattle and trying to piece this puzzle of working the ranch from the ground up has my shoulders bunched like nothing else.
I tug off my boots and toss my hat to the hook as I walk through the front door. The darkness greets me, and I remind myself Lou will be home in a few hours. Exhausted, I flop onto the old sofa and pull the whiskey decanter from the old coffee table Ma found in town before?—
I fill the small crystal glass too full and slam it down. The heat snakes down my throat and I drop back, letting my head fall on the back of the sofa.
I have no idea why I thought I could do this.
Maybe the old man was right.
Playin’ rancher and being a rancher are not the same thing.
The numbers alone are enough to balk any man. Even with a good year, the numbers only just add up, especially if you’re needin’ men to do the work.
Groaning, I slide farther down the sofa and pour another whiskey, this time a little smaller.
It warms me from the inside out, and I stare into the unlit fire.
Hunger pangs in my stomach.
Food would help.
I bet one meal of Lou’s would fix this thinkin’. I can’t cook to save myself. I push out of the sofa, slow. Padding to the kitchen, I pull the refrigerator door open. A casserole bowl with lid sits in the center with my name on it in Louisa’s handwriting.
Harry. Eat, my love.
I’ll be home as soon as I can.
L xx
P.S. Heat it up in the oven, 10 mins (preheat to medium heat).
I rip the lid from the container, and the smell of the tender vegetables and marinated meat hits me. My mouth waters from the smell of it cold. I can only imagine what it tastes like hot.
I move to the oven and set it like she said. Deciding to shower while I wait for it to preheat, I make short work of washing the day’s disaster off. I slide old sweatpants on and forgo the shirt, still hot from the shower. The oven is ready when I head back into the kitchen, and I set the casserole dish onto its middle shelf.
Fifteen minutes later, I’m blowing on the spoon I chose to shovel the food down fast. It smells divine. Tastes even better. Before I know it, I’m swiping a finger down the side of the bowl to get the last of the sauce.
“God above, this is good,” I mumble, slipping my finger into my mouth.
An amused huff comes from the doorway.
“Good to know you like it.”