Chapter 14
When Grace wakes the next morning, all she knows is pain.
Throbbing, ceaseless, and sharp enough to yank her from a heavy, dreamless sleep.
In the small confines of the tent, she sits up slowly, sucking in deep, hot air through her mouth.
Aches have settled in various crevices of her body, each one more demanding and urgent than the next, all vying to be the center of her attention. The center of her universe.
Neck—from the ancient, pathetic lump of cotton disguised as a pillow.
Back—from the firm, uneven terrain beneath her bedroll.
But worst of all, head—from the copious, stupid amounts of liquor and beer she consumed the night before.
It is the most blaring of all, so insistent and violent that there doesn’t seem to be a way out of it.
This is the headache to end all headaches.
She might have to call in sick. Do ranch hands get sick days?
She might have to quit the job full stop and move into a dark, cold cave.
A perfectly silent, neutral-smelling black hole.
But instead, she’s attacked by the sound of singing crickets, the smell of manure, and the thick, humid air that has already begun to warm to the point of discomfort. Summer heat spares her not—it won’t even give her the luxury of waiting until dawn to begin its cook.
The headache becomes a stomachache—a stomach turn—quickly.
Despite her deep breaths, she can feel all of last night’s mistakes bubbling up in her throat, threatening to out themselves all over the tent floor.
She has to do something. Find water. Coffee helps, doesn’t it?
And bread? Maybe there’s a leftover hot dog bun somewhere that can soak up the residual stream of alcohol still coursing through her veins.
Whatever the case, she can’t sit in this tent, in this world of hurt and nausea, for another second.
Stumbling out past the unzipped flap, she’s relieved to see it’s still completely dark out.
No inkling of the rising sun has yet begun to lighten the sky.
Standing straight is a challenge—the soreness of her back and neck becoming more intense with each attempt at movement.
She takes a moment to try to stretch, carefully rolling her head around until there’s a semblance of mobility, and then arching her back gently, hissing as hot pain shoots up her spine.
It’s ridiculous, really—she’s slept in much worse conditions than a bedroll and a worn-down pillow.
Damn Halcyon bunk beds have clearly made her soft.
A cooler sits about twenty feet away. Shiny red plastic salvation.
There’s bound to be a couple of lukewarm bottles of water within, and, if she’s lucky, a hot dog bun or two that haven’t drowned in a pool of melted ice.
She steps carefully in its direction, not wanting to overdo it and end up face down in the grass again.
Images of the night before creep into her head, but she shoves them away, not yet ready to remember in full detail.
Not when projectile vomiting is still a very real, very likely possibility.
Just get to the cooler. Get to the hydration and carbohydrates.
But then her bare left foot collides with something on the ground, sending it toppling over. A loud rattling sound echoes from below.
“Shit,” she whispers, crouching down.
Only when she’s holding it right in front of her face can she make out what it is.
Despite the heinousness of her awakening, Grace smiles.
A bottle of Advil sits in her palm, left outside her tent by someone who knew she’d need it.
· · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · ·
The day that accompanies the hangover to rival all hangovers is particularly grueling.
Whether Crew already had this planned, or he’s doing it just to spite them all, Grace doesn’t know.
About a month ago, about a quarter mile of the south fence had been destroyed, leaving the summer pasture and the entire south quadrant of the ranch vulnerable.
They can’t risk losing cattle or having trespassers stomping around on the ranch without realizing they’re on private property.
And so, it’s up to the ranch hands to repair the fence, and every single hand is needed to expedite the process. They start early, well before the sun begins its boiling ascent, but it matters little. The humidity is the real kicker, and that thicket of hot, moist air waits for no sun.
Grace’s headache and nausea clear up by midmorning, which is nothing short of a miracle, because this work is a special kind of brutal. Barbed wire, even with heavy-duty gloves, is a cruel mistress. And manipulating it with tools and grit has her sweating through her shirt.
The guys seem less exhausted—they’re all significantly better at holding their liquor than she is—and almost jolly as they work, and Grace learns this isn’t the first time they’ve done something like this.
Last year, it was the east fence nearest to the back road entrance, and they fixed it quickly, but not before a few memorable incidents occurred due to the opening.
“Those sweet, innocent kids,” Mikey laments, shaking his head. “They probably just wanted to get their exploration or wildlife badge. They still do badges, right?”
“Yes, Mikey,” Caleb grunts. “Boy Scouts do still earn badges. But your memory is shot. It wasn’t Boy Scouts—it was a church group. Remember the crosses on the bus?”
“Boy Scouts, church group, whatever,” Mikey spits back. “Point is, I’ve never seen a group of teenage boys all shit their pants at the same time.”
Crew, sitting at his piece of the fence, working in silence, finally snaps.
“Every time you tell this story, it gets worse—first it was Swedish tourists, then a church group, now Boy Scouts?” he barks, waving the pliers in his hand toward Mikey animatedly.
“It was a football team. College. Old enough to know better. They wanted to take the scenic route and didn’t listen to me the first time I asked them to stay on the other side of the fence. ”
“But they listened the second time,” Pierce adds, snorting. “When you fired your shotgun into the sky and scared them so badly they were calling the sheriff the next day to complain about— What did they call you? ‘A hostile, murderous cowboy’?”
Crew shrugs. “Law’s the law.”
“That’s right, Grandpa,” Cooper tuts. “You keep those kids off our lawn.”
Grace smiles at that, and especially at the glare Crew pins his brother with in response.
It takes all morning and afternoon to get the fence back to its original glory.
They eat cold cuts and toss back bags of Doritos as they work, and all the while, they continue to reminisce, rib one another relentlessly, and laugh until their stomachs hurt.
Grace finds listening to them and giggling at the growing atrocity of their stories makes the monotonous task of bending and shaping thick, sharp wire not as daunting.
Though her neck and back ache more than they did this morning, the routine of snipping, bending, and welding becomes muscle memory after a while.
About an hour before dinner, they’re able to call it quits and admire their work.
“No Boy Scout is getting through that,” Cooper murmurs as they walk the line, checking the sturdiness and finding it consistently firm and unbudgeable.
Crew sighs. “Let’s go,” he declares, satisfied with the job they’ve done. “I’m starving.” He shoulder-checks Cooper on his way back to the campsite, and Cooper laughs cheekily as he sways from the collision.
They have breakfast for dinner, and while Forty and Grace flip pancakes and bacon on a portable griddle, the guys all take a dip at the watering hole, tossing around the communal bodywash and two-in-one shampoo and conditioner.
Grace is looking forward to doing the same after dinner.
Her hair has certainly seen better days.
She already washes it infrequently due to the time it takes in the shower, but the exertion of the day has left it especially oily and unpleasant.
Dipping her entire head into cool water and washing out all the grime sounds like heaven.
Everyone ravenously inhales their food, complimenting the chefs on the banana–peanut butter pancakes and expertly crisped bacon.
Grace finds herself equally as starved, and in her haste manages to accidentally dip the tip of her ponytail into a well of syrup.
She frowns, still chewing a mouthful of pancake, then sucks it off until it’s no longer dripping down her T-shirt.
But the sugary stiffness remains, adding to the already chaotic state of her hair.
They all get seconds, then thirds, and continue to eat until a symphony of satisfied, overly full groans sounds around the circle.
Those who did not cook all pitch in to clean up, and then everyone scatters into their own preferred evening activity.
With the sun only at the midpoint of its descent, it’s too early for a fire, and instead the majority of the guys walk out to the large clearing to toss a football.
June stays behind with a book while Forty and Pierce break out a chess set.
Grace has to squint from where she stands in front of her tent, but she’s pretty sure they’re using screws and hex bolts in place of some of the chess pieces.