Chapter 13 #2
The arena's impressive even by cutting standards.
High ceilings with bright LED lighting that makes everything look crisp and clear, deep sand that's been worked to the perfect consistency.
A judging platform sits at one end with spectator seating; the whole setup designed for both training and competition.
They host several events here throughout the year—always bringing in a good-sized crowd of trailers and trainers.
Kit smacks my arm and points to the pen where Hank Ouray sits a bay gelding. Two turnback riders hold position at the corners, keeping the herd contained while Hank cuts out a single cow with movements so smooth they look effortless.
I catch Hank's eye and raise my hand to let him know we can wait. No point interrupting a cutting run for conversation. He nods once, his attention already back on the cow that's trying to slip past his horse's left shoulder.
Kit climbs up to perch on the top rail as I lean against the arena fence. She tracks the cattle with the kind of attention that comes from growing up around livestock. "Those are nice heifers for a practice pen," she says after a moment.
I glance at the cattle she's studying—maybe eight head, all black but with a few baldies. They seem quiet but with just enough kick to let the horse work.
Kit nudges my shoulder and whispers. "Hey, what happened to Hank's younger brother? What's his name..." She snaps her fingers as she thinks. "Zeke? No one ever talks about him."
I grunt. "For good reason."
Kit rolls her eyes with the dramatic flair only a sixteen-year-old can manage. "Not you too. When I asked Mom, she told me to mind my own business, Dad just walked away, and Brook grit her teeth so hard she had to replace a filling."
I'll bet Brook did, but it's not my story to tell. "He's serving our country," I say. "That's an honorable thing."
“Ran away to the military then?” Kit chews her lip as she looks around the arena.
“I guess you could say that.”
"More honorable than riding bulls." she fires back without missing a beat. "Running is running no matter which way you go."
The words sting because there's truth in them.
I ignore the frustration at my little sister that’s knotted in my gut as Hank lifts the reins in his hands, signaling the horse to stop working the cow.
The cow bolts off, nearly slamming into the fence, before rejoining the herd.
Hank keeps his hand on the horse's neck, offering praise and gentle reassurance.
His horse settles immediately, ears forward, waiting for the next command.
Hank urges the horse in our direction.
"Time's up, smart mouth," I say, and shove Kit off the fence.
She lands on her feet, spins around, and glares at me. "Jerk."
I laugh, because the look on her face reminds me of a ruffled barn cat. "Someone's got to keep you humble."
Hank rides over and dismounts, loosens the cinch on the saddle as the horse airs up, nostrils flaring.
"Wyatt. Kit." Hank extends his hand, his grip firm and calloused from years of ranch work. Up close, his father's Ute features, and his mother's McCreary blue eyes are striking. "Been a while."
"Too long," I agree, running my hand down his gelding's neck. "This horse is something else. What's his breeding?"
"Dual Pep on the sire side, Smart Little Lena on the dam." Hank's voice carries quiet pride. "He's only three, but he's cowy to a fault."
The turnback men are moving the cows back outside to their pen and the barn clears out. A ranch hand appears and takes Hank’s horse to cool him down. We spend a few minutes talking horses and cattle—but Hank is reading between the lines, waiting for the real reason we rode over here.
"Those cows work well?" Kit chimes in as she climbs back up on the fence rail.
"Fresh but not green," Hank says. "I have a stock provider coming next week to pick 'em up."
I take a breath and dive in. "Speaking of cattle, we've got a problem. Forest Service hit us with a fire hazard zone designation. Ninety days to remove all stock and fencing from our land that butts up against theirs." I don’t mention that the ninety days started over two weeks ago.
Hank's expression doesn't change, but something cold flickers behind those blue eyes. "All of it?"
"Every head. Every fence post." I lean against the pen, feeling the weight of what I'm saying. "We're going to fight it."
"Course you are." Hank crosses his arms. "Any idea who's behind it?"
"The Whitmores are mixed up in it somehow,” I admit. Their visit to the ranch made that abundantly clear.
"Aren't they usually?" Hank's voice carries bitter experience. The McCreary and Whitmore families have their own issues.
"Here's the thing," I continue, studying his face. "Both our families have fought against them for generations; but this time, we might need to join forces."
Kit shifts on the fence, eating all this up.
Hank considers what I've said, his gaze moving from me to the mountains visible through the arena's open doors.
He gives a visible sigh. "Our land shares a fence line with yours," he says. "I reckon they'll come for me next, so we'd better nip this in the bud before it spreads.”
We shake on it, and out here that means something.
His grip's solid, mine matching, and for the first time in years I feel something that runs in Halloway blood, the land and the pride that was the same as when my great-great-grandfather helped carve Stonegate out of nothing but wilderness and grit.
"What do you need from me?" Hank asks.
"Right now, just your word that you'll stand with us when the time comes. Mom's hired a consultant to help navigate the political side, but if this goes public, we'll need every voice we can get."
"You've got it." Hank glances at Kit, still listening from her perch. "You should come ride sometime. I have a couple of two-year-olds who seem to like the ladies better than my ranch hands. I'll pay the going wage for a loper. What do you think?"
Kit's face lights up. The offer represents exactly what she's been craving—recognition that she has something to offer.
"I'd like that," she says, trying to keep the eagerness out of her voice and failing completely.
As we mount up to head home, I watch my sister settle into her saddle with that same stubborn set to her jaw that got us both in trouble on the ride over.
Now she's got Hank Ouray believing in her abilities, a paying job offer burning bright in her eyes, and enough fire in her belly to take on the world.
Hopefully this new job will be enough to keep her out of trouble.
But as we ride out, the afternoon light turning the grassland to gold, something tightens in my chest. This place is already working its way under my skin—the rhythm of it, the weight of it.
Good thing I've got that sponsorship event this weekend with Kinsley. I need to remember that I’m more than a last name.