Chapter 21
Logan
“What do you figure you’ll set the red dog number at?
” my father asks Jon, leaning against the gate, a Colt burning between his fingertips.
I emerged from my place after showering the day’s dirt and sweat off to find them here, pondering a nearby pasture where this year’s calves graze with their mothers.
Most of them have lost their reddish-brown coat that mark them as this year’s births.
“Based on what I’ve seen …” Jon hums, his mouth downcast in deep thought. “I’m thinking ninety-two.” He holds up his index finger. “But that’s unofficial.”
I shake my head. “Mom told me you guys place bets on spring calves, but I thought she was kidding.”
“Jon takes his herd management very seriously,” my father says with a small smile. I can’t read his tone. Is he impressed or amused by my brother-in-law’s efforts?
“So, what, you just hang out in the fields and watch bison fuck all summer?” I say wryly.
The whole process is one hundred percent natural, thank God, not like Uncle Wyatt’s cows, with rubber gloves and semen straws.
All we need to do is put them in the right pastures during mating season and keep the bulls separated.
“And on here.” Jon holds up his iPad, which displays various feeds from the cameras they’ve set up around the property to keep an eye on the herd.
My father chuckles. “It’s a nice thing to look forward to after a long winter. Pool’s gotten big over the years with your cousins and uncles throwing in, plus a few market regulars. Egan won this year.”
I frown. “The three-year-old?”
“Sarah fronted him the cash.” Jon smiles sheepishly, but it falls off as quickly. “Mulligan’s coming near the end of the month for the annual checkup. I’ll set the number before then. But we need to start planning, Holt.”
“Move over half a million pounds of wild animal that doesn’t want anything to do with us or being told where to go through corrals and chutes?
No, I haven’t forgotten,” Dad mutters. “You know, my life was a hell of a lot easier before my daughter married. Sometimes I miss when there were only eighty of them.”
“It’ll be nothing. We’ve got Logan to help out.” Jon drops a hand on my shoulder.
I struggle not to stiffen, but it’s impossible. “Can’t wait.” It’s been a long time since I helped move a herd, and I imagine Dad’s not exaggerating about how much more complicated it is now. Wyatt and Jack usually come to help.
“Are you guys about done staring at grass?” Mom hollers from the back door. “Turkey needs carving.”
“That’s my cue.” Dad pulls away from the fence.
And I guess that’s ours to follow.
I steal a glance next door, and my heart skips a beat.
Emery’s SUV is parked outside. It wasn’t there when I came in from work to shower.
I know because my focus is drawn there nonstop.
I guess she’s home, but for how long is a mystery.
She texted my mother this morning to say she wouldn’t be making it to dinner.
I expected it, but I won’t lie, the disappointment hit me hard.
“Really wish you could come with us to Denver in January, man,” Jon says, falling into step beside me as we head for the house.
“What’s in Denver?” I ask absently, more focused on weighing how stupid it would be to walk across the field and knock on Emery’s door.
“The US National Bison Association Annual Conference. We go every year. It’s a good time. And seeing as we’re gonna get a new bull next year—”
“I did not agree to that,” my father counters, his index finger held up in protest.
“If we don’t change things up soon, we’re gonna end up with a bunch of sick, inbred stock. It’s time for a new bloodline and you know it, Holt. You’re so stubborn sometimes, but you gotta stop resisting this.”
I hold my breath, waiting for my father to blow up. He never liked being told how to think and especially not by someone young and argumentative. It’s why he and Jay could never see eye to eye on anything.
“Yeah, you might be right.” Dad sets his Colt on an ashtray to burn out on its own and pushes open the door. The collies are hovering nearby and bolt in ahead of him and Jon.
And I’m left outside, momentarily stupefied, before I follow them.
Inside is pure chaos. Egan is wailing in a corner, Macy is screaming “Stop it!” while the twins laugh and toss her doll back and forth, treating her to a game of monkey-in-the-middle that she clearly didn’t ask to play.
The only quiet kid is Thomas, who’s flopped on the couch, shuffling a deck of cards.
“Holt!” My mother stands at the counter next to the turkey, guarding it from the two hungry dogs.
“Sorry, I wasn’t thinking.” He attempts to nudge them away with his thigh as he collects the carving knife. It’s pointless. Those dogs are unblinking, drooling statues, wedging their bodies into the crevices between legs and cupboard for their chance.
“What on earth is going on in here?” Jon asks with incredulity.
“The twins lost their gaming time, so they’re tormenting their sister, and Egan is upset because Carson told him we’re eating Gobbles.
The turkey you thought would be a good idea for him to name and help feed.
” From her spot at the stove, Sarah turns to shoot her husband a withering look.
“Do you think you could help with at least one of your five children at some point today?”
My parents exchange glances, and I know what that look is about: Five children and two more on the way.
“Buddy.” Jon calls out as he collects his sobbing youngest in his arms. “Thanksgiving is what Gobbles was born for. Yummy turkey in your belly.” He playfully rubs the boy’s stomach.
But that only incites a fresh wash of tears.
“Give it back!” Macy screams, her voice hitting a pitch that makes me wince.
“They are feral,” Sarah says through clenched teeth.
Jon tries to soothe Egan with a hug. “They’re only acting out because they think we’ll give them their iPads to shut them up.”
Sarah’s furious whisking halts and she shoots him another glare. “Oh, really, Jon? No, I had no idea. Thank God you’re here now to help decipher what’s going on.”
My dad shakes his head. “You’re lucky you’re holding a child or that pot of gravy would be aimed at your head right about now.”
“As if I’d waste gravy,” Sarah retorts.
“What? All I’m saying is …”
While Jon tries to dig himself out of his own grave by arguing more, I cut past them into the dining room to catch the doll midair. “Which one of you is Carson?”
The one on the left points to the one on the right.
“Liar! I’m Brooks,” the one on the right says.
“No, I’m Brooks.” The first one smirks, egging his brother on.
It works. “No, you’re Carson!” The twin on the right reaches out to shove his brother and knocks his sister down in the process.
“For fuck’s sake. You two are feral.” I scoop up a crying Macy in my arms before she gets trampled by these two, tucking the doll into her grip. “You know what? I don’t care who’s who. You’re both shitheads.”
They freeze and gape up at me. At least they understand that.
“I don’t know what you did to lose your electronics, but I’m sure you deserved it.
Now you’ve got two choices: Either find a game from that box over by the fireplace to play quietly or I’m gonna drag you two out by your legs and leave you in the fields with the other wild animals for the night.
” I lean down so they can see my menacing stare.
“Guess which one I’m hoping you’ll pick?
I’ll give you a hint. It’s not the first choice. ”
With blanched faces, they dart over to dig out the checkerboard.
From the threshold to the kitchen, Jon watches me with wide eyes. He opens his mouth—
“Don’t even …,” I warn.
After another pause, he goes with, “That’s a strategy I haven’t tried,” and goes back to consoling a sulking Egan.
The chaos has finally settled. For now.
“Hey, Uncle Logan, can we play poker again?” Thomas asks, perched on the couch, the deck in his hands.
“How about after dinner? It’s a little crazy in here right now.”
His head bobs eagerly.
I guess I’m committed now. I move to set Macy down, but she curls her twiggy arms tight around my neck with a feeble whine of “No,” stalling me.
I’ve never held a body this tiny before.
She feels so foreign and fragile, and yet she clings to me with such ferocity, I don’t think I could shake her off if I wanted to.
I don’t want to, I admit.
A knock sounds on the front door.
“For Heaven’s sake. It’s almost six o’clock on Sunday of Thanksgiving weekend,” my mom calls. The dogs haven’t let out a single bark, too focused on their hopeful prize. “Logan, can you get that?”
“Yeah.” With one arm wrapped around Macy—at least she’s not scared of her uncle from prison anymore—I amble to the door.
Emery stands on the porch.