Chapter 6 Hair of the Dog
Hair of the Dog
Wes
Ithunder down the narrow stairs directly into the kitchen where Pops is nursing his coffee, filled with the cream I picked up in town yesterday. I pray there’s some pain killers somewhere around here, or I’m going to be in for a world of hurt today.
After living so long with anything I could possibly need or want only a short drive away, being back here with the bare minimum in the way of amenities and a maximum of insects will take some getting used to.
I drank last night like I was twenty instead of the ripe age of thirty-five I am. I was too old for those shots of Jose Cuervo that Tripp had offered me, but I had needed to loosen up—not be so worried about what everyone else thought and just have a good time.
I was paying for those poor choices this morning.
“Well, don’t you look delighted and thrilled to be here this morning?” Pops smiles into his coffee mug.
“Aspirin?” I grunt.
“In that cabinet. Far left.”
I can feel his scrutinizing gaze on my back, and I hunch my shoulders, wondering if he’s about to give me a tongue lashing for being hungover on the day we’re supposed to separate the herd. The cross words I’m expecting don’t come, and I relax as I grab a travel mug of coffee and pop a few aspirin.
Today is going to be a long day.
“I’m hoping to get the cow/calf pairs sorted and vaccinated before nightfall, so you’d best put on those big boy britches and get yourself out to the corral. Sawyer’ll be there waitin’ already.”
I take a swig of the hot swill and grunt again in acknowledgment, following Pops out the door with my head pounding and my stomach tied up in knots.
Last night, I told Tripp about my plan to persuade Pops to sell the ranch. While I could tell he didn’t love the idea, he hadn't lost his temper like Sawyer had. I’m pretty sure he doubts my ability to convince Pops at all, so he’s content letting me flail on my own. No harm, no foul.
When Sawyer stormed off yesterday, I realized having her on my side could be an advantage, as close to Pops as she was. Who knows? I might need her support at some point down the line. So, I’d roll over and show her my underbelly if need be.
Sawyer is exactly where Pops said she’d be, her elbows resting on the gate and her hat pulled low over her eyes so I can’t make out her face. Her body language is telling me she’s a little worse for wear today, too, so I decide I won’t feel too guilty about the state I’m in.
I hear Tripp’s truck pulling up the drive, and I wince as the slam of his door reverberates in my head.
“Feeling those tequila shots this morning?” Sawyer’s voice taunts.
“I think it was whatever you slipped into Allie’s glass. That drink about put me on my ass.”
She angles her chin up and somehow manages to look down her nose at me even though she’s shorter than I am. “Can’t handle your liquor, city boy?”
I glower at her. It’s too early and I’m too hung over to argue, so I let her question stand.
Her gaze treks over me slowly from head to toe, like she’s taking stock.
I’m in a pair of Levi’s I bought from the farm supply store yesterday and a plain black T-shirt since it’s supposed to be in the eighties again today.
I’m grateful that the morning is overcast since my head feels ten times worse out here than it did in the house.
“You look like you need this more than I do,” Sawyer comments, handing me her travel mug.
I raise my own. “I have coffee.”
She shakes her head at me, placing her mug in my hand and taking the one I’d been holding. “It’s my hangover remedy. You’ll be feeling right as rain after you drink it.”
I shoot her a questioning look, but she only nudges the cup toward my lips. I sigh in resignation and take a drink. It burns my throat on the way down, and I sputter out a cough, which makes her lips quirk up in a smile that lights up her entire face under that cowboy hat of hers.
“You put whiskey in your coffee,” I croak out, slow to regain my composure.
“A little hair of the dog that bit ya usually does the trick.” She tosses me a wink and says, “You owe me one,” before taking a long, deliberate sip of the coffee I made for myself this morning.
I’m about to thank her when Pops walks up from behind to stand next to me. “I hope you’ve still got those ropin’ skills I taught ya. We’re gonna need them tomorrow,” he says, eyeing me like he’s not sure I have it in me anymore.
“It’s just like riding a bike, right?”
Sawyer’s cackling laugh echoes in the air, and I shoot her a daggered stare.
“Sure.” Pops’ mustache twitches in amusement.
Tripp comes up behind me and grips my shoulders. “Wes was one of the best ropers in the county back in the day. He’ll be just fine.” His show of confidence warms me from the inside out, which is nice since clouds hang heavy in the sky, making the morning a little chilly.
Sawyer mutters something under her breath that I can’t quite make out over the sounds the cows are making. I ignore her and roll out my shoulders, hoping Tripp is right.
The calves are ready to be weaned, so we spend the morning separating them from the cows.
It sounds simple, but getting between an animal this large and her offspring is anything but.
Tripp and Pops have sorted the herd together for years, and while I thought I’d be able to jump in and be of help, it feels like I’m in the way more than anything.
Splitting up the cow/calf pairs always gets a little hairy, but separating them now gives the dam some time to put on some more weight before the cold months. Winters can be harsh in western Nebraska and extra weight does them good in those conditions.
I dodge the dam that charges me for trying to mess with her calf and end up on my ass in the muck.
Tripp saves me from getting trampled by getting her to turn the other direction, and I spare a glance in Sawyer’s direction.
She looks pleased as hell to see me covered in mud and cow shit, but at least she’s not laughing at me today.
The calf gets chased into a pen and the mama puts up a good fight, but eventually relents to the four of us getting her in a separate corral where the calf can be near her but can’t nurse.
The October sun has broken through the clouds and is bearing down on me, making me sweat. Or maybe it’s Sawyer watching me make an utter fool of myself that has me sweating.
At least the throb in my head has receded to just my temples instead of my entire skull. I guess that hangover cure has some merit, after all.
I huff out an aggravated grunt and put my hands on my knees to catch my breath. This was a lot harder than I remember it being. Granted, I’m definitely out of practice, a decade and a half older, and more used to sitting behind a desk all day than dodging a 1200-pound animal.
“A little more out of shape than last time we worked together, huh Wes?” Tripp goads.
“I’m an accountant. Of course, I’m out of shape, you prick. What’d you expect?”
He laughs, knowing I’m not really mad. Shit-talking is Tripp’s love language, and he’s not saying anything that isn’t true.
I swipe a hand over my sweaty forehead. I should have put on my old Stetson that was hanging up in the spare room this morning.
But the thought of putting it on again had felt wrong, like putting on a pair of shoes that no longer fit.
I’d left it hanging on the hook in the bedroom, but now with my eyes burning from the sweat, I’m regretting that decision.
Once we finish the separating, we get them into the chutes so Sawyer can vaccinate and deworm them. This isn’t her first rodeo, and the way she handles the animals makes me wonder how many times she’s done this with Pops.
It makes something twinge in my chest. It shouldn’t be a surprise that he found someone else to help out during the busy season, but it makes me feel some type of way. Like I’ve been missing out on something these last several years of not being here.
Pops slips away while we finish up with the vaccinations between the three of us, claiming he’s going to shower, so I don’t use up all the hot water.
Once he’s a good distance away, Tripp leans in and says, "He’s been needing to take naps most days ever since the heart attack."
Aside from a quick break for a sandwich, I haven’t eaten anything today and my stomach growls to remind me I’m damn hungry after all the physical labor.
“Are you cooking, Sawyer?” Tripp asks hopefully, his thoughts tracking with mine.
Sawyer gives Tripp a smile that tells me this question is always asked and answered the same way, and it makes me wonder if there’s something between them that Tripp hasn’t disclosed to me yet.
“I’ve got chili in the crockpot.”
My stomach grumbles in response.
“And cinnamon rolls?” he questions.
She bats his hat off his head, and he shoves her away playfully. “Of course. They still need to bake. It’ll be ready after y’all shower off.”
She pulls herself up into her pickup truck and drives off. I cock my head to the side and skewer Tripp with a look.
“What?”
I glance back at Sawyer’s truck, pulling down the drive. “Is there something going on between you two?”
“Who two?”
I roll my eyes at the convoluted question. “You and Sawyer.”
“God, no. She’s my sister’s best friend. Allie would kill me if I even thought about it. Why?”
I shrug. I didn’t have a reason to ask, other than sheer curiosity about whatever dynamic I’d just seen playing out right in front of me. Tripp was always a bit of a flirt with everyone, but she was much more comfortable around him than I’d assumed she would be.
“You got a thing for her?” he questions, eyebrows waggling.
“God, no,” I repeat his sentiment.
He laughs and shakes his head at me. “That’s probably for the best. She’d chew you up and spit you out without blinking an eye.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
He scans me from head to toe. “It means you’ve gotten too soft over the last fifteen years to stand toe-to-toe with that one and live to tell the tale.”
I chew on my cheek, debating whether or not to be offended by that statement.
Sawyer is a spitfire. Wild and untamed. Something about that excites me, makes my hair stand on end in anticipation of something... but I’m not sure what.
A good fight? Or a good fuck?
Tripp’s statement hangs in the air and my eyes narrow at him as he pulls himself into his truck with a sly smile on his face, like he knows exactly what I’m thinking.