Chapter 14 Jesse
FOURTEEN
JESSE
I watch Aubree run away from me. Everything in my body is screaming to stop her, but I can’t. There are things I have to do tonight to get prepared for our next job. Looking back at the feed sitting there, I sigh. It’ll still be there tomorrow.
Truett comes into the barn, water dripping from the brim of his hat. “Are you ready? You got rid of Aubree?”
“Yeah, she’s back up at the house. Pissed her off, so she’s not coming to look for either of us for a while.”
He laughs because he probably thinks I did it to keep her from being interested in where we’re going tonight.
He doesn’t think about us actually having an issue with each other.
Clapping me on the shoulder, he gives me a grin.
“Good job. Now we don’t have to lie. Well, at least until I get back to the house tonight. ”
Lying. It’s what we’ve done since our parents died.
It’s what we’ve had to do. Those first few months and years were lean.
No one knew how bad it was, though, because we didn’t let on.
I’ll never forget how fucked we realized we were when we took a look at the financials for both of our ranches.
Our parents were living on credit, and they owed everyone, which means we did too.
Needless to say, two young kids, trying to keep their families together, made decisions, and for better or worse, they’re what have kept us going.
“Can you drive?” Truett asks. “Your dad’s old truck still runs, and the last thing we need is for someone to see us.”
“Yeah, let’s head on out.”
My dad’s old truck stays in the garage behind the barn, just in case we need it. We both grab jackets and head out into the storm that’s still raging.
The rain hits us like a wall as we make our way across the yard.
Lightning illuminates the landscape in brief, stark flashes, and thunder rolls across the valley like God’s own fury.
Weather like this is perfect for what we’re doing.
It keeps honest folks inside and provides cover for those of us who aren’t so honest anymore.
The garage door groans as I pull it open.
Dad’s old Chevy sits there like a sleeping beast, covered in dust and regret.
I run my hand along the hood, remembering when he taught me to drive in this thing.
Back when I thought I’d follow in his footsteps, be the kind of man who built things instead of stealing them.
“You getting sentimental on me?” Truett asks as he climbs into the passenger seat.
“Just thinking.”
“Don’t. Thinking gets us in trouble.”
The engine turns over on the third try, rumbling to life with a deep growl that reminds me of better times. I back out into the storm, headlights cutting through the darkness as we head toward the county road.
“Tell me about the Morrison place again,” I say as we drive.
“Three hundred head of Black Angus, mostly heifers. They graze the north pasture closest to the road.” Truett pulls out a crumpled piece of paper with notes scrawled across it.
“Old man Morrison’s been in the hospital for two weeks with a heart attack.
His son Jimmy’s trying to run things, but he’s green as grass and dumber than a fence post.”
“Security?”
“One ranch hand lives on the property, but his trailer’s on the south end, at least two miles from where we’ll be working. No cameras that I could see when I drove by yesterday.”
We’ve been planning this job for three weeks.
The Morrison ranch sits in Jefferson County, just far enough away that no one would immediately suspect us, but close enough that we can get cattle moved and sold before anyone notices they’re gone.
It’s not the first time we’ve done this, and it won’t be the last.
The guilt eats at me sometimes, especially when I see the fear in other ranchers’ eyes at the feed store or the diner.
These are good people, hardworking folks just trying to make an honest living.
But then I think about the stack of overdue bills on my kitchen table, the bank notices, the threat of losing everything my family built, and the guilt gets pushed down deep where it can’t touch me.
“How many you thinking?” I ask.
“Ten, maybe twelve. Enough to make it worth our while, but not so many they’ll be missed right away.”
The windshield wipers fight against the rain as we drive deeper into the countryside. This part of South Dakota is all rolling hills and barbed wire, ranch land that stretches to the horizon under normal circumstances. Tonight, the world ends twenty feet in front of our headlights.
“You ever think about what our parents would say if they could see us now?” I ask.
Truett is quiet for a long moment. “Every damn day. But they’re not here to see the bills pile up or watch us lose everything they worked for.
They’re not here to figure out how to keep food on the table or make payroll for the hands.
Not to mention, they left us with a fucking mess. What were we supposed to do?”
“We could have found another way.”
“What way? You tell me, Jesse, because I’ve been racking my brain for years trying to find an honest solution.” His voice gets sharp, defensive. “You think I like this? You think I wanted to become a cattle thief?”
I know better than to push him when he gets like this.
Truett carries the weight of responsibility heavily on his shoulders, always has.
When his parents died, he became the man of the house overnight, had to take care of Aubree and keep the ranch running.
Just like me, only I think I handled it better.
“She suspects something,” I say instead.
“Who? Aubree?”
“Yeah. Tonight in the barn, she was asking questions. Wanted to know where you’ve been going, why you’re never home.”
Truett rubs his face with both hands. “Shit. What did you tell her?”
“Nothing specific. But she’s not stupid, Truett. She’s going to figure it out eventually.”
“Then we need to be more careful. The last thing we need is for her to get involved in this mess.”
The thought of Aubree finding out what we’ve become makes my chest tight. Bad enough that I’ve turned into someone my father would be ashamed of, but for her to see it? To know that the man she once loved has become a criminal?
We drive in silence for the next thirty minutes, both lost in our own thoughts. The Morrison place comes into view as a cluster of lights in the distance, barely visible through the storm. I pull off the main road onto a dirt track that runs along the property line.
“This is it,” Truett says, pulling out a pair of binoculars. “Cut the lights.”
I kill the headlights and engine, and we sit in the darkness listening to the rain pound on the roof. Through the passenger window, I can make out the fence line and beyond it, the dark shapes of cattle huddled together under a stand of cottonwood trees.
“There they are,” Truett whispers, though there’s no one around for miles to hear us.
I take the binoculars and peer through them. Even in the dim light, I can see the cattle clearly. Black Angus, just like Truett said, quality stock that’ll bring good money at the sale barn in Rapid City.
“How do you want to do this?”
“We’re already here. Let’s get this done. Cut the fence, move the cattle through. We load them in the trailer and get the hell out of here.”
It sounds simple when he says it like that, but cattle rustling is anything but simple.
You have to know which animals to take, the ones that won’t be missed immediately.
You have to move fast but quietly, get them loaded and transported before anyone realizes they’re gone.
And you have to have buyers lined up who don’t ask too many questions about where the cattle came from.
We’ve all gotten good at it over the years. Too good.
“Let’s make sure we’ve got all our bases covered. That they don’t have security we don’t know about,” I mutter, reaching into the back seat for our gear. We’ll take off on foot to check.
The rain soaks through my jacket within seconds of stepping out of the truck.
We work quickly and silently, muscle memory guiding us through the familiar routine.
Wire cutters slice through the fence, creating an opening just wide enough for cattle to pass through.
Truett moves among the herd with practiced ease, making sure there’s nothing that will let anyone know that someone is here who shouldn’t be.
When we’re done, we trek back to the truck. My clothes are soaked through, my boots caked with mud, and every muscle in my body aches from the constant tension of discovery.
“That’s good,” Truett calls out over the storm. “Let’s go.”
In the distance, headlights cut through the darkness. My blood turns to ice.
“Shit,” Truett hisses. “Someone’s coming.”
We both drop low, using the truck to shield us from the approaching vehicle. Through the rain, I can see it’s a pickup truck moving slowly along the road, spotlight sweeping the fence line like whoever’s driving is looking for something.
Or someone.
“You think Morrison’s boy is out checking cattle in this weather?” I whisper.
“In this storm? Not unless he’s stupider than I thought.”
The truck stops directly across from where we’re hidden. The spotlight beam swings back and forth, probing the darkness. My heart hammers against my ribs so hard I’m sure whoever’s in that truck can hear it over the thunder.
After what feels like an eternity, the truck moves on, taillights disappearing into the storm.
“Close one,” Truett breathes.
Too close. We’re getting sloppy, taking too many risks. But we don’t have a choice, not if we want to keep our ranches.
The drive back is tense. Every set of headlights in the distance makes us both jump. Every siren in the far distance makes our blood run cold. We take back roads and farm tracks, staying off the main highways where possible.
We’re almost home when the red and blue lights appear in the rearview mirror.