Jesse #2
“What are you doing here?” I asked, tired, trying to guide him back to his truck and assessing what level of crazy he had going on this morning.
“Doing my fucking job, boy,” he snarled.
Great. That kind of crazy. The one where he’d gone back to when he’d been in charge, and I was the wayward son who needed a strong hand on him.
I even tensed, waiting for the punch. “They all checked?” he asked as if it was his right to know when he was no longer the foreman.
No, that was me, and fuck, I wasn’t only the foreman; I owned a stake in this place.
I wiped my hands on my jeans—the specialist said I should live in his world, and that this would calm him down, but I hated that I even had to answer. “Yes.”
He pointed at Miguel and laughed. Not loud. Worse than that. Hateful. Nasty.
“Shit, you’re letting the girly run this?” he sneered, staring at Miguel, who took a step away before he realized what he was doing and stopped.
“That’s enough, Dad,” I snapped. I loathed the way he used that name—the same one he threw at any man he thought was different.
Girly. Sissy. Words aimed to cut Miguel down and remind us of what man my dad thought belonged here and who never would.
God, he’d nearly killed my brother over that, and hell, if he knew half the things in my head, I’d be at the wrong end of a rifle.
“That soft-handed girly is gonna get calves killed,” Dad yelled loud enough for Miguel to hear.
Miguel went still, and I shook my head at him, trying to reassure him, but Dad wasn’t done, and he slipped past me and clapped a hand on Jake’s shoulder, causing the quiet ranch hand to wince.
“You wanna get a real man like Jake here to do this. Someone with balls that have dropped and an actual brain in his head.”
Jake stiffened and tried to extricate himself.
I needed to tell Dad to leave and for him to understand he needed to go.
But more than that, I wanted to grab him by the collar and shove him back toward his truck, show him how little authority he had left here, but I couldn’t.
However much I hated him, the TBI had made me his fucking hands-off caregiver.
I hadn’t respected him for years. Hate sat easier in my chest than anything else where he was concerned.
What stopped me wasn’t fear.
It was history, and the brain injury all rolled into one evil thing.
It was the way any move I made would land on Miguel and Jake before it ever touched him.
It was knowing that if I put my hands on him now, it would get in my head, and I’d end up thinking I wasn’t fit to run this place and was nothing more than a hotheaded kid playing rancher.
He didn’t need to win the fight because the fight didn’t matter.
He’d make me lose control, and then I’d end up questioning myself.
So, I swallowed it. Let the anger and resentment burn where only I could feel it.
“They’re nursing,” I said, reverting to the language he’d recall from his old life. “Temps are good, and if not, we’ll bring ‘em closer and use heat lamps.”
He limped past me as if I wasn’t there, crouched with a grunt, and shoved two fingers into one calf’s mouth before letting it go. The animal bleated, startled.
“Slow reflexes,” he said. “You should’ve just got rid of the cow, rather than coddling an animal who needs attention. Waste of electricity for lamps.”
“They didn’t need it,” I said. “Weather held. They’re strong.”
He straightened and stared at me. The way he used to when I was a kid, and he’d already decided I was wrong.
In the skin and bones was a glimpse of the hard-ass man who’d once ridden roughshod over this ranch, a man who’d let bitterness curdle into entitlement, then rot into something ugly and cruel.
“Strong because you got lucky,” he said, louder now. “Luck isn’t management. You’ll never take over from me if you keep pulling this shit.”
Heat crawled up my neck. “I’ve been doing this a long time.”
“And you’re still missing things,” he shot back, waving at the pasture. “Look at the footing. Sloppy. You want a cow to go down and crush one of these?”
Miguel cleared his throat. “Ground’ll firm once the sun—”
“Did I ask you, girly?” my dad snapped.
Silence.
“We’re watching, and we’ll move them closer to the barn,” I said. Better to get him gone by agreeing, and easier than fighting. Fighting never won when his head was scrambled.
“You should’ve already thought of that,” he said. “That’s the problem, Jesse. You don’t think ahead. Your momma…” He stopped then, his gaze unfocused, and something in my chest went hollow. This was the moment he told me I killed her when his hate spewed and left me dead inside.
“It’s getting late, Dad, time to go home,” I said.
He leaned in, close enough I could smell stale coffee and tobacco, skin stretched over his bones. I needed to bide my time. We all did. “Don’t tell me what to do.”
Behind him, one of the calves stumbled, caught itself, then stood firm. Strong. Alive. Doing just fine.
My dad straightened and turned away, as if the moment were over. “Fix this shit, girly,” he snapped at Miguel.
“That’s not my name,” Miguel said, with as much confidence as he could muster.
“Fucking fruit,” Dad snapped, then turned to me. “Don’t make me come out here again and…” Then he faltered, blinked at me, and I saw the confusion in his expression.
“You want me to drive you back, boss?” Jake asked, coming to stand next to Dad and talking to him as if he still were the boss.
Dad blinked at him, then at me, and then, he slumped. “Don’t bother.”
He climbed into his truck and slammed the door. The engine turned over hard, tires chewing into the frozen dirt as he pulled away, leaving ruts and a dreadful silence behind.
“You want one of us to follow him?” Gunner asked.
I pressed my fingers to my temples. Of course, we should. The doctors had cleared him to drive—technically. Passed the tests. Checks in the right boxes. But they’d also warned me it wasn’t something he should be doing often, not with the damage he carried like a live wire in his skull.
The TBI hadn’t taken his ability to handle a vehicle.
It had taken his filter. His reaction time on bad days.
His judgment was compromised when stress spiked, or his memory slipped sideways.
He could drive fine—until he couldn’t, and I had no idea when that day would happen.
The road between here and his place was an empty stretch of nothing, but there was one thing they could do.
I watched the truck disappear down the track, my jaw tight.
“He’s cleared,” I said finally. “Doesn’t mean he’s safe.
Can you head back in and call Deputy Wainwright, get him to…
I dunno… pull him over, cite him? Fuck!” Tension banded my temples, but Gunner did his usual I-got-this nod and headed back to the ranch.
Simon Wainwright was one of the good guys and would have our backs, but how in God’s name did I stop Dad from getting behind a wheel?
Did I pull him back to the ranch? Did I have him here poisoning the team every freaking day?
I closed my eyes, checked myself, settled my fears, unknotted the tension in my chest, and everyone gave me space, because they were all good men.
When I turned to face them, Miguel let out a careful breath. “Calves look good to me, boss, but maybe I need to check again?”
“No,” I said, “you’ve done everything right, and I’m proud of how you’re doing, Miguel.” I shook my head. “I’m sorry about—”
“It’s all good, boss,” Miguel said before I could finish the whole apology thing. He was a good addition to the team, and we were lucky to have him.
I went back to the fence, put my hands on the cold wood, and stared at the pasture until the shaking in my fingers stopped.
The calves were fine.
I wasn’t.