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Bowen—the foreman—nursed a cup of coffee with all the patience of a saint who’d seen more than his fair share of young, dumb, and hot-headed cowboys pass through his bunkhouse.
“There are easier ways to get a woman’s attention than riding a pissed-off, thousand-ton bull who wants to kill you, Cody.”
I breathed a laugh as I swiped a piece of bread through my plate of pork and beans.
“Even if the ladies don’t flock to him like bees to honey, I bet that five-thousand-dollar cash prize would comfort his broken heart just fine.”
Cody scraped up the last of his food and let his spoon drop to his plate with a clatter.
“You’re jealous, Beau. Riding broncos doesn’t pay nearly as good as bull riding does.”
“That’s because a bull will rip you to pieces,” Bowen muttered. “You need more cash to pay the hospital bills after you’re laid up when that bull is done with you. Besides, Beau hardly needs a big shiny rodeo belt buckle to win a lady’s affections.”
Cody snorted and slouched in his chair.
“Well, I wasn’t born blessed with Beau’s good looks. Or his charm.”
“If you think that’s all there is to it,” Bowen replied. “You have a lot more to learn, kid.”
He pushed his rickety chair back, scraping against the well-worn, scuffed wooden floorboards of the bunkhouse. When Bowen ruffled Cody’s hair, Cody swatted his hand aside playfully.
“Come on,” Bowen said. “Let’s go. If you’re set on entering that bull riding competition, I intend to get as much work out of you as possible before you’re a useless, broken sack of bones.”
As we stepped outside, the cool, crisp morning air greeted us. Dawn hadn’t fully arrived yet, lingering as a shy, muted pink on the horizon. The sun remained tucked behind the Atlas Peak mountains, silhouetting the ridge line.
I didn’t own a single speck of dirt on this land, and I never would as long as I lived. But I’d called that musty old bunkhouse home ever since I was a teenager. I herded the cattle, hauled hay, and tended the horses, trading my manual labor in exchange for room and board. As a hired hand, I was easy to replace—nothing but a strong back to get the work done for the boss, but I liked it that way. I wasn’t good at anything else.
Standing at the corral fence was Grady McCall, owner of the ranch. In his early 50s, he bore the callused hands and weather-beaten skin of a man accustomed to life in the saddle. With the success of his business, he could have easily turned soft, cushioned by the comfort of his wealth. Instead, he rode alongside his ranch hands, keeping us sharp.
Bowen strode forward, greeting him with a firm handshake and a brief nod.
“Mornin’, boss,” he said. “We’re headed up to the north pasture today. Those calves stray too easily for my comfort.”
“Sounds good. I’ll start in that direction. Catch up with me when you’re saddled.” Grady turned toward the rest of us. “I suppose you boys are eager to power through your work so you can get to the rodeo tonight.”
“Yes, sir,” I replied. “That pie auction is calling my name.”
“Cody can’t wait to break his neck on the back of a bull,” Bowen put in.
“In that case,” Grady said. “If you finish early—and don’t cut any corners in the process—I’ll drive you into town myself.”
Cody let out a whoop and raced for the stables, holding his hat in place on his head with one hand. Bowen sighed, following at a sedate pace.
I smiled to myself. Grady made a similar speech every year, gruff about responsibilities as ranch hands. In the end, he always carted us off to the rodeo anyway. Most of the time, he was a grizzly old cowboy with a temper to match. But every once in a while, he allowed his steel backbone to bend just a little with a hint of fondness that we never took for granted.
***
Later that night, we were sunburned and sore from work, but we got cleaned up, and piled into the back of Grady’s truck—five of us pressed shoulder to shoulder like sardines. As the boss’s right-hand man, Bowen always scored a comfortable seat in the cab alongside Grady.
“One day, I’ll be the one riding shotgun with the boss,” Cody said. “Not eatin’ dust in the back.”
Bowen stuck his head out of the passenger window.
“You’ve got at least another twenty years before that happens, kid. I’m not giving up this seat until I’m dead and buried.”
I shoved the brim of Cody’s hat down over his face.
“Besides, I’m older than you. I’ll get that seat well before you can ever claim it.”
