Witt grins, smug as a motherfucker. “Then I’d miss the pleasure of watching you try to keep up.” He sips his coffee, then jerks hischin toward the pasture. “You want me and Ridge on the north fence today?”
“Yeah,” I say. “Floodplain near the creek’s soft. Bring extra posts. If it gave last night, we’ve got problems.”
“Got it,” he says, clicking his horse into motion. “Try not to fall asleep on Springsteen, old man.”
He rides off, still grinning like an idiot, and I shake my head as I head toward the barn.
It’s quiet except for the low rustle of hay and a few soft snorts from the stalls. Lights flicker once, then hold steady. I grab the clipboard from the tack room, scan the stock notes. Headcounts solid, feed levels fine, but there’s that steer flagged again for limping. I’ll need to go check on it myself.
Springsteen’s already leaning over the stall gate, ears forward, tapping a hoof like I’m late.
“Keep your damn horseshoes on,” I mutter, stepping inside.
He nudges my shoulder, tail flicking. Big bastard’s been with me longer than most people in my life, and he knows the drill. I check him over quick—legs good, coat clean, attitude intact—then haul the saddle off the rack and toss it over his back.
Time to get to work.
********
By mid-morning, I’ve already knocked out more than I usually do, but it still feels like I’m behind. Always does this time of year. Spring had the land growing faster than we can manage it, calves coming in steady, grass pushing up where we want it—and too many places where we don’t. I spent the better part of the morning helping Witt with a downed section of fence near the floodplain, the posts rotted clean through from the runoff, mud up to our ankles and nowhere solid to stand. After that, we moved a batch of cattle into the south pasture, trying to give the grazed areas a chance to come back.
The real headache, though, has been the water lines. Half the eastpasture’s running dry because the old PVC is cracked to shit underground, likely from the freeze-thaw back in March. We’ve been patching it where we can, but every time we fix one section, another goes. It’s a losing game, and I’m damn near ready to rip the whole thing out and start fresh.
I stopped by the main house earlier to grab something quick to eat. Sage and Mom had the place smelling like vanilla and bananas, prepping to make my Mom’s famous chocolate chip banana bread and Hudson was covered in flour, telling me all about the movie night they had — him, Mom, Sage, Wren, Ridge and Loretta. He talks fast when he’s excited, like Lark, and it made me laugh. But he was happy, and that’s not something I take for granted.
Now I’m at Old Faithful, sweat sticking to my back, sawdust clinging to my shirt like it’s part of the fabric. We’ve managed to knock out a hell of a lot in the last six weeks. The porch is finally done, all the way down to the last rail and sealant, and we just started putting up interior walls. With the days stretching out longer, we’re trying to steal every hour of daylight we can outside of our ranch work, get ahead before the real summer heat sets in.
Inside, it’s fucking chaos. It probably would look like a mess to anyone else, but to me, it’s progress. Tools scattered, lumber stacked against the studs, sunlight pouring through where windows should be. Witt’s crouched near one of the outlets, a tangled mess of wires in his hands, muttering under his breath.
“I’m about five goddamn seconds from lighting this place on fire and walking away,” he says, yanking out a section of wire that just looks…wrong. “This whole setup’s ass-backwards. I don’t know who the hell wired this place the first time, but they either didn’t know what they were doing or they were high off their ass.”
Ridge looks up from the other side of the room, where he’s measuring for drywall. “Didn’t your cousin wire this place back in the day?”
Witt snorts, tossing the wire onto the floor. “Yeah, well, he’s an idiot. Remind me to never let family do anything important.”
I lean against the doorway, wiping my hands on a rag I find in my backpocket. “What’s the damage?”
Witt stands, stretches his back with a grunt. “I need about sixty feet of twelve-gauge, minimum. Whoever ran this before didn’t ground half the outlets, and the junction box is a goddamn joke. I can make it work, but it’s gonna take a couple days to rip the bad stuff out. You need to make a run to town—pick up wire, new outlets, and a breaker that won’t get someone fucking electrocuted to hell.”
“How bad is it if we don’t?”
“You like fires? Because that’s what we’re looking at if we half-ass this. I’m serious, Boone. If we’re doing this, we need to do it right.”
I nod, already pulling out my phone to add everything to the ever-growing list. “Alright. Text me what you need and I’ll go get it.”
Witt crouches again, tools clattering around him as he pries out another section. “Will do. In the meantime, I’m gonna swear at this thing until it learns to show me some goddamn respect.”
Duke walks in just then, chewing on a protein bar. “If you win that fight, let me know. I got fifty bucks on the wiring.”
Witt doesn’t look up. “Cocksucker.”
“I’m heading into town,” I say, pulling my keys from my pocket. “I’ll grab whatever you need. I’ll pick up lunch while I’m at it, so text me what you want. Or don’t, and I’ll bring whatever sounds good to me.”
Witt squints at the mess in front of him, sweat already beading at his hairline. “Don’t get me no goddamn salad now, Boone.”
“No promises. Try not to electrocute yourself while I’m gone.”
He waves me off, already lost in the wiring again, muttering something under his breath that sounds vaguely threatening.
