Today is a rotation day. We do it once or twice a week, depending on the weather, and how well the grass is growing, and it involves herding all the cattle from one area to another, to allow for rest and regrowth within the paddock.
I meet two of our ranch hands at the second stable block, where our working horses live. Between us, we tack up five horses, and by the time we’re done, Brooks and his dad, Silas, have joined us.
“Good of you to show up,” one of the ranch hands grumbles. Brooks flips him off with a wide grin, and the pair shake hands.
“Usual shit, boys. Rotating from east to north, skipping the seventh paddock. Fence line at eight and seven needs rebuilding, and the water troughs need replacing.”
“Trough’s comin’ in next week, right?” Silas Hart asks. I nod in response.
“Yeah. We’re gonna skip seven in the rotation this time, though. ‘Stead of rotating backwards and forwards. Brooks, Solly, you’re up front.” I direct my best friend and another young ranch hand—the grandson of one of our oldest cowboys—to the front of the herd. Leading cattle requires a delicate touch, and Brooks and Solomon are experts at it. Pushing from behind, however, needs a little less finesseand a little more brute force, so I instruct the other two men to mount their horses and get ready to head out.
“Silas, Grady, you’re gonna tail ‘em. I’ll be on the side.” I grab the reins of my quarter horse and step up into the stirrup, before swinging a leg over his back. He huffs lightly as I settle into the saddle, and I run a hand along his mane lightly.
“Let’s go, boys.”
I dig a heel into my horse’s flank, and we all set off in formation. I’m working the side today, keeping an overall eye on the herd and watching out for any stragglers, or anyone trying to escape the move. It’s a little lonely, a quarter mile out to the side of everyone else, and it gives me far too much time to think.
To think about Ruth. About the distance between Skillett and London, and about what I’m doing here when the woman who’s quickly becoming my favourite person in the world is thousands of miles away.
I have time to think about the way Silas and Grady are ribbing each other like old buddies at the back of the herd, and how Brooks has so easily taken Solomon under his wing at the front. About the way everyone has kept the ranch running smoothly, even though I’ve travelled a little to visit Ashton. Twice.
I have time to think about far too many things I’d rather not think about, like what I’m really doing here on the ranch, and I don’t spend nearly as much time as I’d like thinking about Ruth.
The morning is hot and humid from the moment the sun rises, and by the time we’re done with cattle rotation and lunch rolls around, the first fat drops of rain are splashing the earth. The ground drinks it greedily, despite having seen the same pattern of humidity followed by an afternoon deluge for the last week, and I seek shelter in the privatestable block with Della for a while, taking my time to brush through her coat.
“Almost time for some new kicks, Delly,” I say with a quiet hum. She shifts her weight from one side to the other as I squat beside her, carefully reaching for one of her rear legs. She doesn’t love having her legs touched, but she allows me to lift her foot just long enough to get a good look at her shoes. I’ll have to call the farrier this week.
Not all of our horses wear shoes, but a majority of them do. It helps protect them, providing stability on the dirt trails around the ranch, and gives them additional support when we ride them or when they carry loads. Ross, our regular farrier, lives on a property just the other side of the Fisher Ranch, so he’s pretty close by, and hopefully, he’ll have an opening in his schedule soon. If Della needs new shoes, I imagine the rest of our horses will, too. I’ll need to check them all out and make a list of who needs what before I call Ross. I add it to my to-do list for tomorrow, before dropping the brush into the grooming caddy and grabbing a sponge. I quickly clean around Della’s tail before swapping the sponge for a comb and combing through the tail, then her mane. By the time I’m done, my girl’s hair is shining in the fluorescent light of the stable block, and she’s whinnying for a treat after behaving herself and standing so patiently for an intense grooming session.
I tidy up after myself before tossing a handful of hay cubes into her stall and pulling a pair of peppermints from my pocket. My girl will do just about anything for a peppermint, and I save them for special occasions—like a long grooming session, or a visit from Ross or a vet.
“Good girl.”
She snorts eagerly, licking them from my hand and then nudging my shoulder with her nose. I take it as athank you, resting my head on hers for just a second before she swings around and stalks over to a pileof straw in the corner and begins to kick it into whatever she deems to be the perfect nest.
I stop by Grover’s stall, where he cracks one eye open to glare at me for disturbing his nap, before returning to slumber, and then brave the rain to dash from the stable block to the house.
“Hey Mom,” I call, grabbing a bottle of water and some kind of sweet muffin from the fridge. It smells like strawberries and cream, and it takes all of my willpower not to cram the entire thing into my mouth immediately. My stomach growls in protest.
“In here, sweetie.”
I follow the sound of her voice to the office, which is actually just a secondary sun room off the side of the kitchen. The main sun room catches the most sun throughout the day, and is more of a den or family room, where Ashton and I spent most of our time growing up. Mom is perched on the edge of her seat when I get to the doorway, glasses slipping down her nose, and hand clawed around her computer mouse. She uses the back of her other hand to push the frames up before looking up to greet me.
“Hi, honey. The rain sounds pretty bad today.”
“Yeah, it’s comin’ down, that’s for sure. We’ll probably have some repairs once this season is through, but you know May. It’s always rainy here in May.”
“Big repairs?”
I can’t shake the thought that Mom looks worried.
“Nah,” I say, dropping into the seat on the other side of her desk. “Maybe a couple patch jobs on roofs. Level out some of the land. I don’t think it’s gonna be too bad this year.”
“Oh, that’s good. Listen, honey, I was thinking…”
“Uh oh.”
“Everett Tanner, you watch your mouth when you talk to your mother.” A third voice joins us, and I turn to see Dad propping up the doorway. He winks at both of us, letting me know his chiding was of the playful sort.
