Despite knowing I should tread lightly, I ask a question of my own in a moment of unflinching bravery. It comes out as more of a suggestion because I can’t stand the thought of him turning down the idea.
“So, I was thinking . . . maybe next time the weather won’t be so bad, and you can show me around a little bit.”
“Next time?”
“If I’m in the area or, you know?—”
He pulls his hat down and then rests his left arm along the bottom of the driver’s side window. “Yeah. I mean,yes, definitely.”
I turn to face the front windshield with a closed-lip smile.
“I think?—”
“Oh mygod,” I cut him off. “Is this it?”
We’ve turned off on a dirt road. Tall trees line either side of the lane. The wooden posts on the fence line are capped with snow, the barbed wire glistens with ice crystals, and faint snowdrifts are formed at each base.
“Yeah, this is my parents’ ranch.”
“It’s beautiful!” I lean forward in my seat, bracing a hand on the door handle.
The distant peaks make a stunning background as we make our way down the drive. There’s muffled mooing coming from outside, and I scan the pasture on either side of the lane to see visible puffs of warm breath rising from the noses of the cattle huddled together in black patches against the stark, white-blanketed ground.
A log home finally comes into view. String lights lining the pitched roof and the wraparound porch, leftover from the holidays, I assume, glow softly. The edges of the windows are frosted over, with tiny fern-like patterns etched by the cold. A thin column of gray smoke rises steadily from the stone chimney, curling into the crisp, pale blue sky.
Several trucks are parked past the home near a row of weathered but well-cared-for barns. I’m itching to reach into the back seat for my camera, but I decide to keep the urge at bay for now. When I see my car parked directly in front of the house, I swallow hard.
When we come to a stop next to my car, Ledger puts the truck in park and turns in his seat to face me. He opens his mouth, and I look into his deep brown eyes.
Before he has a chance to say anything, three loud raps sound against the driver’s side window. Ledger turns to roll it down, and a woman on a horse leans down and peers into the cab of the truck.
My jaw drops at the sight of her. Her dark hair is long and sleek, peppered with streaks of dignified gray. The corners of her eyes and mouth have deep wrinkles—the kind you get when you’ve made a lifelong habit of laughter.
Her thick wool coat has a muted orange pattern and a wool-lined collar. She sits atop her horse like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
“Hi, son. Got a call about 78 head, and I’ll need to be there in an hour. Give me a hand with a few pairs so I can get going?”
Ledger nods, rolls up the window, and turns off the truck. I reach into the back seat for my coat, open the passenger side door, and quickly jog to the other side.
“Your mom . . .” I gasp at Ledger’s side as we watch Gina ride away toward the nearest barn. “She’s stunning.”
He huffs a breath through his nose as he turns toward me and zips up my coat. “She is,” he agrees.
“78 head?”
Ledger starts walking in the direction of the barn, and I follow curiously.
“78 head of cattle. She’s a brand inspector. The best one in the county, to be honest,” he explains. “They always call her for big incoming groups like that. My dad is great with the upkeep around here, but it was my mom who taught me almost everything that I know about ranching. She was raised on this land.”
“What I’m hearing is that she’s a badass.”
“Pretty much,” he chuckles.
We enter through the open barn door, and he jogs toward a square hutch in the corner of a pen. As Gina dismounts andenters the pen, she scoops a tiny calf into her arms and carries it to the box.
Ledger picks up a heating lamp that was hanging on the nearby wall, hooks it up, and hangs it over the exposed corner. As I step beside him and peer down, I watch Gina place the shivering calf in the hutch. She gathers straw and tucks piles of it close to the calf’s body.
“She cleaned her off good,” Ledger points out.
