Page 8 of The Wrangler and the Tenderfoot

“Pie, whatever’s good.”

She pointed a finger at me, approving. “Smart girl.”

I pulled out a notebook, set it on the counter, and made a show of reviewing survey notes. In truth, I was listening to the two men at the end of the bar who’d just come in, whose conversation was an undulating back-and-forth about cattle markets, shot through with gossip about who’d wrecked their truck or whose daughter had run off to Austin. There was nothing particularly actionable in it, but I never knew what details would turn up.

Marge set the pie in front of me, peach, with a sugar crust, and poured more coffee.

“First week in Hollow Ridge?” she asked.

I gave her the same line I’d given everyone else. “Working for the Colemans. Just started and trying to get the lay of the land.”

She gave me a wry look. “Lay of the land’s always been the same here, far as I can remember. The hills don’t move, just the people on top.”

I said, “Funny, because I keep hearing the Maddox place runs a little differently.”

“Oh, they do,” she said, warming up. “Calder Maddox, he’s a good man. His grandmomma was the first boss I ever had. I helped cook for the ranch when they’d have a big job to do. They run a tight ship but don’t cheat. They treat their people right.”

“That’s rare,” I said.

She refilled my mug as she scanned the room to make sure no one needed her. “You don’t hear that every day about ranchers, but it’s true for them. Some of the hands have been there longer than I’ve been alive.” She looked at me, then added, “If you ever have trouble out on the boundary, ask for Reid. He’ll see you straight.”

Ah, Reid. The hot foreman. “I met him. Seemed solid.”

“He’s the strong silent type, but there’s no one better if you’re in a jam,” Marge said. “Saved a kid from drowning a couple summers back, didn’t even want his picture in the paper. Just got back on his horse and kept working.”

“Wish there were more men like that,” I said, and meant it.

She nodded, approving. “You and me both, sister. It’s why they’re still here. The other ranches, they come and go, pass hands every few decades or generations. The Maddox place just… is.”

“What about the Colemans?” I asked, keeping it casual.

Marge took a beat, maybe two, then said, “They've been around a long time, too. They keep to themselves. Always have.” She didn’t offer more, and in the silence, I heard the boundaries shift again.

“That’s the way of it, then?” I asked, stirring my coffee. “One ranch runs open, the other runs tight?”

“That’s the way it is,” she said, but with a finality that suggested it could change at any moment. “Don’t get me wrong. The Maddoxes like their privacy as much as anyone, but…” She trailed off, but I was picking up what she was putting down. The Maddoxes were private, the Colemans were weird.

I finished my pie and paid, leaving a tip in the jar. As I got up, Marge called, “Good luck out there, hon. Don’t let the sun fry you.”

I smiled, genuinely liking the woman, and said, “I’ll try.”

Back in the truck, I pulled the replacement drone link up on my phone and placed the order. I used the PO Box for shipping and paid for expedited delivery, even though nothing was going to get here before Tuesday at best. Seven to ten business days was a lifetime in this day and age. I’d become spoiled living in San Antonio with access to same-day shipping from most major retailers.

For the third or fourth time today, I sat in my truck and let the air conditioning cool me off a bit. I thought about Reid’s number in my phone, about the way I'd watched him ride away. If I ever needed help, which I wouldn’t, not in a million years, I already knew who to call.

But for now, all I could do was wait for the stupid drone and try to plan on doing some exploring on my own, which is exactly what I did once I got back to the ranch and saddled Jupiter.

The path to the creek was simple at first, a mown lane between mesquite and a rusted wire fence. Then the terrain dissolved into deer paths and washouts, most of which doubled back on themselves. The GPS lost signal every quarter-mile. After a few turns, I had no idea which direction the house was.

Outstanding. The geologist gets lost. My cover story was really pulling its weight.

Forty-five minutes of wrong turns later, I stumbled on a fence line with a strip of orange tape — my own mark from the day before. I was less than two miles from the house. For clucks sake.

Back at the ranch, the old foreman, Bill, gave me a slow once-over. "Horse didn't lose you, I see." I pretended not to hear him and unsaddled Jupiter. She looked better than I did, which was saying something.

My phone buzzed after I'd showered and changed.

How are the rocks? -R