Page 6 of For Fillies and Monsters

Gibson had been a cowboy through and through. He liked working outside and riding horses. He liked pushing cattle and checking fences. And he liked drinking and smoking, and hitting anything that moved. His fancy for drinking and smoking, and getting in fights with every other cowboy in town, quickly led to debts. Debts that then led to selling off pieces of the once famous Spurrin’ L Ranch until there were only the last three-hundred dusty acres I look over now.

I lean over and spit onto the ground, half to try to rid my mouth of the gritty dust coating my gums, and half to rid my mind of the man I hated more than anyone.

I spit again as if I’m standing on his grave,just for good measure.

I would like to kill him—even if that makes me fucked up.He deserves the most slow, torturous death. My lips lift at the corners; I can think of a million different ways to do it, and not one makes me feel the slightest bit guilty. Too bad the old bastard is missing, assumed dead already.

Good riddance!

I flip my hair, now completely yanked from its braid thanks to the wind, over my shoulder, and peer down the fence line again, groaning. The two posts I had gotten in the ground since starting two hours ago are sagging to the side. The wind rustles again, and they wobble, looking quite possibly like they will blow over.

I kick at the tin of u-nails in front of me, effectively knocking them over, and decide to pack it up for the day. This fucking work is useless.

With my arms full of materials, I turn around to head back to the barn. I pile everything into the bed of the beat-up old work truck my parents so kindly left behind and head back toward the house. I had started in the farthest corner of the field, running the fence through an old rock pile here. I’ve always been a believer of doing the hardest part first—good in theory, but fuck am I tired. I would be happy if I never had to see this corner of the pasture again.

Waves of heat already shimmer above the sandy soil in translucent ripples, and my tanned skin bakes, even beneath the layer of my pearl snap shirt. I learned quickly that I have to always be covered up or I will no doubt burn alive.

After standing in the ice-cold stream of water from the shower for thirty minutes, I feel finally ready to go. Firing up the light blue work pickup, its gears whining angrily in the heat, I head into town. I am supposed to meet an old friend from years ago for lunch, and I’m already running twenty minutes late.

I look down at my plain white t-shirt, faded Wranglers I found in the men’s section of the thrift store, and black cowboy boots.

What does one wear to meet an old friend? Will she still be my friend?

I have to hope so. I don’t have any here and desperately need one.

If it wasn’t for the turquoise hoops and black trucker hat that says “Cowboy hat” on it, I would be embarrassed. All the ladies I’ve seen in town like to get done up, and I have even less money for that than I do for fencing supplies.

Driving over the bumpy road, my thoughts wander to the encounters with the locals I’ve had so far, and I cringe. They all sneer at me; a horse girl from nowhere, Colorado. What do I know about cattle ranching in Texas?

Not a fucking thing, Karen.

It’s better to stride on past their sneers and not-so-silent whispers, even if it makes my teeth grind.

Women always gape at me, too, making me feel like I am parading around naked, when in reality, I have always fit like a glove in my clothes unwillingly.

I have curves, so what? Sue me.

I don’t have money or nice things. So, I work with the one thing I know how to work: my figure, even if it leads to nasty looks and walking red-flags.

Fuck ‘em. They won’t like me even if I try.

Moztecha, Texas is small—smaller than small—with only four places to eat: a steakhouse, a Tex-Mex place, the bar whichdoes late night pizza, and a grocery store with an attached coffee shop that sells questionable breakfast. There are also a few small shops, mostly feed stores and part supply stores, but as more people move here, a few more buildings are starting to pop up. I’m holding out hope for a bookstore, but it feels like a lost cause in a place like this.

Pulling up to the brown adobe building, the windows painted with cartoon cattle and the words “Come on in, Pardner”, and the old-wooden sign reading “Bovine Steak House”, I turn off the rumbling engine. My hands are clammy with nerves, and I rub them down the fronts of my thighs. I don’t have much for friends; it’s just easier being alone.

I’d rather never pursue a friendship than be rejected.That’s your abandonment issues talking Stet.

That’s the truth. I’m lonely as fuck, and I miss Dale, even if I don’t know the woman she has grown up to be. So even though I’m terrified, and feel completely out of control, I know I need to see her.

I pop down the visor to get a final look.

My gray-green eyes are framed in a light dusting of mascara, and my cheeks have a small streak of blush. Without much money for makeup, I have to make do with the essentials.

Luckily, I was born with impossibly pouty, pink lips, a fact I hated when I was little, but later in life realized are a death trap for hungry men. They look at me, and think only one thing:how do I get those wrapped around my cock?

I smirk at my reflection, smacking them together for effect.I have obliged many of them.

Sighing, as I see no escape from my fears, I jump out of the pickup and slam the door shut with a squeak.

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