Page 4 of Tough Love

And while I love that part of raising ranch horses, and the challenge that comes with every new filly and colt, I hate playing by the old man’s rules. But since I will always be the dutiful son, the only one out of the four of us that is still hereandinvested in the ranch, I do.

Not too many people would dare talk back to Pa. It’s his way or the highway. Which for the middle of nowhere, mid-Montana, that’s saying something. My three younger brothers found a work-around for the old man’s condescending and continuous demands. One joined the army, one decided to be utterly uninteresting and work in ranching, happy to be left alone. One moved to New York and got a human resources degree. Sold his soul to the devil, if you ask Harry. They have balls, my little brothers, I’ll give them that.

We round the last of the hilly terrain and start the descent toward the homestead. The house my father built spans the big yard. Big windows and a wraparound porch complete the multi-gable home with twin chimneys. Charlie takes up his place beside the horse—he has the drill down pat.

The homestead is flanked by smaller paddocks for the working horses. The two large red barns sit behind the homestead, with old oaks dotted around the area. Ma’s favorite spot, the southernmost oak, shelters a long wooden table for Sunday lunches and other occasions.

Reed’s fancy truck is in the driveway still. Must have had a big night. Reed Rawlins, youngest of the four of us, and theonly one of my brothers to still live at home with us, despite his waning interest in ranch life.

When we reach the holding paddock the mares will stay in for the next few months, I ride in behind them until the last of the mares has filed in. I turn the gelding, maneuvering him sideways to shut the gate. Charlie slips under the wooden railing and trots around the herd, as if inspecting the goods.

I whistle and he races back. I push the gelding into a lope down the long, fenced laneway between the foaling paddock and the barn and sit back in the saddle. The steady lope of the gelding reminds me why I do this every day. The effortless movement of man and beast—my favorite part of the job.

When I slow to a halt, Pa waits, his arms slung across the top rail. Charlie races past my old man and jumps away when Harry reaches out to pat him. Charlie has never liked anyone but me. Reed jokes about Charlie’s aversion to the old man, says the dog is a good judge of character. He’s probably onto something; Harry Rawlins is a hard man. Hard to work with, hard to live with. Expectations are impossibly high when it comes to our father.

“Damn dog got social anxiety, Hudson?” Pa asks. His words are gravelly.

“He’s picky. Don’t take it personal.”

“Any trouble with the mares?”

“Nope, all good and steady. Looking ready for November foaling.”

“Good. Keep an eye on them. Don’t want to lose any when the weather starts to cool down. You ready for this colt? I ain’t gettin’ any younger, son.”

He nods to the yearling in the pen he leans on. The young’un walks in circles, sniffing the ground, trotting, and prancing.

“Sure, give me a minute to turn out the gelding.”

“Make it quick. Larry’s waiting and wants to see how the little upstart gets on.”

“Yes, sir.”

I walk the gelding to the barn and unsaddle him. Swapping out his bridle for a halter, I take him to the concrete pad by the side of the barn and hose him off. Unclipping the lead, I turn him out into his yard. He wanders away, content to graze, and I make my way back to the round yard. Pa has the young’un already in the center, halter on with a long lead. I climb through the rail and walk to where they stand.

The colt nickers as I take the lead from Pa.

“Send him ’round, then bring him in.”

I click my tongue and toss the end of the lead toward his rump. The colt takes off around the pen, following the rail as I hold him in the center. He is doing well. For just over a week of working together, he has picked up most things fast.

“Fast learner,” Pa says, now outside the round yard again.

“Yep.”

“Keep him goin’, don’t let him turn lazy.” He pushes off the rail and walks back to the house. Always has the last word, Pa. Always.

Steadying the colt, I tug the lead, coaxing him in. When he stops inches from where I stand, he rubs his face on my shirt. “Yeah, I know, buddy. He’s a mean old man. Lucky for you, you’re stuck with me.”

Charlie trots back over from wherever he’s been. No doubt herding Ma’s chickens behind the eastern barn. He’s going to get his ass whooped one day, when she catches him. My stomach grumbles. I rub the colt’s face and remove the lead. I work the colt until the top of the hour. With a broken pipe to mend this morning and ten miles of fencing to start on, I call it quits. But first, Ma’s cooking is callin’ my name.

Charlie follows as I walk to the gate that leads to the colt’s paddock. I open it and he walks through before I shut it behind him. I hear her nicker before I find her. Silver. The mare I learned to ride on. Ancient, as far as any horse goes. But she’s special. Too old now, I keep her in the paddock closest to the homestead. Having been promised a cushy retirement, that’s what she got. She worked hard, my girl. Owes me nothing.

Charlie sits, watching Silver take her time getting to the fence. I rub her forehead. “Hey, girl. You alright today?”

Charlie has been my constant companion for the last five years. I brought him home from a shelter in the city, the day after my heart was broke in two. I was twenty-nine, thought I had life handled. Sworn off women since then. Settling down is something I am supposed to want, but once bitten, twice shy. It’s going to take one hell of a woman to convince me to hand over my heart again.

Charlie is right behind me when I push through the back door and make my way to the kitchen. Ma is rolling out dough for something that will be delicious, no doubt. She glances up from her work as I drop into my chair at the table. The kitchen is enormous, a testament to her constant cooking. And I figure she loves doing it, since she is always cooking up something—literally.

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