Page 46 of Home Hearts Hooves

“That’s nice. Umm, hold on one minute. I’m currently tied up by a wayward lama.”

“If I caught you at a bad time, I could call back.”

“No, no, just let me give this rope over and I’ll head on down to Connor.”

“Okay, thank you.”

I walk around the side of the pool and pass the rope to Sky.

“Can you keep trying? I’ve got a booking to handle,” I tell him, and he grabs the rope with a worried frown on his face. “You’ve got this,” I reassure him before stepping out of the pool area and heading toward the cuddle cove.

“So she likes Miss Milky, huh?” I ask with a little chuckle, seeing as the completely unoriginal name was actually given to her by me about ten or eleven years ago. She’s an American White Park and was the first livestock I purchased myself for the ranch. Gramps was so mad. He’d only just bought the Jersey bulls to start crossbreeding them with the Holstein and didn’t think she’d be good for milking. I didn’t care if she never gave me a bucket of milk, she was too beautiful to not be mine. But she was a rock star, and we only stopped using her for milking about five years ago. One of the dairy farms a few towns over has a couple of American White Park bulls, and Connor arranged for a trade. We sent a…sample, from Buckie, and they gave us a sample from their American White Park Bull. Now Miss Milky will be having her seventh calf, a pure American White Park, in just about three weeks. Even this far along, she’s just as cuddly as ever.

She spends most of her time in the cuddle cove, letting all the adults have a good squeeze while their kids chase around the mini-Highlands and baby goats and lambs. I’ll often walk past the cove on a quiet day and find Connor lying in the hay, leaning against her dozing in the sun.

“She’s been her favorite since the first time she visited,” the woman tells me.

“Well, Miss Milky is always up for cuddles, so I’m sure Connor can make sure she’s here on the day, too. I’m almost at the cuddle cove, I’ll just see if he’s free to sort everything out with you.”

“Thanks.”

I follow the tree line that hides the cove from the view of the main driveway. The trees also help reduce the noise and to keep the minis happy, and when I round the corner, I find Connor in the mini goat section of the cove chasing the kits.

“We’ve got a party booking on the line. Think you can talk through the details, sort out a date and time and all that?” I ask, opening the gate to the fenced section. Milky is in the far corner lying on a bed of hay and pops her head up the moment she sees me, and I swear I see her smile.

“Sure,” he calls back, climbing over the rail, and I pass him the phone and then leave him to it while I go see Miss Milky.

“How are you doing, girl?” I ask, running my hand over her head. The soft short hair glides against my palm, and she leans into my touch the way she always does. I wrap her head in my arms and squeeze tight. That’s probably the best thing about cows, they are like big dogs, but you can be super rough, and they are so strong it doesn’t hurt them. Also good because when you’re hugging something this fucking cute, it’s hard to control just how tight you squeeze them. “I’ll pop in with a treat later,” I tell her and head towards the stables.

“He’s all shooed and saddled up and waiting,” Atlas says when he spots me.

“Thanks, I owe you,” I say, heading for Buckie’s stall.

“Really well then…” he starts, but I hold out a palm toward him.

“No nude ranch weekend,” I say, and he laughs and heads back to doing his chores.

I find Buckie exactly where he said I would, ready with my tool bag, waiting for me to take him out. He was a gift from Gramps when I was seven. He was three when I got him, and even twenty-four years later, he’s still one of the strongest horses on the ranch. Nial, Alan, Kelly, and I all got horses that year, but Buckie was the best. He’s all black, except for one spot on his chest, and a slightly grey patch on his left flank. I sweep my hand over him, my eye catching where the hair sits differently by the scar on his left hind leg. It’s over a decade old and still the sight of it sends chills through me.

I’m checking the fences today, so I throw a spool of wire into the tool bag and grab an extra set of pliers off the wall and slip them into the side of my boot and climb on. The main fences that run the border of the paddocks are wire fed through thick wood posts, and sometimes the cattle or horses manage to kick out a post or the wire will break in places. The cattle don’t really care about getting out while there’s plenty of fresh grass, but before the dry, we’ll have to go round and replace a few of the older wood posts with metal ones to make sure it’s fully secure. But that’s a future Dean job. Today is an easy afternoon ride with my favorite horse. We ride past the pond, and I find Skye soaking wet, leading Chewie away on a rope.

“Nice to see things around here are as normal as ever.” I laugh.

“One day I’ll get him out without falling in myself.” Skye laughs, and I continue on.

We ride along the fence line, checking for damage. Up ahead the wire has gone a little slack and then I spot a few loose posts. I’ll need to send a message off to Perry so he can come down and swap them out. Fuck. I don’t have my phone. I gave it to Connor to make the party booking. Bloody hell.

“We’re fine, aren’t we, Buckie?” I say, slowing him to a trot and rubbing the side of his head. I hate the idea of being out here without a phone, but I’ve only got about a mile to go until we’re back. I make a mental note about the posts and keep trotting, checking the fences, pulling on the ropes we set up that unlatch and swing open the gates that separate each section of trail. This trail loops all the way around the property. The bull paddocks are also set on the outsides, a natural deterrent to unwanted trespassers. Most of our bulls would probably let a person pass through unharmed, but we’ve got a few grumpy bulls like Brutus that will charge if they spot someone not supposed to be there.

I edge up on Brutus’s pen, craning my head to try and spot him. He’s usually hanging by the collection of trees in almost the middle of his paddock. They’re tall, and offer great shade, and don’t normally block our view of him. But today I can’t see him anywhere. I go to reach for my phone again.

“For fuck’s sake, okay, how about we pick up the pace?” I ask Buckie and give a flick of the reins. He instantly reacts, moving into a canter. I keep scanning the paddock for Brutus. Something isn’t right. He’s not a large bull, but he’s usually pretty easy to spot and his paddock doesn’t have nearly as many places to hide. The grass is getting a bit long in parts, though, so he could just be having a lay down over a crest that I can’t spot him. I am doing everything to reason with myself that this is the case when Buckie rears up suddenly. I’m thrown back and hit the ground hard, all air is knocked out of my lungs with a painful burst.

“Buc—” I try to say, but my voice won’t work. He rears up again, stepping back and then stomps on my leg, I’m sure I hear a crack as pain shoots through it, a red-hot fire that finds my voice and sends it screaming out across the field.

“Fuuuuuuck!”

My eyes move past Buckie to where a section of fence has come down, a large tree branch has taken it out, and blocking the path is Brutus. If I hadn’t been so worried about finding him in the pen, I would have seen him and been able to control Buckie before he was spooked.

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