Page 2 of The Dire Reaction

Misty dodges easily away. She’s a been-there-done-that dog. Hitting five years old, she’s at peak performance. That ornery angus won’t get the best of her.

Shifting in the saddle, I stretch my legs, careful not to spur my horse accidentally.

A few more quick movements from my dog, and the ranch hand is closing up the gate on the stock trailer.

“Okay, Boss?” he asks, his Mexican accent thick.

“Yep, thank you, Javier. You and Carlos have a safe trip. Call me when you get to the rail yard.”

The small man tips his hat and climbs into the cab.

We’ve been at this for three weeks, rounding up the cattle from the hills and loading them out to the stock yards at the rail center to be shipped back east.

And my ass is tired.

It’s nice to be making the last trip home for the season.

“Whoa, Red, hold.” I pull the reins tight. I don’t really need to tell him. He’s done this a million times. “Misty, up!” She comes running, launching herself behind me onto the back of the horse. The blanket extends past the saddle so her claws don’t spook Red. She settles behind me, panting against me as we ride. She’s already worked her ass off; she deserves a little break, too. Relaxing in the saddle, I let Red lead the way. The gentle rocking of my hips is hypnotic, winding the miles back to the ranch house.

It’s nearly dusk when I get close enough to see the silver Nissan coupe still parked in the driveway.

“Looks like Becky’s still here,” I mutter to Misty. She wags her tail against my thigh in response. But, she does that whenever I talk; she’s a glutton for attention.

Red leads himself to the barn, and Misty jumps from his back, chasing one of the chickens running loose in the yard.

She’s met with a growl from the guard dog.

“Misty, you know better than that. Thor will kick your ass if you hurt one of his chickens.”

At the sound of his name a giant white dog meanders into the barn to watch me unsaddle Red.

He rubs his head against my hip, nearly knocking me off balance.

“Easy, boy, or I’ll throw the saddle on you next.” After getting his head pat, he seems content enough to wander off, keeping a wary eye on Misty.

Red is nose deep in a fresh bale of sweet smelling grass hay as I finish up. He gives me a one-eared side eye when I catch a burr with the curry comb, but stands quietly for the brush down. His skin ripples from the aggressive strokes, and tufts of hair and dust dance in the last of the sunlight spilling through the doors.

Closing the barn doors behind me, a quick glance at my phone shows it’s already after six. I’m surprised Becky is still here. Maybe it’s because she’s still new.

“Oh, Mr. Downing!” There she is. Becky steps carefully down the concrete steps from the kitchen door, bracing her considerable weight on her knees with each step.

“Hi, Becky, how did everything go today?” The cool September breeze teases through the open lapels of my jacket.

“Very well, Mr. Downing. He got a bath and new blankets today. He even grunted when I asked if he liked what was on his TV!” Her smiling brown eyes are framed by her gray curly hair which she pushes back impatiently.

“I’m sure Alex appreciates all of your attention. Thank you for taking care of him while I'm gone.” I flash her a grateful smile.

The wrinkles stand out around her eyes when she smiles. She reminds me a little of my grandmother, the glasses hanging from a chain around her neck completing the resemblance.

“It’s so sweet that you take care of him. Angela said he’s your father-in-law?” Her brows draw together with unspoken questions.

I wince a little involuntarily. I can’t help it. It still hurts.

“Yea, my wife, Claire, passed away two years ago. That’s her dad. He was a victim of a home invasion about ten years ago that left him like that.” I didn’t want to say the word “vegetable,” but it’s the closest description I’ve heard. “I told her I’d take care of him.”

She lays her hand on my sleeve. “That’s very sweet of you. I’m sorry about your wife. I didn’t mean to pry.”

They always ask. And it always feels like my heart is ripping out of my fucking chest. But, I plaster on my best smile. This is the part about home health care they don’t tell you about. The revolving door of people who want to help, but want to know the stories. The digging back through years of pain for each new smiling face.

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