Page 12 of Saddles

“Moody today? Get over it, girl. We got places to go, cows to see. You’ll probably have a week or more to hang out if this big ol’ nasty looking cloud has its way.” I tilt back my cowboy hat to get a better view of the ominous sky.

There should be a couple of hours of good riding before it really starts to dump. I won’t go too far out.

She snorts at me and waves her head, but I manage to get the bridle over her nose anyway.

As soon as I thread the bit into her mouth and buckle it, she settles.

“Every damn time, huh? Can it just be easy once?” I know when she was young, I liked her spirit. She never runs out of steam once she gets going.

It’s just getting her started, that’s a fight. I’d think that after nearly eight years under saddle she’d be used to it by now.

Nope.

I suppose that since she used to be Sarah’s horse, Pepper will always want her first.

But she’s not here anymore to calm Pepper down.

Dead and buried, and it’s my own damn fault.

“You’re lucky I like spunk,” I grumble before tethering the cantankerous mare to the stall and brushing her down, then getting her tacked up to ride.

Roscoe waits patiently by the barn door.

He’s used to this ritual.

By the time we are leaving the homesite, there’s a stinging mist of snow filling the air.

It burns into my eyes and forces me to pull my balaklava up over my nose.

Well ain’t this the shits.

Even Roscoe squints up at me periodically, then darts to run under the trees out of the brunt of it.

It suits my mood.

Today is Thanksgiving. I could be back at the main ranch, celebrating.

Not that I’d have anything to toast. But I am happy to see Mason and his brother found someone.

Never thought Dixon would ever find someone to put up with him.

Sometimes it makes it harder to be around them, knowing I fucked up my own fairy tale.

A high pitched whine works over the rising wind.

Roscoe hears it too. He runs ahead of us with his head high, jumping periodically to see over the bushes.

What the fuck?

I can just see two machines through the blowing snow on the far hill. They’re weaving behind a bunch of our cows, pushing them towards a ravine.

Bastards!

I kick Pepper into a gallop and pull out my pistol.

They’re better than half a mile from me, but anyone out pushing our cattle is pretty much guaranteed to be up to no good.

I barely get close enough to see the colors of their black snowsuits before they catch sight of me and turn away.

---