Page 43 of Up in Smoke

Oh.

14

TRIPP

Dust kicksup in lazy clouds, curling in the still air as Heston, Gage, and I ride the fence line. I squint at the puffs of dirt, making a mental note to rotate these cows soon to let the grass catch up.

Most of what we accomplish between March and October is done during the morning hours. It’s not quite noon, but the West Texas heat has already settled thick over the land. Before lunch rolls around, we decide to do a quick check on the close pastures out front. I lean into my horse’s natural movement with the reins loose in my hand.

Her name is Regal for a few reasons. The first of which is that it’s the only tiny connection I have to my mom. I don’t talk about it, but it stays on my mind like a splinter too deep to cut out.

The second being when faced with an open range, my mare never falters. Always calculated and elegant. Never rushed or uneasy in her stride.

No wordless bond exists as strong as ours. My left heel moves gently into her side, barely an inch, and she picks up to a trot to close the distance behind Gage’s and Heston’s horses.

The moment she stops and tosses her head with pricked ears, I know something is off. I bend forward to pat her neck, while Gage pulls up sharp in front of me. “You hear that?”

The rattle came first—sharp, dry, and unmistakable. My fist rests on the horn of the saddle with plenty of slack in the reins in the event Regal decides to take off in the direction of whatever triggered her. It’s then that I spot the cow with her head hung low.

I cringe. “Hope that’s a stray branch hanging from her jaw.”

“That ain’t a stick,” Heston mutters from behind us. “That’s bad luck with fangs.”

“Damn things are out early this year. Run her up before she lays down,” Gage says with a sigh. “I’ll see if we have some Dex and Penicillin. If not, I’ll call the vet.”

He takes off toward the barn as Heston and I approach the scene. The cow’s cheek is already swelling to the size of a grapefruit, and I scan the ground for any signs that the culprit might be hanging around.

The cow’s advance is sluggish, but she doesn’t protest as we slowly flank her through the pasture. I sit tall in the saddle while pulling up the bottom of my faded t-shirt to wipe the sweat from my brow. When she’s finally sorted and in the chute, we round the barn to put up our horses.

She looks damn miserable.

I hate shit like this. There’s always some sort of crisis waiting for us on this ranch. It only took me a week after moving in and starting my job here to learn that it comes with the territory, though. As exhausting as it is sometimes, there’s still a flicker of content in my chest on even the roughest days.

This isn’t the type of life I’ll ever run from. The only thing that’s ever been missing for me is finding my real family. I take a sharp inhale of air, realizing I’ve let my thoughts drift in thatdirection yet again after I’d been able to push them back for so long.

I don’t know what’s gotten into me today. Old dreams I’d once given up on creeped up out of nowhere.

Maybe this is my sign that I’m officially turning into an old bastard.

The chaotic list of other things that won’t fucking leave my thoughts alone aren’t helping disprove that notion, either. It’s like I’m trying to catch something just out of reach, and that uneasy pressure is not something I’m used to dealing with as a more go-with-the-flow type of guy.

Not sure how Heston does it, so deep in his head all the damn time. I’mnota fan.

Two months ago, the same night Mesa showed up, I received a call that I thought might finally provide some relief in that department. It turned out to be a false lead. Despite trying to convince myself that I didn’t care, I dwelled quietly on the disappointment.

I hate that it’s hitting me like a ton of bricks again today.

“You gonna stay up there, or?”

I shake my head. Heston is already on the ground and loosening the cinch on his saddle.

“No,” I mumble, throwing a leg back and hopping down. Regal nudges me with her nose, and I rub her chin just under the bridle before getting all the tack put up.

“You hungover or something?”

“No,” I scoff as I follow him to the chute next to the barn.

His question makes sense. I’m not myself—more sentimental and broodier than ever today. I hardly recognize myself right now.

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