Page 47 of On the Land, We Shoot Straight
“Not much.”
“Can’t imagine it.”
Grady nodded. “Yeah, well. Can’t all be horse crazy like you.”
Grady immediately regretted saying it—he didn’t want to send Cole into another horse-mourning spiral—but Cole just laughed, a burst of relief in it, and shook his head.
“You got any dinner out here?” Grady asked.
Cole released Grady’s foot and leaned over for his saddlebag.
“Still got some of that ham and cornbread, hang on.”
Cole came up, unwrapped the portion and split it with the bread between them. They ate as the sun finished setting over the flock and the horses, their bodies black and still against the final spark of orange on the horizon.
28
T
he shearing crew arrivedat seven the following morning. Grady and Cole had the pens inside the shed full, the outside pens full, and the road leading to the shed full, while the bulk of the flock still milled about in the pasture where they’d spent the night.
“Grady.” JP shook Grady’s hand as he greeted him. He gave him a warm smile, his dark skin crinkling around his watery brown eyes.
“JP,” Grady replied. He fell into step with him as the rest of the crew came in the old, wooden door to the shearing shed behind them.
Four male shearers, including JP, plus the wool classer, who was also JP’s brother, Marcel, and the female roustabout—JP had held close to the same crew of six for a good five years. They were the most coveted not only for being one of the fastest at a decent price, but also because they kept pace without hurting the sheep. Most farmers couldn’t give a shit about the ethical treatment of sheep, but a sheep wasn’t much good to you ifshe had cuts, infections and busted legs because your shearers treated her like cargo.
Grady figured Cole would know JP and his crew, and he’d therefore make himself scarce like he had with everyone else. So he was taken aback when JP’s gaze landed on Cole perched on the far edge of the front pen, Lady running along the backs of the sheep in front of him, and Cole’s face split into a wide grin.
“As I live and breathe!” JP yelled. He went around the back of the pen and picked him right up off the fence. “Jesse Cole!”
“JP!” Cole hollered and returned the hug.
“What’re you doin’ out here?” JP set him down and surveyed him from head to toe like he was an old uncle ensuring his kin was still in order.
“Workin’.”
“Workin’.” JP chuckled and punched him lightly on the arm. “Look at this young fella, all grown up, huh?”
“Shut up.” Cole smirked up at him.
“Carter came by the house lookin’ for you not one year ago, but we told him we ain’t seen ya, and now here you are,” JP said.
Something dark and painful flashed across Cole’s face at that name, but he just shrugged and mumbled, “Here I am,” with a genuine smile.
“We gonna shear some sheep or suck some dick?” Carson asked. He’d been with JP for as long as Grady could remember—a cousin on JP’s wife’s side. He gave Cole a friendly shove, while the others took turns ruffling his hair, slapping him on the back, and doing a pretty good job of hiding their surprise at seeing him. Grady wanted to ask who Carter was, but it wasn’t the time, and he wasn’t entirely sure how to ask anyway.
They got to it, the well-oiled machine that was the JP shearing crew moving as one—the four shearers fanned out in front of their designated clippers like they were predestined and waiting for them. Taking a sheep each from the pen and bringingthem out backwards, practiced arms with corded muscle lifted wethers and ewes under armpits. Their white bellies pointed up at the slatted wooden ceiling as they thrashed and kicked their hooves out. The roustabout, Milly, scooped up the first fleece from behind JP and threw it as one piece across the wire trampoline. She instructed Cole on how to help her skirt off the crusted bits around the edges with no extra words, like she’d been telling him for years, and there he was, just doing it, no need for any questions. She nudged Cole to the fleece behind Carson, indicating with her head to pick it up where it’d fallen from the ewe’s legs. She watched with studious eyes as Cole threw it as one piece, keeping hold of the ends as he brought it down, the whole fleece falling like a curtain, the brown, dusty wool facing up. Milly handed Cole the broom, and Cole quickly swept the locks under the table, keeping the space behind each shearer clear.
“Don’t let ’em get snowed under!” Milly shouted at Cole over the buzz of the clippers, chin jerking to the fleeces shooting out the back of each shearer.
Cole nodded and scooped up the next fleece.
Marcel skirted the table, his brown eyes shrewd and fingers quick as he checked the wool and classed it, and Milly narrated what he was doing for Cole in short bursts—
“Short staple on the crimp. The best.”
“See the fine crimps? Top line wool.”
