Page 69 of On the Land, We Shoot Straight
“Shit,” Cole said.
“I know it.”
“It might not hail.” Cole kept his eyes on the fields whipping by, and they both heard the lying hope in his voice.
Grady started calculating in his head what he’d bring in from the wool, what he had left over from last year and figured he’d break even without a decent crop. He wondered if his daddy had been right and it was always about recouping the losses from the year before to break even on the next one. If there really wasn’t a profit to turn, and if there was, it was the bigger landholders making it because they could brace against the bigger blows.
He and Cole didn’t speak again as they crossed his land, repairing fences and checking sheep, not until they came upon the flock they’d taken the lambs from.
“You reckon they wondering where they are?” Cole asked as Grady pulled onto the shoulder to look at them.
Grady watched the sheep, the nearest ones looking at the truck, looking like they were waiting for something.
“I reckon maybe, yeah,” Grady said. “I never thought about it. Another day won’t hurt ’em.”
Cole nodded. “Some people reckon they won’t take ’em back on account of the smell, but I ain’t never seen the mama not come forward.”
Grady nodded. He’d never seen that either.
Sure enough, when they drove out the next day, the sun shining and the sky clear, so clear it was bone-chillingly cold, the ewesat the front of the flock watched them curiously. Cole was in the back with the lambs and Grady pulled up, opened the gate and drove through. The curiosity dialed up, more heads lifting, ears pricking up as Cole started lifting the lambs over to Grady.
The first one landed and started bleating—the high-pitched, pealing call of the youngsters—and the older ones started calling back. His little legs started a shaky canter, and the mama came out of the fold, bleating her deep response and meeting her baby with a sniff and a nudge. They kept on bleating, high to low, before returning to the safety of the flock.
They got them all down and watched as they picked through the ewes, recognizing and greeting their mothers. Grady folded his arms over his chest, hugged his coat to ward off the cold and kicked his heel up on the bull bar. He pulled out his cigarettes and lit one.
“Can I?” Cole asked. He leaned against the hood beside him, cocked his boot on the bar.
Grady handed him a cigarette and settled in to watch. Cigarette smoke curled in the air alongside the white puffs of their breaths.
“You reckon that’s the one whose baby died?” Cole indicated with the hand that held the cigarette at a ewe on the edge looking around.
“Dunno,” Grady said because he didn’t. He wasn’t sure what sheep thought, and what they got to getting sad about.
“I reckon,” Cole said, dropping his cigarette and crushing it under his boot before leaning down and picking up the butt.
“Can’t save ’em all.”
Cole blew out a breath and huddled close. Grady leaned against him and watched the flock meander out, eating the grass, bleating, the lambs getting down on their elbows to drink from their mamas, the mamas allowing it and eating like it was just another day.
“Some of ’em maybe ain’t worth savin’,” Cole said after a while.
“I reckon that ain’t the point.” Grady hip-bumped Cole and straightened. “Just sometimes you’re in time, and sometimes you ain’t. And that’s all.”
Cole straightened as well and went around for the passenger door. “Damn, it’s cold.”
“You not from around here?” Grady smirked at him over the roof of the truck.
“Shut up.” Cole laughed and blew into his hands. They got in and drove.
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G
rady had smoked apacket of cigarettes and cleaned every inch of his tack so it was almost going to rub through when Cole walked in and saw him at it—sitting on the ground, saddle between his legs and cigarette burning between his lips.
“All that ain’t gonna make it not hail,” Cole said.
Grady put the brush down and looked up at him. He was right. Grady hadn’t even noticed what he was doing. Worrying.
