It was always how the man had been, and Rowdy was grateful for it.
Sometimes he got stuck in his own head, panicking about one of the ten thousand stupid-assed things he’d gone and done in his life—from bronc riding to being a father to coming out of the closet.
In all of those situations, his dad had been solid as a rock.
You made your decision, boy, now you live with it. You have faith that you were given this for a reason, and you make it work.
He’d heard those same words at least a thousand times.
So, why would he have thought for half a second that Dad was going to let this linger and fester?
He could handle that, and he really needed to know what Brett was doing—not because he didn’t trust the man, but because he was desperately curious to know. That was the shittiest part of being blind—he felt like he was always missing things.
He’d heard from the guys how cool it was that Brett had opened up the forge, how things were working there and how neat it was to see smoke coming out of the chimney and the ringing of the hammer on the anvil.
He guessed there was no taking the Old West out of a cowboy.
It was deeper than bones.
The more he thought about it, the more he figured he was going to have to actually hire a farrier, though. Brett was amazing with the horses, and the cowboys raved about how wonderful he was, but that wasn’t his calling, was it?
Horseshoeing took time away from his art.
Rowdy grinned as he headed into the kitchen to grab waters.
Brett was a fine artist—both as in his art was good, and as in he was high-dollar fancy. The man created sculptures that were inspired and wondrous, and Rowdy wanted to touch more of them.
If that was what Brett was called to do, then that was what the amazing son of a bitch needed to do.
He put the waters in a bag with a few apples from the bowl that lived on the island, before he grabbed his hat.
He didn’t reckon he needed to harness Barney. He’d just make somebody—his dad or Brett—let him hold his arm. Barney was off duty right now.
The shepherds did sort of herd him toward the front door, accompanied by a deep baying from Mr. Mann that made him grin. The pack had encompassed the goofy basset, deciding that he was one of them.
He bent down and rubbed ears and scratched necks—each one of the babies were so different, and each one of them came for snuggles. “Y’all are my best friends, I tell you what.”
“That’s pretty sad, son,” his dad teased, coming back in through the front door. “You’re not gonna take Barney?”
“Not today. He’s on ranch time.” He grabbed his cane and headed outside and down the three steps to the ground, then the ten steps to the path.
Once they got outside the fenced area and into the ranch proper, he reached out, and Dad let him tuck his fingers into the crook of his arm.
“Come on, let’s hit it.” Dad led him down to the rattle and hum of the little four-wheeler.
“You want to ride, Mr. Mann? You want to go see your dad?” He slid into one of the seats and patted the back, laughing as the hound answered with a happy howl.
“That dog is something else. Come on, babies!” Dad’s little demons hopped in too, and then they were off like their asses were on fire.
Dad loved to drive, to put the gas on and see if the shepherds could keep up. The hot wind felt like heaven on his cheeks andneck, and the scent of the sand and sage was as familiar and welcome as the flowers in May.
They roared on down to the old forge, and the smoke was strong and new—there was wood, sure, but Rowdy could almost taste the iron on the back of his tongue, and that flavor, that sensation?
That was Brett. Down to the core.
“He’s really got this old thing working, doesn’t he?” Dad’s voice rang with something between awe and surprise.
“He does.” Brett had been determined, passionate even. “I know he said he had to repair the trough, but everything else was pretty solid. He just had to clean out the chimney areas and order some supplies.”