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Authors: Lois Greiman

Finding Home (5 page)

BOOK: Finding Home
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She felt her teeth grind and tried to keep her mouth closed. No luck. “So they're going to Canada.”
He gave another half shrug. “They had a few round bales in with 'em for a while, but they're running on empty now. The grullo's skinny as a screw. Might not make it all the way to the border.”
She managed to refrain from wincing, but she wasn't so lucky with the words. “Chip was a grullo.”
“Your old pleasure gelding?” Dickenson said. “Huh. Those pretty blue-grays are kinda rare. Wouldn't have thought I'd forget that.” Maybe there was something odd in his tone, but she couldn't identify it. Couldn't care. That one dark eye kept calling to her from between the metal slats.
“Couldn't you . . .” She was close to the trailer now, close enough to smell the animals. Fifty degrees shouldn't have been warm enough to make them sweat, but fear changed everything. She knew that from experience.
Casie tightened her fists beside her thighs and tried not to plead. “Couldn't you take them home? Your dad likes horses. And Sissy . . . your sister . . . she's good with young stock.”
“Home.” He laughed. “The place is full to the gills with feeder cattle, and Sissy and Carson are expecting their second baby.”
“What about your brothers?”
“Marshall's going to South Dakota State, Shel's working at the Triple W, and Reese bought himself three hundred acres up by Belle Fourche just about two years ago. Hell, Case, you must have known that.”
“No, I . . .” She swallowed. “I've been busy.”
“Yeah.” He glanced around. “I see you're cleaning the place up.”
She didn't comment but hooked a hand onto an upper slat, easing onto the fender of the trailer and starting a wave of wild commotion inside. A bay jostled the mousy grullo, almost knocking him to his knees.
“So you're really selling out?” Dickenson asked.
She stepped back down, stomach churning, ignoring his question. “They don't have enough room in there.”
He shrugged. “Helps 'em stay on their feet if they can huddle up against their buddies.”
Anger burbled silently inside her. “And they weren't worth making two trips.”
His gaze never left hers. His eyes were as bright as river agates, firing up a dozen emotions she had happily left behind. “Times are hard, Case.”
“I know times—” she began, then stopped herself. “Well, thanks for stopping by,” she said and pivoted away, but his voice stopped her.
“Wanna keep the grullo?”
“What?”
He was grinning when she turned back. “I'll give 'im to you for free.”
She fisted her hands, loosened them, fisted them again. “Why would I want another horse?”
“I dunno. Why'd you want that one?” he asked, motioning toward Angel, who watched, head up, ears pricked forward.
“I just bought her to—” she began, then remembered Ty's presence. “I can't take another horse. I'm moving back to Saint Paul as soon as I get things taken care of here.”
“Yeah. Sure. Well . . .” Dickenson said and headed toward his truck. “I'd better get going. Toby might want me to take them straight through to Neudorf.”
“Tonight?”
“Time's money.”
She gritted her teeth and glanced at Tyler. His lips were pursed, his expression unreadable, but there was something in his eyes. Something that spoke of anger and hope and fear all packed into one tightly bound bundle.
“I'll take the grullo,” she said.
Dickenson turned toward her as if surprised. “What'd you say?”
“I . . .” she began and paused. “You heard me.”
“You sure? He's in pretty rough shape,” he said, but despite his words his grin seemed to be aching to crack through again.
Now, she thought, would be the perfect opportunity to hone her cursing skills. But Ty was still watching her with those angry, hopeful eyes. “Get the grullo out,” she ordered.
“Yeah, well, I'd like to.” Dickenson rubbed his neck, shook his head once. “But it's not that easy. You'd have to take the pinto, too.”
“What?”
“They're pals. The grullo's orphaned. And the little pinto's not weaned. So she should stay with her mama. Come to think of it, the mares are pretty rundown, too. It's going to be a long trip for them.”
She murmured something. Maybe swearing wasn't completely off the table.
Dickenson tilted his right ear toward her. “What's that? I didn't hear you. Did you just say you'll take 'em all?”
“No,” she said and forced a smile. “I was cursing you under my breath.”
“Were you?” The left corner of his mouth twitched just a little. “What'd you say?”
“I said—” she began, then glanced at the boy and tried to talk sense into that ridiculously childish side of her that seemed to be popping up recently. It was like trying to lasso the wind. “Put them in the cattle yard.”
His brows shot up. “All of 'em?”
“Yes.”
“Well . . .” He shrugged. “Toby'll be madder than a cornered badger, but if you're sure . . .”
She never said she was sure. Never said anything else, in fact. But suddenly Tyler was returning Angel to the barn and Dickenson was backing his rig up to the open gate of the cattle pen. In five minutes the area was filled with wild-eyed, milling horses.
In six minutes she knew she was certifiably insane.
C
HAPTER
6
T
he next forty-eight hours passed in a blur of sloppy drizzle, endless labor, and sleepless nights. The Lazy's newborns were arriving at a furious pace. Clayton had believed it best to get the young stock on the ground early, making heavier livestock and better profits come fall. And maybe that had worked in his youth, but it was wearing Casie down to her shadow. On her third pasture check of the day she'd found another pair of unexpected lambs huddled against their mother's damp sides. The old ewe hadn't passed her afterbirth yet, but she looked strong and sassy. A stamped forefoot had warned Casie to keep her distance and given her hope that the old girl was healthy enough to handle things without medical intervention. Nevertheless, she shooed the trio into the sheep barn, sequestering them in a four-by-four-foot wooden pen. The confinement would solidify the family bond and give the babies a few much-needed hours out of the rain. After feeding them chopped green hay and painting them with corresponding numbers, Casie dragged herself into the house for a little nutrition of her own.
It was seven o'clock in the evening by the time she headed back outside to finish up the day's chores.
Charged with viscous black coffee and sandwiches made from green-shelled eggs, Casie stepped into the cattle barn. Earlier in the week she had turned the cow/calf pairs out in the pasture, leaving the far side of the building empty. Inside it was dim and quiet. Still, there was enough light to make out Tyler's gaunt shape inside Angel's stall. His back was to the door as he leaned against the old mare's left shoulder, arms wrapped around her weedy neck.
Casie stopped in her tracks as a dozen half-forgotten feelings seeped into her soul, spurred on by aged memories and ragged instincts. How many times had she stood in that exact position, leeching courage and compassion from Chip's comfortable presence? How many times had she needed the warmth and assurance? she wondered, but the boy straightened a little and she turned abruptly away, putting her back to him as she fumbled noisily for the light switch.
By the time she faced inward again he was already stepping out of the stall.
“Oh! I didn't see you there,” she lied.
The boy lowered his brows at her. “I was just . . .” He jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “. . . gonna feed her.”
“Yeah?” She approached slowly. There was a faint, crescent-shaped bruise beneath his left eye. Curiosity melded uncomfortably with a couple emotions she didn't care to acknowledge. “What happened to your face?”
He shrugged, mouth pursed. “I'm just clumsy. That's all.”
“You don't
seem
clumsy,” she said and waited.
For a moment she thought he wouldn't respond, but he did. “A two-by-four fell out of the hayloft.”
She stared at him, wondering. His cheeks looked a little flushed.
“I tossed it up there to get it out of the way. It come down the same road before I moved aside,” he said.
She watched him another second, then nodded. What else could she do? “You're putting in a lot of hours around here.” He'd spent a good deal of time mending fences with her. “I'm sorry I can't pay you for all of them.”
He shrugged, jaw hard as granite. “Nobody never drowned in his own sweat.”
She glanced toward the mare, hiding the tug of a smile his cowboy demeanor invoked. “You think she's gaining any weight?”
“Little, maybe.” He seemed eager to move on to another topic. “You worm 'er?”
“A few days ago.”
“For tapeworm, too?”
“Ivermectin Gold.”
He nodded, seeming satisfied. So the boy knew something about parasites. Where did he learn that? It wasn't something they were taught in school. Not even in Hope Springs, South Dakota. And the Gilbert Roberts she remembered from her childhood wouldn't know a bloodworm from a caterpillar. Though, to be honest, she knew him more by reputation than personal interaction. He'd been a few grades ahead of her in school, but he had kept the local gossips busy. The term
bad seed
had been used on more than one occasion.
Casie thrust her arm over the stall door to scratch the old mare's neck. “So what was she used for, do you know?”
“Angel?”
“Yeah. Pleasure? Games? Stock?”
He shrugged. “We got her from a fella didn't want her no more. We was gonna sort cattle with her, but then she went lame and Dad didn't wanna spend . . .” He stiffened. Angel rapped the stall door with a ragged forefoot, demanding her promised supper. The boy lowered his brows. “Old plug like her, ain't hardly worth the bullet to put her down,” he said, but when Casie glanced at the mare she could still see the line of hair he'd messed up while hugging her. “Same as with those other horses you got,” he added.
“Yeah.” She sighed. “That was a shrewd deal on my part, wasn't it?”
“If you're looking to go bust quick.”
“Already there,” she said.
“You busted?” he asked. Worry furrowed his brow, making her wish she hadn't spoken.
“I'll be all right,” she said, but he ignored her platitude.
“That why you're selling out?”
Selling out
. He might as well have said
giving up
. . . a sin tantamount to homicide to the rancher's way of thinking.
“I never intended to stay this long. I've got to get back to my job,” she said and turned to lift a hay bale into a nearby cart. “It's a miracle they've held it as long as they have.”
“Do you whistle there?” he asked.
“What?” She turned toward him, just settling the hay into the two-wheeled Rubbermaid.
“The other day when you was fixing fence . . . you was whistling,” he said.
“Was I?”
He didn't respond, just glanced out the door toward the broncs and pursed his lips before speaking. “This Bradley fella . . .
he
make you whistle?”
“How do you know about Bradley?”
He was silent for a second, then, “I heard you talking to that slick realtor.”
“Oh, well . . . yes, Bradley makes me . . .” She paused. What did Bradley make her feel? Safe, maybe. But not like whistling. “We've been together a long time.”
“How come you ain't married then?”
She cut the twines with the jackknife from the pocket of her oversized jeans, then fiddled with the blade for a second before reminding herself that she didn't have to be self-conscious around a scrawny boy half her age. “We've been really busy and he wants . . .
we
want to be more financially secure before we get married.” Wasn't that the reason? “Anyway, speaking of busy, I'd better get moving. I was hoping to get acquainted with a couple horses before it gets dark.”
“What horses?” he asked. His tone was skeptical at best.
“Take your pick,” she said.
“You can't do nothing with them man killers,” he said, jerking his thumb toward the herd outside. “They're rank as old hamburger.”
“They do seem a little wild,” she agreed. “But Dickenson said some of them had been ridden.”
“They was rode?” He scowled. “For how long? Eight seconds?”
She laughed, recognizing the reference to bronc riding. “They're not bucking stock, Tyler.”
He glanced outside. Two cat-hammed geldings were rearing, striking at each other with ragged front hooves. The small grullo stood alone, head drooping as he watched. “You sure?”
“They're not well groomed enough for rodeo,” she said and smiled wryly, hoping to bolster them both.
“He shouldn't have never dumped them horses on you,” he said.
“Maybe not,” she agreed and sighed. “But look at that one.” She pointed to the grullo, noting the dark stripes above his shaggy knees. “Such great color.”
He scowled at the herd. A rangy gelding bared his teeth at the smoky-blue colt, driving him away from the hay. “You can't ride color.”
“True,” she said, “but you can feed it. Let's get the little one inside.”
Ty gave her a look. “Inside the barn?”
“Well, I'm running out of room in the
house,
” she said. She'd moved the two original lambs outside and replaced them with four more. It was less than a perfect situation, but she was trying to make light of it. Still, she was a little nervous herself. She'd been lucky to get the horses in a pen without any major catastrophes. Getting them separated was asking for trouble. “Come on. We'll chase the whole bunch inside.” She motioned toward the complicated system of wooden gates necessary for weaning and vaccinations. “Then we'll sort them out through the chute.”
“You kiddin'?” he asked.
“No.”
“How 'bout we just kick
each other
in the head real hard and get it done with?” he asked, but despite his mutterings, he was already shuffling outside. They eased around the far side of the herd. The animals skittered away from them, bony heads held high, eyes wild as they crowded the ancient fences. For a moment Casie thought they would push straight through, but finally a potbellied roan charged into the barn, black tail clumped with cockleburs and tucked tight between his legs. The others followed single file, huffing and crowding, and the grullo, not wishing to be left behind, brought up the rear.
After that it was a matter of siphoning off the older horses. Tyler manned the gate while Casie spread her arms and shooed them toward the opening. One by one the aged animals fled back into the original pen until three horses remained . . . the little grullo, the pinto filly, and a tired-looking mare. The trio watched them with flickering ears, ready to flee.
“She must be the pinto's mama,” Ty said, nodding toward the sorrel mare.
“Looks like it.”
“You gonna keep 'em together?”
“I'm not sure what to do.” It was true of so much lately. “What do you think?”
His eyes looked old. “Sometimes,” he said, “the young ones is better off alone.”
For a moment Casie considered questioning that comment, but in the end, she copped out. Together they decided the mother was too worn down to continue to nurse and separated the mare and foal. The babies ran along the gate, the pinto whinnying and leaping up, knocking her knees against the rough planks and falling back into the mucky straw inside the barn.
Assuring everyone within range that this was for the best, Casie chased the older animals into a second pen, leaving an empty enclosure between the newly weaned and the rest of the herd. Then she dumped grain into a wooden cattle bunk that leaned against the north end of the barn, added hay, and left the foals alone.
“She'd be better off if she couldn't even see her mama,” Ty said.
Casie glanced at him.
“That's the way it is with calves anyway,” he added and darted his gaze away. “They get over it faster that way.”
“I don't have anywhere else to put her.”
He shrugged. “She'll survive, I suppose.”
Her stomach felt jumpy. She didn't like making decisions. Didn't like changes, but they were coming at her fast and furious whether she liked it or not. “What about the grullo?”
Ty pulled his brows low over his eyes and refused to meet her gaze. “Don't know how he lasted this long.”
Maybe the same could be said about Ty himself, Casie thought, but she let it slide. She was aces at letting things slide. “He should have already been halterbroke,” she said and lifted her gaze to the restless herd. “They all should have been trained, given jobs, given homes. But . . .” She inhaled carefully, trying to be upbeat. “I guess it's not too late.”
Ty straightened, shifting his gaze to hers. There was something there she couldn't quite decipher. Hope or fear or despair. It was anybody's guess. “You trying to get yourself killed?” he asked.
She grinned, scaring up a little nerve. “I didn't expect you to be the dramatic type.”
“I ain't being dramatic,” he said, sounding offended. “You can't ride them animals.”
“Well, the likelihood of being able to sell them without any training is slim to nothing.”
“Then give 'em away?”
“To whom?” she asked, and laughed at his petulant expression. “They're here and they're mine,” she said. Pulling a plastic bucket from the back of Puke, she strode over to a small weathered building that had once been painted white. In fact, in another life it had served as a one-room schoolhouse. Abandoned by the county's youth decades ago, it had been hauled to the Lazy, where it had found another use. In that regard it was little different from the chicken coop. Built long ago when the Carmichaels had owned three thousand rolling acres, it had originally been used as a bunkhouse for hired hands. But things changed. Times moved on. She filled the bucket half full of ground feed and pushed her mind back to her present conversation. “You know what they say about a horse you can't ride.”
BOOK: Finding Home
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