17
WARREN
“Lucky!” I yell from the doorway in the barn, followed by a loud whistle.
Heston’s heeler comes bounding around a tree at a full sprint. His legs and belly are soaking wet, and he shakes back and forth the second he stops in front of me, sending a spray of wet dog water straight into my face.
I wipe the drops from my cheek with the hem of my shirt and laugh. “Stop taking a dip in the stock tank before your breakfast, you old dog. At least wait until the sun’s up.”
Heston had plans last night. I don’t know where or what it was for, but I always take care of Lucky whenever he’s gone overnight. I set down the black rubber bowl of dog food and scratch behind his ears before walking out of the barn and toward the farm truck. I wish the familiar morning routine did anything to quiet the thoughts in my head.
After what happened on the couch, Savannah climbed into my bed last night. Even though we’d cleared things up about our first date and I had just felt her come right on my fingers, I still expected her to shack up in the loft or maybe even Gage’s oldroom. She wanted a fake boyfriend, not a real one with enough drama attached for a trailer park reality dating show.
I had zero objections and it took me a little while to stop smiling when she wanted to stay with me instead.
I didn’t want to push my luck with her just yet and risk her pulling away from me again, so I held back as much as I could. I kissed her, chanced some touches here and there, stole a few glances while she slept, and lay awake overthinking how much I wanted her to trust me and how to make that happen.
It was almost impossible for me to avoid pulling her into my arms when I woke up next to her, so I was out the door and getting an early head start on chores.
The plan was to avoid smothering her and try to stop thinking about last night. I see now that was a lofty goal because even an hour into my day, the image just won’t leave me, and I think I’d need a full brain transplant to erase the memory. Even then, every cell in my body would remember.
Dust from grain and soil flies inside the cab when I slam the door and start up the engine. The County Ag Report starts through the speakers as the radio comes to life, and I listen to the news.
It’s a weekly radio broadcast every Monday morning, one I rarely miss. Sometimes they talk about market prices, land management, or the weather and how it could affect the upcoming days. But I like to hear the interviews and local stories they feature from the people themselves more than anything.
Growing up in a small rural community, this way of life is second nature to me. But it’s the people in it that were the reason why I wanted to start my business. There was a need for an accessible and affordable dealership and service center that I wanted to fill.
That might not sound like a very big deal to most people, but to me it is. My dad and I used to spend hours working ontrucks and other equipment when I was younger. He taught me everything I know, and I think if circumstances were different for him when he was my age, he might have tried to do something like what I’m doing now.
I want this business of mine to be a success. Not just for me and to prove to myself that I’m more than just a simple country boy who can get paid to drive a tractor or stack hay for someone else, but for my parents to feel proud of me too. They’d argue until the sun goes down that they’re already proud of me, and I believe they are. It’s different when you feel like you did something to garner that other than just being the lucky son of two great parents, though.
The chances of things going well business-wise aren’t far-fetched. The farmers and ranchers around here know me well and trust me. They’re aware that I’m good at what I do and that I always have their best interest in mind. But it’s still going to be up to me to not fuck things up.
The truck rumbles back and forth as I drive over a cattle guard and into the first pasture. It’s just a routine morning check since the grass is holding nicely and we’ve stopped putting out hay. I look over the water supply, do a few head counts, and replace the empty vitamin tubs.
Between me, Gage, Tripp, and Heston, it still takes hours to keep this ranch running smoothly. With this many acres and cattle, it’s normally a sixty-hour week for all of us even with a few part-time guys on the side. A small sinking guilt settles in my chest. One I’ve been feeling a lot lately.
I still put in work on the ranch in the early mornings and late evenings. Mainly because I love being here and I need the extra cash. I haven’t been able to help as much as I usually do while trying to get my business up and running, though.
The grand opening is coming up fast, so I soak up whatever time I have left here whenever I can.
The truth is that I don’t know that I ever want to leave this ranch completely behind. These guys are my best friends and there’s no greater peace than spending time in a place I know so well. But it’s notmine, and it’s not my dream. I can make a greater impact in the community elsewhere, and that’s what I’m going to do.
Gage is supportive of it, of course. He gave me this job and a place to live when I had nothing but the shirt on my back and a beat-up truck that barely ran. I wouldn’t expect him to be mad about me eventually leaving my job here just because I have bigger plans for myself now. Still, it doesn’t make it any easier.
There’s something else out there for me, and I can’t ignore the hunch that it’s more than just a new career. It’s a whole life. Working here, living with my buddies, partying on the weekends—it’s great. But at thirty-two, it still feels like something is missing.
I cover the rest of the pastures on the east side of the ranch over the next hour, and by the time I make it back to the barn, the unrelenting summer sun is farther up the horizon and finally above the fence line. Lifting the bottom of my t-shirt, I wipe the sweat from my forehead.
My face twists when I see the door to the feed room swinging wide open. I always close that door. It’s an unbreakable habit now after getting my ass chewed way too many times growing up for leaving a gate or a barn door open.
A minute later, I’m walking into the feed room to investigate when a fizzy spray of lukewarm shook-up beer hits me straight in the chest.
“HAPPY BIRTHDAY, MOTHERFUCKER!” Gage shouts, holding the now empty beer bottle in the air. “Oh shit,” he laughs, “I thought you were Tripp.”
I hold my arms out on either side of me and look down at my soaked shirt. “What thefuckare you doing dude,” I say, slightly annoyed.
First, I’m doused in wet dog, and now this. I smell like a mix of old well water and a stale barrel of hops.
