Rough Stock(8)

They left Court behind to adjust his stirrups and rounded up the portion of the herd that needed to be driven across the river. Austin scouted out the lowest, flattest point, well out of their way but safer for all. It was tough work convincing the cattle that they needed to cross, but once the heifers in the lead made it to the other side, the others followed with only the occasional nervous lowing.

Seth stayed close to Walker, hand on his reata, just in case the man took another fall. Going into the water twice in two days might put him in bed for a week.

No one had a disaster, or even a close call, though, and the group herded the cattle toward home, pushing on to make as much progress as they could. When they finally reached the western pasture, they left their small herd gathered around the hay bales they’d already brought out for them and headed back to the ranch proper on the other side of the hill. They’d shower and eat, and then it was Walker, Austin, and Gabe’s turn to stay overnight to ward off the wolves.

As they crested the slope, Seth looked down toward the homestead that had been nestled into the base of the foothills for more than fifty years. The house had started out small and had been added on to over time. Now it was two stories, log-cabin-style, with a wraparound porch made of roughhewn logs, now sanded and waxed. The green metal roof heated from the sun was free of snow (and the damage that came with it). It had been bought and paid for in better economic times.

To the left was the bunkhouse, one story and wide. There was living space for nearly ten men. Only Court, Sawyer, and Gabe lived there now, all three of them moving out of their family’s house when they came of age, all three making it no farther than the bunkhouse a hundred yards away.

Seth, at thirty one, had never been very motivated to move out of the Big House, not until he found a woman and settled down on his own. It seemed unlikely, though, to happen any time soon. Ranching took up every waking minute—even dreams of it and Snake River’s future plagued his sleep. Putting off his future was no small sacrifice, to be sure, but what future was there without the ranch? A factory job? Digging for gas or silver up near Gillette? Or, God forbid, working another man’s herd after losing his own?

No. Seth had vowed years ago—like Walker, like Austin—that Snake River would come first, be the only priority. What was the point of having children if there was nothing to leave them, nothing they could be proud of?

As they approached the spread, Dakota stepped out of the small foreman’s house, more of a shack really, to greet them. Court spurred BlackJack, intending to pull ahead, but Walker reached out for the reata tethering the buckskin mare and snatched it away.

“Hey!” Court protested. “I was going to give her to Dakota!”

Walker narrowed his eyes at Court. “You and your drip stay away from Dakota.”

Court bristled. “I don’t have the Drip, Walker,” he hissed fiercely. “Never have had. And I caught that horse for her!”

Walker tossed the end of the reata to Seth while shaking his head. “Stay away from her,” he ordered.

Court huffed and spurred his horse again, this time sans mustang mare, and headed for the horse barn.

Seth slid off Choctaw and gathered the horse’s reins in one hand and the reata in the other then headed toward the foreman’s shack. Dakota looked a combination of relieved and delighted to see them all. Her long black hair flapped in the breeze as she waved to Seth. At twenty-six, she was the same age as Court but infinitely more mature. She threw her arms around Seth, hugging him tightly. “I’m so glad you’re all back,” she breathed into his ear.

“Here,” Seth told Dakota, handing her the reata. “Court snagged her for you,” he added quickly, not wanting to take credit for something he hadn’t done. He watched Dakota carefully, gauging her reaction to his words, searching for any spark of interest at the mention of Court’s name. Thankfully, he found none.

Dakota had already been eyeing the mare, Seth all but forgotten despite his close proximity. Court wasn’t even a distant memory as she left them behind to pursue her newest charge. The line was slack, twenty-five feet, and Dakota slowly gathered the reata in her hands, inching ever closer to the mustang.

“Gloves, hermana,” Gabe reminded her from the back of his own horse, but Dakota paid him no mind.

Seth watched as she slowly herded the mare into the nearby round pen by waving the coiled rope at her hip.

“She’s gonna tear up her hands one of these days,” Gabe muttered. “All these wild horses.” He shook his head and glared at Seth, like it was his fault.

Seth merely shrugged. There was no telling Dakota Vasquez what to do, and it seemed obvious that by now Gabe would’ve come to terms with the fact that there was no wrangling his baby sister. She was as free-spirited as the horses she caught and tamed, a Wyoming Wild Woman if there ever was one.

Seth might have made a play for her at one time, if circumstances were different, but his family was more important to him. The fact that they’d grown up together was no hindrance, in Seth’s mind. The Vasquezes and the Barlows were close, but everyone remained keenly aware that they were not, in fact, related.

The Vasquez family had been on this land as long as the Barlows. It was as much theirs by sheer blood, sweat, and tears. It was a mere formality that their name didn’t appear on the deed. Guillermo Vasquez had tried ranching in the 1920s, couldn’t make it work, and sold out to Goodman Barlow for pennies per acre so he could add it to the already huge Snake River Ranch. The sale price hadn’t been half what the land was actually worth.

Apparently the name Goodman had been an exercise in irony.

Dad had always planned to right the wrong. In fact, he’d left Manny the Vasquez land in his will, not knowing that his foreman would die on the same day.

Seth supposed the land now passed to Gabe and his mother, Sofia. He wondered what they would do with it, but it wasn’t his place to ask.

Walker wouldn’t fight the will, not in a million years. It would be hard losing any small chunk of their spread in these difficult times, when they needed to hold onto every dime, every penny, but cheating the Vasquez family out of what should have been rightfully theirs wasn’t the way to save themselves.

It was bad enough that Manny had died so unexpectedly, leaving his wife, his son, and his daughter to go on without him. There was no way Walker would add to their pain. In fact, Seth knew without a doubt in his mind that if Walker could cut off his own arm, or kill himself outright, to bring back Manny Vasquez, Seth would’ve buried two family members after the blizzard, rather than just the one.

“Just pack up,” Seth advised Gabe. “You, Walker, and Austin are taking the first camp this week.”

Gabe nodded, walked away from the foreman’s shack, and headed to the bunkhouse.

Seth walked Choctaw into the horse barn and let him into his stall. They were roomy and well built and could house far more horses than they actually had. On the far side, out of sight but not earshot, were Dakota’s wildlings, a small collection of mares and studs she’d culled from the mustang herds over the last two or three years.

Dad had indulged her interest in horses. Dakota might as well have been his niece, for as close as Dad and Manny had been, and Dad had spoiled her rotten. He had allowed her to round up and keep the seemingly ragtag bunch of stallions and mares that caught her eye. He’d even let her take over the buying and selling of the ranch horses, choosing for the family what stock they’d use.

She’d successfully bred three mustang-quarter horse crosses and trained them herself. They were good horses, hard workers with strength and speed. The Barlow boys had had their own mounts for several years now, so they weren’t inclined to give up Choctaw, Nero, BlackJack, and the rest just yet, but Dakota’s hobby allowed the Barlows’ beloved horses to get much-needed breaks throughout the year, alleviating fatigue and preventing injuries.

Her actual job was caring for the horses and overseeing the maintenance on the barn that housed them. Dakota preferred horses to cows but she could run a herd if she had to, not that Dad would ever let her, really—or Walker for that matter. Over the years, she’d followed them out on the trail, though, making camp with them sometimes. She’d prepared a few meals for them on the open range, having learned from her mother, Sofia, the official ranch cook, but Dakota was a better horsewoman than a chef.

These days, though, she was less on the range and more often locked in her tiny office in the horse barn. God knew what she did in there. It was a flurry of stacked papers written in hieroglyphics that no one else could decipher. It was best, they’d decided, to just leave her alone.

Seth removed Choctaw’s cinch and saddle, revealing the horse’s sweat-soaked back and saddle pad. He hoisted the rig onto the wooden rack just outside the stall door, hung the pad up to dry, and rubbed the stallion down thoroughly using currycomb, stiff then soft brushes. Walker and Austin always left their horses for Dakota to care for, but Seth preferred to do it himself. He’d had Choctaw for going on nine years now, and some days the horse seemed like his closest friend.

“It was a good ride,” he said, placing a blanket over Choctaw. The horse nickered as Seth buckled it around his chest.