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His response is to lick my face, jump down, and then happily trot beside me while I work.

In addition to livestock, we have lots of dogs on the property for herding, hunting, and protection. Blue Heelers are my top choice cow dogs because they can handle even the toughest cattle that Border Collies are sometimes afraid to herd.

Great Pyrenees and Spanish Mastiffs are my livestock guard dogs, and we use American Foxhounds, Bloodhounds and English Springer Spaniels for hunting.

And then there’s Scout, who is a German Shorthair Pointer and the best bird dog in the state. The other dogs on the property sleep wherever they want, whether it’s outside or in the barn, bunkhouses, or detached properties where many of the guys and their families live.

But Scout stays with me.

He’s a working dog, but he’s also my boy and is treated as a pet.

It’s easy to fall into a comfortable rhythm with the guys. We’ve known each other forever and worked together for years. With the music blasting and our movements in perfect harmony, the work is easy and gets done seamlessly.

But my mind is never far from Ashley.

She and her brother moved away to live with a relative when their dad went to prison. Their house was sold and all physical traces of their family were removed from town.

But Maxwell also had a hunting cabin in the woods, and that must be where Ashley is going to stay.

She’ll be alone in the middle of nowhere with no clue how to survive a storm like the one we’re expecting.

But that’s not my problem.

She’s not my problem.

Not anymore.

Later in the week, Cameron and I are driving into town to hit the hardware store. As prepared as you try to be, unexpected stuff comes up on the ranch all the time. Unfortunately, we have a bunch of fencing to repair in addition to all of the other storm preparations.

I nod at Frank, the owner and namesake of Frank’s Hardware and a pillar of the community. He’s been a constant presence at the store since I tagged along as a kid when my dad shopped here.

“Fucking weather,” Cameron mutters, as we pile sheets of plywood onto the trolley. “And fucking elk trampling the fences. We really didn’t need this shit right before calving season.”

For any man who earns his living outside, the elements are the bane of his existence. It’s either too wet, too dry, or apparently, too many feet of snow.

Being born during Montana’s winter is risky business for a calf who can easily freeze to death. Even without the storm, my cows give birth indoors with the safety of heat lamps and blankets, which also allows for valuable bonding time between mother and baby.

But since we don’t want to chase them during a potential whiteout, they’ll be brought inside early just in case.

Some ranchers let their cows give birth outside, but the poor babies can have their ears freeze right off or their noses freeze so badly they have to be euthanized.

My heart is way too soft to even consider a fate like that one for an innocent creature, not to mention that dead calves aren’t good for business.

Delaying calving season is an option because it’s safer weather-wise. But those missed weeks represent lost weight gain, and thus losing money when the calves go to market in the fall.

We have breed management down to a fine art after generations of ranching ingrained it just as naturally as breathing.

“Elk just come with the territory,” I return. “And at least the storm isn’t over the holidays.”

It would be terrible if Bobby and Savanna couldn’t fly in for Christmas at the ranch. We don’t get to spend nearly enough time together, and uninterrupted holidays are something everyone looks forward to.

It’s extra special because it’s the first Christmas with Savanna present – or any other girlfriend for that matter. I never imagined it would be Bobby who broke bachelorhood, but I’ve never seen him happier and Savanna is quickly becoming one of my favorite people.

We’re making our way toward the aisle with concrete mix when I stop short and Cameron nearly topples me over with the trolley.

“What the hell,” he demands, and then he catches sight of what I’m seeing. “Oh.”

It’s Ashley in cowboy boots and skin-tight jeans that show off her perfect heart-shaped ass. She’s reaching for some batteries, which has the unintended consequence of making her fitted grey sweater ride up her back.