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“I won’t!” she yells over her shoulder, probably lying.
My kids are like the animals around here once you let them outside. Free-range. Chickens, goats, cows, cats, dogs, you name it, they’re on the ranch and roam as they please. If you see a pigmy goat ramming its head into your tires, you know you’re at the Grady Ranch. Don’t believe me?
Take a look at my truck. One’s already ramming the shit out of it like it’s his job to fuck shit up.
I step toward Lara Lynn and zip my jacket, the wind hitting my face with an icy slap. “You seen Morgan around?”
She picks up Camdyn, brushing the red dirt off her jeans. “He’s in the back field bringing the herd in. Storm’s coming tonight.”
I heard about the storm. It’s been all over the radio. Blizzard conditions. Winds. Typical shit here for winter.
Remember when I said I don’t like riding horses? I might not have said it, but it’s the truth. Don’t care for them.
I had this horse growing up. Crank. He was a little motherfucker. Any time you entered his stall, he’d try to kick you, and he loved to run and buck with you on him. Try getting a saddle on him, and he’d try to bite you, and when you tried to herd cows with him, he’d cut the opposite direction and send you sailing through the air if you weren’t paying attention.
But Crank, this fucker, he sent me to the hospital with sixty stitches in my head. I was seven and riding my dad’s champion cutting horse for the first time. There I was, on the horse and riding comfortably when my dad gets off his to open the gate so we could get the horses to the back pens. That’s when Crank decided he didn’t want to go and took off back down our driveway. I don’t know why, but in that moment, I forgot everything I knew about horses and started screaming bloody murder for my dad. “Pull back on the reins!” he kept yelling at me, but I’d lost the reins in my freak out. Crank cut sharp at the corner of the barn, and I went flying into that fresh gravel. Right on my head.
Then, as if I needed more trauma with horses, Morgan and me took a couple out on a trail ride when I was probably, I don’t know, fourteen. He was eighteen. Long story short, we got lost after six hours on the horses and decided to take a break. I thought he was watching the horses, he thought I was, and they decided since they weren’t tied up and hated our guts for a six-hour ride through the desert, they’d take off. And if you ever chase a horse, guess what, they run from you. I was in good shape, as was Morgan, but not enough to catch those horses. I got close enough to pull Dexter’s tail, the one I’d been riding, but that only made him take off even faster.
An hour later, we’d made it into the city limits of Amarillo and had to stop and ask if anyone had seen two horses. We found this older Chinese couple, clearly not from Texas, standing on the sidewalk like they’d seen a ghost. Panting and barely able to catch my breath, I asked, “You seen two horses by chance?”
The man blinked slowly. They didn’t speak English. We eventually found them in the middle at the hardware store, sampling the grass selection in the outdoor garden area.
Oh, and then there was the time one projectile shit on me. I’ll leave those details out because, believe it or not, I have a weak stomach.
Needless to say, I don’t get on them unless I absolutely have to.
Hopping in the side by side, I take it out to the back fields. I pass by the bunk house where the cowboys stay. My dad has about fifteen guys working this ranch, along with my brother and me. We do everything from raising mares and livestock to breeding. It’s been a fully operational ranch for over a hundred years, and when you’re here, it feels like you’re in the middle of nowhere.
It’s because you are. Texas makes everyone feel like that. And the fucking wind doesn’t help.
Rubbing water from my eyes, I nod to Preston, one of the ranch hands. He does the same, thankfully forgetting our interaction the last time I saw him. Tipping his hat, I notice he’s sporting a black eye from our disagreement the other night. I couldn’t tell you what it was about. Probably a poker game.
Believe it or not, I don’t start a lot of fights, despite my reputation for doing so. Finishing them? That’s another story. I was brought up with the understanding that you don’t start fights. But if someone takes a swing at you, fair game.
I do know Preston threw the first punch… after some instigating on my part.
What does all that have to do with anything?
The Grady boys have three traits.
Prideful. Aggressive. Hardworking.
And that explains Morgan Grady. What doesn’t describe him?
A cheater. That’s not him, which makes me question what happened last night, despite me wanting to stay out of his drama.
I find him where Lara Lynn said he’d be. Back field repairing a fence that got knocked over. Like I said, the wind never stops here, and fixing fences happens a lot. If it’s not the wind, it’s a bull, a steer, or anything else that decides it doesn’t want to be contained here.
Like wives. Sometimes I can be a real vindictive shit.
Shutting off the engine to the side by side, I step out. Morgan looks up from underneath his black cowboy hat, a look of disappointment and annoyance plastered to his face. I look up to Morgan. Always have. He’s taught me everything I know about ranching and has my back, even when I’m wrong.
Standing in front of him, I shove my hands in the pockets of my jacket, turning away from the wind. There’s a cow staring at me, more than likely responsible for this part of the fence being down. “Don’t involve me in your drama.”
Morgan stands straighter, tipping his head toward me, and drops the barbwire he has in his hand at his feet. “What are you talking about?”
“You know.” I raise an eyebrow, watching the cow try to eat Morgan’s pant leg. “Your shit with Lil.”