Page 14 of Deviant
“He’s in the house. I can show you what needs doing.”
“Cool.” Colt takes a drink, watching me over the rim of his thermos. “You look thrilled to be stuck with me all summer.”
“I’m here to work. You’re here to learn. That’s it.”
“Right. Got it.”
Dad emerges from the house before I can say something I’ll regret. He shakes Colt’s hand, goes through the usual pleasantries, and explains the basics.
“Rhett’s gonna show you the morning routine. You got questions, you ask him. You got problems, you come to me. We clear?”
“Yes, sir,” Colt says.
Dad leaves us to it, and suddenly it’s just me and Colt standing in the humid morning air with a whole day ahead of us.
“So,” Colt says. “Where do we start?”
“Feed. Then we check the cattle in the south pasture and make sure everyone’s looking healthy. After that, there’s fence work in the east section.”
“Lead the way, boss.”
I head to the feed shed, and he follows. The work’s simple enough—mixing feed, loading wheelbarrows, hauling it out to the troughs.
Colt doesn’t talk much while we work, which I appreciate. He just does what I tell him, asking clarifying questions when needed. He’s not useless. I can tell he’s been around ranches before—knows how to lift properly and how to move around cattle without spooking them.
His dad used to work on the ranch with my dad and Uncle Luke, so some of this has to be inherited knowledge.
We’re in the barn, feeding the horses, when he finally breaks the silence.
“Your brother Dawson’s really into this, huh? The horses.”
“Yeah. It’s his thing.”
“That colt he’s raising—Ollie—he’s got good lines. Gonna be a solid barrel racer if Dawson keeps working with him.”
I glance over. “You know horses?”
Colt shrugs. “Grew up around them. My mom’s a traveling vet, remember? Spent half my childhood in barns.”
Right. I’d forgotten that. Or maybe I never really paid attention back in high school.
“You planning to go into large animal vet work?” I ask, because that’s the polite thing to do.
“That’s the plan. Get my degree, work with my mom for a bit, then maybe set up my own practice somewhere.” He leans against the stall door, watching one of Dawson’s mares. “Probably not here, though. Cedarbrook’s not exactly full of opportunities, with most ranches having their own staff.”
“Could be worse places.”
“You’re right, but could be better ones, too.”
We finish with the horses and head out to check the cattle. The sun’s full up now, beating down without mercy. By the time we reach the south pasture, my shirt’s soaked through and I can feel sweat running down my spine.
Colt stripped down to a tank top at some point, and I’m trying real hard not to notice the ink covering his arms—the way his shoulders move as he climbs the fence to get a better look at the herd.
“How many heads are you running?” he asks.
“About two hundred. Mix of Angus and Hereford.”
“They look good. Healthy.”
