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Brushed Up

The difference between worry and reality

By Kelli RichersonPublished 3 years ago Updated 3 years ago 12 min read
2
Trailing a bull through rough country below the caprock

She did her best to not check the clock, but she knew it was well past lunch time. With the babies laid down to nap, she did the dishes, swapped the laundry, picked up toys, and watched out the window. She usually enjoyed this sacred hour of solitude, as any momma does. But today, the silence and solitude seemed to amplify the ticking of the mantle clock and her losing battle with panic.

Six years of marriage had taught her that being a ranch wife came with more than the typical compromises expected of newlyweds. In addition to a crash course in cohabitation, she had to get tougher. Grow some thicker skin, as he said. She learned that delicate, fancy things gets soiled by muddy boots or broken in frequent moves, and not on purpose. She learned that 46 miles from the nearest town meant that lives literally depended on her being tough enough to keep her composure, hold down lunch, and fight back tears in times of need. She learned to shoot coyotes and rattlesnakes, drive a feed truck, break ice, sew up a prolapsed cow, build fence, pull a windmill, and put down a beloved, but suffering horse. She learned early that a cowboy's life doesn't run on a time clock--the job takes as long as it takes. Cattle don't know, or care, that its Christmas, Saturday, or your mom's birthday. She learned that daily life on a ranch is littered with dangers and hazards of all magnitude. And if that wasn't bad enough, many of the worst hazards came part & partial with the aspects of this life he loved most.

Just like today. By daylight he was already dressed and headed out to catch a horse. In fact, the sound of his spurs as he pulled on his boots in the mudroom was what awakened her. She grabbed her robe and went to the kitchen for a cup of coffee, then again heard the familiar sound of spurs. Half awake, her heart still skipped a beat when she turned to see him looking so unassumingly handsome. His was a handsomeness, no matter how hard they tried, that couldn't be emulated by actors and models.

"Mornin" he said as he joined her at the coffee maker, "I was trying to let you sleep. I figured I would go push that damn bull up to the pens before it gets too hot today."

She blinked and sipped coffee, still clearing sleepy cobwebs from her mind. "Who's gonna help you?"

He feigned a look of shocked insult. "If I cant drive one bull to the pens without hiring day help then I guess we should just move to town & maybe I can sack groceries. I'll be back whenever I get him in the pens, I love you." He smiled & kissed her forehead and walked out the back door to the saddle house.

From the front porch she watched him smooch his horse into a long trot until he reached the rim of the caprock. From there he would navigate a trail that had been used to navigate that inhospitable shelf for hundreds of years. Puerto de los Rivajenos, one of the only gateways between the Llano Estacado and Santa Fe, had been traveled by Comanches, Comancheros, Charles Goodnight, XIT Cowboys, US Calvary troops, Texas Rangers, and and untold host of horse thieves, law men, and settlers, both hopeful and hopeless. The canyons and cliffs of the caprock were a sanctuary to some, doom to others. Atop one mesa was the lonely grave of a settler's child whose name has been erased by time was only accompanied by the scattered ashes and boots the most recent owner of the ranch. It was a tough land and required the people to be tougher, but to cattle, it was perfect.

Before the babies were born, she usually accompanied him, either horseback or in the cake wagon. The days often spanned from daylight to after dark and she often felt woefully ill-equipped for the job, but those were sweet times for both of them. Those days also gave her a clear view of all the dangers he accepted, no, welcomed as part of his work. Although she lacked many helpful skills, she developed an odd notion that her presence was some sort of protection. She reasoned that could at least get help if some accident occurred. So when she took the role of motherhood, her knowledge of all the possible danger he faced out there alone gripped her heart with fear. Without her there to watch and warn of dangers, she imagined him lying injured and alone, while went about her day, blissfully ignorant. Sometimes it was so upsetting that she did little more than watch and worry until he was back in her protective sight.

Then she learned that her concerns for his safety were not appreciated. At all. "You need to stop worrying so much! If you don't hear from me it means I'm fine! There was no need to call search & rescue just because I didn't get here to eat a damn sandwich!" he snapped at her once when she called the neighbor to see after him because he was overdue to return. Hot tears of shame filled her eyes and the sting of embarrassment flushed her cheeks. She didn't bother pointing out the absurdity of his reasoning or that there was no cell phone signal on most of the ranch.

"I was afraid you had gotten hurt, sorry for being concerned, I was just worried about you" she sniffled. Since then, there had been many times she had to force herself not to imagine the worst. She kept herself busy around the house and with the babies. She got tougher. But today was testing her mettle.

By now it was hot outside and the inside of the old ranch house wasn't too much better. The swamp cooler with its slightly off balance motor made a rhythmic thump but at least it drowned out the ticking clock. The babies woke up fussy, with damp curls plastered to their temples. The locusts outside started their afternoon ode to the Texas heat.

This was the time of day he had planned to avoid and she knew it wasnt for his own comfort. Moving bulls requires more patience than skill, but plenty of both. Push them too hard and they can turn back on you, hooking your horse or knocking you both to the ground. Give them too much space and they run off. Get them too hot and they will brush up, meaning they find shade, lay down, and refuse to go further. Even if he doesn't lay down, that 2500lb bellering bastard can turn into a ninja in the brush. He can crash thru mesquites, cedars and scrub oak with the agility of a deer. Or he can stand so still and quiet that you can ride right past him and never see him. Nobody likes riding thru brush, getting slapped by limbs and poked with mesquite thorns, especially when you know its a futile effort so most usually elect to call it a day and catch the bull another time. It doesn't take but a couple incidents like that to spoil a bull to where anytime he sees a cowboy coming his direction he breaks for the brush.

By the time the afternoon shadows had cooled the front porch, she put the baby in her swing and pretended to watch their son and pup playing in the grass but her eyes kept scanning the horizon. The locusts had wrapped up their concert for the day so she listened for the familiar sound of a bull announcing his presence, or the horses nickering a greeting from the pens. Fear was turning to panic now. So many scenarios swirled in her mind, and none of them explained why he had not yet returned, with or without the bull. Then in the distance she heard a diesel pickup approaching.

"PawPaw!" their boy shrieked in delight and ran to greet the pickup.

Forcing a weak smile, she tried to gain composure before her father-in-law opened the front gate, but before he could finish saying, "Where's...." she blurted out through sobs that "he left this morning around 5:00 to bring a bull from the bottom pasture before it got too hot and then he didn't come home for lunch even after it was way too hot to move a bull and now its almost time to get supper started and he still aint home but he told me that he would be fine and that I better never call anyone to come find him like that again but what if something happened his horse could have slipped or run off or that bull could have hooked him I just cant stand the thought of him out there hurt!"

It all tumbled out in one long sentence that ended in a wail that started the baby crying. She picked her up from the swing and unsuccessfully tried to console her. Her boy, who wasn't used to seeing his momma cry, started wailing as well. Seeing his son's family all huddled there crying on the porch bewildered her father-in-law. Emotions in general spooked him, so he just said he would be back. Great, she thought. Why would I expect him to be helpful right now? The SOB probably thinks tears are contagious and fatal.

But instead of backing out of the driveway, he turned toward the grass trap gate and went thru, bouncing the pickup across the pasture toward the caprock. The very minute she decided he had run out of chances, was the same moment she understood and loved him despite his fear of all things tender or soft. He was a tough ol bastard, no doubt, and he had passed a wide streak of that on to his boy. In a world lousy with chivalrous, sensitive princes to offer a lady their handkerchief and commiserate her worries it was easy to overlook the value of the tough, quiet men who still felt every intense emotion but held them in the depths of his spirit for the sake of those who could not. They were the steady men that were accused of being hard and cold, but showed their love by action.

He had driven out to see why his son hadn't shown up after lunch to help him today, thinking he would give him a little ribbing about forgetting. Normally, he would have shrugged off coming in late, it happens out here. But after hearing how long he'd been gone, he decided it wouldn't hurt to go see what was going on down there.

That trail wasn't built for pickups and the descent was a pretty rough, but the closer he got to the bottom, the slower he drove. What if he didn't want to find what awaited down there? He wished he would have never started down this trail but there was no turning back now. Literally. He reached the bottom and saw tracks headed northeast toward the big dirt tank. He followed them and honked the horn hoping for some reply. Anything. Please.

He saw the bull first, then he spotted the horse near the trees. Oh God. No rider. No. No. No. The bull heard the pickup horn and started lumbering toward him, thinking it was feeding time. When the horse started to follow, he moved like a crippled horse, hopping in the front. Had they fallen in a hole and flipped end over end? Did the bull knock them down? He drove faster, the whole time repeating no, no, no. Please no. He couldn't remember the last time he prayed before now, and hoped God could hear him now.

When he got closer he could see his boy's crippled horse was no longer saddled. A damn good sign. That meant his boy was able to unsaddle him. A bit of hope was restored.

Then he got close enough to see that the horse wasn't crippled at all. He was hobbled! His relief came out as a chuckle. But where was his boy and why the hell did he unsaddle and hobble his horse down here, halfway home?

He heard the whistle and then saw him. As he got closer he could hear him hollering, "Damn you, come here!"

"I got here as fast as I could, no need to cuss me" His boy smiled and said, "I meant the horse. What are you doing down here?"

"You tell me first, but after we get this bull up top, so catch your horse"

Judging from his little family's response, you'd have thought he just came home from the war. His dad stayed for supper and he explained what took him so long.

Everything had gone as planned that morning. He had found the bull on the far back side of the pasture and got the jump on him before he could take off into the trees. Despite slow travelling and a few zigs and zags they were headed in the general direction he needed to go. But right there by the dirt tank, the bull decided he had gone far enough. After two or three attempts to make him travel on, the bull got on the fight and was about to run off or run them over.

"Anyone with any sense knows you can't win that battle and I'd be damned if I was going to let him get away again. So I unsaddled my horse and took a little siesta in the shade and let the bull do the same. I figured when he got up that he was ready to travel again. Then I heard the horn honking and there was dad bouncing across the pasture toward me."

She smacked him on the shoulder, "You were asleep?!?!? I was up here thinking you were dead and you were down there taking a nap!?!?! I was worried sick!" She wondered if she would ever get accustomed to being a ranch wife.

"And that's why I told you not to worry. Your worries had me written off as dead and all I was doing was taking a nap with a lazy bull. Your head gets so tangled up in fear til you can't do a thing but worry. Kinda like fighting a brushed up bull--he aint going nowhere til he chooses and doing anything more is just wearing yourself out"

She was about to point out the absurdity of his logic, but then he smiled that unassumingly handsome smile. Without a doubt, being a ranch wife was a challenging task, but it had its perks too.

Short Story
2

About the Creator

Kelli Richerson

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