Page 90 of Cattle Stop

“Socks is my main man.” Cooper stands and wraps Drew in a hug. “As are you. I fucking love you, take care, okay? Don’t sell the place.”

“M’gonna try not to,” Drew says, and Cooper squeezes him tight enough he gives a little oof.

Penny pushes her mouth to the side, a hard look on her face. “Cooper…”

“Look, I got another job, right? So I’ll see you later, gator.”

“Fuck you for leaving,” Penny says.

He pulls her into a tight, long hug. “Love you, crocodile.”

When he lets her go, Whit’s there.

“The cows are all set,” Cooper says. He shoves his hands into his pockets. “And the barn’s ready for evening milking.”

He could stay. Not clear out when Whit’s supposed to be enjoying his day off. Though Whit and Drew balanced the chores of milking and the herd before Cooper ever showed up and they will again. Cooper presses his mouth closed over the offer to stick around for another couple hours. He did that once and here he still is, summer edging onward, and where the hell would it leave him this time? Wandering through a life that doesn’t fit him well into fall?

Besides, it’ll give Whit the joy of one last annoyance if Cooper takes off now. Prove Whit right too, that Cooper can’t plan his life for shit when he packs up and leaves at the drop of a hat. Cooper drags his boot backward through the driveway’s gravel and says, “Bye.”

“Bye,” Whit says softly.

Cooper hesitates, then steps forward. He hugged Drew and Penny. What’s a quick goodbye to Whit, too?

Whit smells good. Feels good too, the hand he touches to Cooper’s back, the strength in his body as Cooper closes his arms quickly, tightly, around him.

Cooper steps back. Jumps up into the cab of his truck and turns the key. Go, he tells himself, or he’s not going to. He’s going to walk right back into Whit’s arms and bury himself there, in that soft skin above the collar of his shirt, the spot on his neck that Cooper’s grown so used to snuggling into.

He checks his gas gauge to keep himself from staring around. Cooper knows what the barnyard looks like, the house with its maple trees, and the shape of the tractors and trucks parked against the barn. One more glance won’t make a difference.

He shifts into second gear as he pulls out. There’s a muddy old tennis ball on the side of the road. Sadie must’ve left it there. That, or someone threw it for her and she never ambled her way over to fetch it. Whit, probably. Cooper works his mouth side to side, pinching it tight enough to nearly hurt.

Take me out to dinner, Whit, Cooper wants to shout from his window. Say stupid, sweet things to me. Want me.

But Whit’s silence, like ever, would answer him back.

Cooper rolls down the window, sticks his hand out to wave goodbye, turns the corner and is gone.

IV

October

Chapter Sixteen

Cooper sets the latch on the gate and steps back. The doe stares at him from the other side of the fence, her head cocked to one side and her long ears pricked up.

“Stay,” he says to the goat, like she’s a dog who knows the command. And like she’d listen, if she did.

Cooper takes a step back. She moves one hoof forward. He’s hungry. And thirsty. And she’s got a feeder full of hay, fresh, clear water, a salt lick, and a dry covered pen full of straw to snooze away the rainy afternoon in, cozy with the rest of her herd. He slowly edges backward.

Rain falls against Cooper’s shoulders and the brim of his hat. The doe scratches at her haunch with her teeth, lips curled back and her neck stretched. She’s still eyeing him, though. Probably trying to lure him into complacency, so that Cooper’ll be back out here tonight, putting up another panel of fencing and coaxing the goat back into her pen while she bleats at him, waking up Cheryl as she prances around the farm, high on the thrill of freedom.

His head hurts. He rubs the heel of his hand against his forehead, but it only smears the dirt coating his palm. He needs a shower. And dinner. And for the damn goat to stay put.

Fuck it. He turns to leave and if she jumps out of her pen as he walks back up the road toward the main house and his cabin tucked against the tree line beside it, the patter of the rain drowns out the tap of her hooves. He can’t see her when he glances back, though whether it’s from the fence he’s reinforced time and again, or that she’s gone on another adventure, he doesn’t know. If she’s gone, she’ll be back when she gets hungry or misses the rest of her herd, elegantly jumping clear over the fence as if to drive home the point that she’ll be going where she wants, when she wants, with no interest in any input from him.

At least the window above his tiny kitchen sink only shows a small slice of lawn and the woods beyond it, gray and dreary in the cold rain that’s falling, and thankfully empty of any wayward goats. There’s still no plaintive bleating as Cooper pulls open the tiny fridge, and he eyes the window again, waiting for her to trot by. When she doesn’t, he pulls out a jug of milk. Cereal for dinner, yet again, since coaxing the stove to light so he can cook for one is just as depressing as sitting at his minuscule table eating soggy Cheerios.

“Cooper?” he hears from outside.