Page 2 of Steal and Starlight

“Five more minutes,” he said finally, his hand stilling on my shoulder.

I didn’t argue. I just closed my eyes and tried to commit everything to memory, the smell of his cologne mixed with sweat and leather, the feeling of his leg beneath my head, the faint sound of the radio playing some country tune I didn’t quite recognize. Five minutes wasn’t much, but I’d take what I could get.

When the time came, we gathered our things slowly, neither of us in any rush. Westley retrieved his hat from the dashboard and settled it back on his head, adjusting it the way he always did. I climbed up from my sprawl across the bench seat, my body already mourning the loss of contact. Westley turned the engine over and headed back across the ranch toward the north pasture.

When we finally arrived, I stepped out into the Texas heat, the cold interior of the truck sucked away into the prairie in an instant. The afternoon sun was brutal, unforgiving. Westley squinted against the glare as we headed toward the corrals where Dale had already started sorting the cattle.

The corrals were already a mess of dust, manure, and noise. Dale had the cattle sorted into smaller groups, and I could see the portable chute set up near the squeeze gate. The earmarking and freeze-branding irons were laid out on a makeshift table, the metal gleaming dull in the afternoon sun.

“About damn time,” Dale called out as we approached, wiping sweat from his brow with the back of his hand. He was a stocky man, built like a barrel, with weathered skin that looked like old leather. He’d been working cattle since before I was born and then some. “We got about two hundred head to tag today. Fall processing waits for no man.”

I nodded, already mentally preparing myself for the work ahead. Tagging cattle was hot, repetitive, and sometimes dangerous. But it was necessary. The tags would mark which animals were destined for the processing plant in the fall, and which ones Westley’s daddy wanted to keep for breeding stock.

“I’ll work the gate,” Westley said, moving toward the corrals without hesitation. He was already rolling up his sleeves, revealing the tan lines on his muscled forearms. They always made my mouth water. “Buttercup, you want to tag or catch?”

I glanced at the squeeze chute, then back at Westley. The heat radiating off the metal was almost visible. “I’ll catch,” I said, pulling on my work gloves. “You’re better with the gate anyway.”

He flashed me that grin again that made me melt, quick and easy, before turning his attention to the work at hand. There was something about watching Westley work that made me smile. He moved with the kind of efficiency that came from a lifetime on a ranch, his body communicating with the cattle in a language I’d spent years trying to learn, but had never mastered. He was a cowboy through and through. I, on the other hand, was only pretending.

Dale handed me a pair of ear tags and the applicator. The metal was hot from sitting in the sun. I took my position near the chute, ready to grab the first animal as it came through.

“Let’s go!” Westley called out, and the work began.

The first steer came through the gate, and I was already moving, my hands steady as I grabbed hold of the animal’s ear. The steer bawled in protest, thrashing against the squeeze of the chute. I pressed the applicator against its ear, felt the slight resistance as the tag punched through, and released. One down.

Two hundred to go.

By the time four o’clock rolled around, I was dirty, sweaty, and bleeding from a small scrape on my forehead from a steer that head-butted me into the fence. Westley looked a bit less disgusting than me, but he wore it well, regardless. The man was beautiful regardless of how dirty he got.

“That’s the last one,” West called as he hopped down from the fence and dusted himself off. He pulled off his hat, wiping the sweat from his forehead before putting it back in place. “You comin’ up to the house for dinner tonight, Buttercup? Dad’s out of town for the weekend, so I figured we could just drink beer and be lazy all weekend.”

“Can’t tonight,” I said regretfully, shaking my head. “I promised Aunt Dolly I’d come down to the diner tonight. She’s been hollerin’ at me all week to come see her. She says I don’t visit her nearly enough.”

“She lives five miles from the ranch.”

“Yeah, I know,” I sighed. “But she’s got that diner to run, and I don’t think her and your daddy get along very well.”

“He don’t get along with nobody.” West glanced over at Dale, who was listening to our entire conversation. “Don’t go repeatin’ that to him, Dale.”

“My lips are sealed,” the old man smiled. He had a soft spot where Westley was concerned. “Even if I did, it wouldn’t be news to him. He knows how he treats folks. Your mama was the only one that could bring out any softness in him.”

“Yeah, well, she’s gone,” West grumbled. “She’s livin’ a better life, god knows where.”

I looked away, not wanting to see the sadness that always crossed Westley’s face when he talked about his mother. She’d left when we were in high school, just packed up and disappeared one day. Westley didn’t like to talk about it, and I’d learned long ago not to push.

“Well, I better head back to the bunkhouse and clean up before I go to the diner,” I said, peeling off my work gloves. The skin underneath was slick with sweat and dirt and cow stank. “Aunt Dolly’s gonna have my hide if I show up looking like I’ve been wrestling cattle all day.”

“You have been wrestling cattle all day,” Westley pointed out.

“Exactly. Which is why she’ll kill me if I don’t shower first.” I tossed my gloves onto the table with the other equipment. “Rain check on the beer?”

“Yeah, alright.” Westley said in that easy drawl of his. “Maybe tomorrow night instead. We could head out to Miller’s Creek if you want. Bring some beers, just us.”

My stomach twisted. Just us. Those words shouldn’t have affected me the way they did, but they always did. I nodded, not trusting my voice to stay steady. “Okay.”

I headed toward the bunkhouse, very aware of Westley watching me go. I could feel his eyes on my back, and I had to force myself not to turn around. If I turned around, I might say something I couldn’t take back. I might tell him the truth.

The walk back to the bunkhouse took only a couple of minutes. It was close to the barns, far enough from the house that it couldn’t be seen through the mesquite trees surrounding the Gilderoy family home that had been there for over a century. I stripped out of my clothes the moment I got into the bathroom, leaving a trail of dust and dirt across the tile floor. The shower was scalding hot, just the way I liked it, and I stood under the spray until the water ran clear, and my skin turned pink.