between you and Tori anyway? You never said.â
Will cast him a stormy look. âItâs over. Dead and buried. So mind your own cattle.â
Â
In the last two centuries, little about the annual spring roundup on a cattle ranch had changed. Its purpose remained the same: to gather all the cattle that had wintered in sheltered canyon pastures in preparation for moving them to their summer graze on the plain above the Caprock. Once the gather was made, the herd would be sorted, culled, and counted. Pregnant cows and heifers would be separated from the rest, and any calves or yearlings that had been missed the previous fall would be branded, vaccinated, tagged, and, if destined to be steers, castrated. For the cowhands and bosses, that meant long days of backbreaking work, days that could stretch into two weeks, or even longer.
After only three days in the saddle, Beau was sore and bone-weary. Yet, despite the discomfort, he was secretly pleased that he remembered how to cowboy. Admittedly he was a little rusty, but the old skills were coming backâalong with a level of contentment that was rare to him.
Between the clear spring days, the hard physical work, and the easy camaraderie with the cowhands, who werenât above teasing the âdudeâ in their midst, Beau could feel his tightly clenched nerves unwinding. It was as if his whole body had begun to breathe again; he was even sleeping the whole night through without waking up. Truthfully he couldnât remember feeling this at ease with himself in years.
He wasnât about to admit it to his brother, but Beau was enjoying this break from Washington and those long days of sitting behind a desk dealing with stacks of dreary paperwork and harried people who wanted everything yesterday. And the open country around him was a welcome change from that hellish D.C. traffic.
Open was something of a relative term, Beau acknowledged. This particular section of the ranch they were working stretched below the escarpment. It was a veritable maze of gullies, draws, and box canyons. And every inch of it needed to be searched.
In his side vision, he caught a glimpse of rusty red hide. He snapped his head around just as a pair of steers trotted out of view, heading up a brushy side canyon. Touching a spur to the horseâs flank, he reined the gelding after them. Jutting rocks marked the canyonâs entrance. Beau had already ridden past them in pursuit of the cattle before he recognized the distinctive formation that identified his exact location on the ranch. Abruptly he reined his horse to a plunging stop to look around, letting the half-forgotten knowledge come flooding back.
This small arroyo lay along the ranchâs boundary line that butted against Prescottâs land. The canyon itself was Y-shaped, dividing into two branches. He glanced up the left branch, recalling that it ended in a sheltered rock wall where he and Will had gone as boys to view the Indian petroglyphs scattered over its surface, making up their own wild stories as to the meaning of them.
But it was the second branch that claimed the whole of his attention now. Where once a clear stream of water had tumbled down from the rock and spilled to the pool on the canyon floor, now there was nothing but a dry wash, overgrown with scraggly brush and mesquite. Rusty strands of barbed wire blocked the path that had led to the stream. A crudely painted sign hung crookedly from the fenceâs top wire:
NO TRESPASSING
PROPERTY OF PRESCOTT RANCH
Beau glared at the board, surprised that he could still feel the anger of years ago so strongly.
âIt still smarts, doesnât it?â Willâs voice traveled across the stillness.
Turning, Beau discovered that his brother had ridden up to join him. âHow many times did Bull pound in our heads when we were kids that no Tyler ever sold an inch of Rimrock landâthat a Tyler would cut off his roping hand first. That little
Will cast him a stormy look. âItâs over. Dead and buried. So mind your own cattle.â
Â
In the last two centuries, little about the annual spring roundup on a cattle ranch had changed. Its purpose remained the same: to gather all the cattle that had wintered in sheltered canyon pastures in preparation for moving them to their summer graze on the plain above the Caprock. Once the gather was made, the herd would be sorted, culled, and counted. Pregnant cows and heifers would be separated from the rest, and any calves or yearlings that had been missed the previous fall would be branded, vaccinated, tagged, and, if destined to be steers, castrated. For the cowhands and bosses, that meant long days of backbreaking work, days that could stretch into two weeks, or even longer.
After only three days in the saddle, Beau was sore and bone-weary. Yet, despite the discomfort, he was secretly pleased that he remembered how to cowboy. Admittedly he was a little rusty, but the old skills were coming backâalong with a level of contentment that was rare to him.
Between the clear spring days, the hard physical work, and the easy camaraderie with the cowhands, who werenât above teasing the âdudeâ in their midst, Beau could feel his tightly clenched nerves unwinding. It was as if his whole body had begun to breathe again; he was even sleeping the whole night through without waking up. Truthfully he couldnât remember feeling this at ease with himself in years.
He wasnât about to admit it to his brother, but Beau was enjoying this break from Washington and those long days of sitting behind a desk dealing with stacks of dreary paperwork and harried people who wanted everything yesterday. And the open country around him was a welcome change from that hellish D.C. traffic.
Open was something of a relative term, Beau acknowledged. This particular section of the ranch they were working stretched below the escarpment. It was a veritable maze of gullies, draws, and box canyons. And every inch of it needed to be searched.
In his side vision, he caught a glimpse of rusty red hide. He snapped his head around just as a pair of steers trotted out of view, heading up a brushy side canyon. Touching a spur to the horseâs flank, he reined the gelding after them. Jutting rocks marked the canyonâs entrance. Beau had already ridden past them in pursuit of the cattle before he recognized the distinctive formation that identified his exact location on the ranch. Abruptly he reined his horse to a plunging stop to look around, letting the half-forgotten knowledge come flooding back.
This small arroyo lay along the ranchâs boundary line that butted against Prescottâs land. The canyon itself was Y-shaped, dividing into two branches. He glanced up the left branch, recalling that it ended in a sheltered rock wall where he and Will had gone as boys to view the Indian petroglyphs scattered over its surface, making up their own wild stories as to the meaning of them.
But it was the second branch that claimed the whole of his attention now. Where once a clear stream of water had tumbled down from the rock and spilled to the pool on the canyon floor, now there was nothing but a dry wash, overgrown with scraggly brush and mesquite. Rusty strands of barbed wire blocked the path that had led to the stream. A crudely painted sign hung crookedly from the fenceâs top wire:
NO TRESPASSING
PROPERTY OF PRESCOTT RANCH
Beau glared at the board, surprised that he could still feel the anger of years ago so strongly.
âIt still smarts, doesnât it?â Willâs voice traveled across the stillness.
Turning, Beau discovered that his brother had ridden up to join him. âHow many times did Bull pound in our heads when we were kids that no Tyler ever sold an inch of Rimrock landâthat a Tyler would cut off his roping hand first. That little
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