Taken By The Bull

But, without much of a hiccup in the proceedings he was back at work again, and maybe he’d only stopped to judge whether the post needed a second coat of waterproofing lacquer. Steve Law wasn’t an easy man to get a read on, after all.

“I studied a play at school. By a man called Ibsen, if I remember right.” She ran her fingertips over her hair, making sure it was still in place. “It was just about a woman who took out a loan to help her husband and was worried about what would happen when he found out. Turns out, he’s a jerk and she leaves. That’s all there was to it. But, the way it was written, the things they said – it felt real, like something that was actually happening back in the old days. And I loved that book.”

“’A Doll’s House’.” Steve nodded absently, the brush in his hand veiling the woodwork in long, graceful strokes.

“That’s right!” The moment she exclaimed that, Staci knew how rude it sounded – as if she was praising a slow child for keeping up with his classmates. But really, she was just surprised that he knew what she was talking about. People mostly didn’t. “You like to read, Steve?”

“I love to. Like Nora, I sometimes wonder about how it would feel to get out into the world, and live on my own.” From the corner of her eye, she saw him smiling, as if it were a foolish thought; and he never turned to look back at her. “I’m not about to, though. I need this place, and it needs me.”

“Well, you’re a world-ranked sportsman. Not quite the same thing as a little trophy wife from the nineteenth century.” Staci angled her body so that the microphone could pick up everything he said more clearly. What the hell is keeping Mikey? She wondered vaguely. “You feel attached to the ranch, then?”

“Oh, yeah. My great-grandfather built the house; or rather, built the seed around which the house has grown.”

“Was he a cowboy, too?”

“Not in the sense that you might think of the word – all chasing stagecoaches, and shooting guns in saloons. Early settlers had to make a living and put food on the table, some way. Turns out that herding up the wild cattle that roamed about was just as good a way as any.” That brush-stroke filled in the remaining untreated strip of wood and he took a step back, looking up and down the fence to see if there were any spots that he’d missed. “Our family line goes all the way back to those days.”

“Really?” History had never been one of Staci’s strong points at school; too many dry facts and statistics to absorb and give meaning to. Like taking a bite of a pie that had gone stale in the open air, and trying to chew through pastry that turned to sawdust in the mouth. Standing here though, it was easy to imagine that things didn’t look so different now as they did back in the eighteenth century. The clean air and wide open spaces gave Steve’s words meaning, made it easy to imagine the world he was talking about. “All the way back to the first cowboys?”

“You could say that.” The brush dropped back into the bucket with a gooey kind of splash, and he straightened his back with a sigh, the joints in his shoulders cracking as he rolled and flexed them.

“I did say that.” The corner of Staci’s mouth quirked upwards in a grin; without thinking, she moved to lean on the fence-post, jerking away awkwardly at the last moment as she remembered it was coated in strong-smelling chemical goo.

“Of course, that’s not what anyone called them back then.” If Steve had noticed her almost-slip, he didn’t let on. “’Cow-catchers’ was the common term, on account of them spending their days doing just that. But, it wasn’t just the early settlers, of course. The natives and Spanish settlers threw their hand in, too.” He rubbed the back of his neck, massaging out the ache there with slow motions of his fingers, grimacing. “They called the settlers ‘crackers’, you know.”

“Is that right?” Unable to hide her instinctive distaste at the word Staci’s eyes wandered away, focusing on the far distant horizon as if there was something there that demanded her attention. “That’s where the word came from? I guess, I always thought it was a modern kind of slur.”

“Most things we’d call offensive these days came from old roots.”

Of course, she thought. He’s probably the old-fashioned type. “That doesn’t mean we should just keep on saying it or doing it, though.”

“And a good thing too. There might only be one letter difference between ‘human’ and ‘humane’, but that’s a distinction that seems to slip past most folks.” The sun glinted from the silver watch-strap that circled his wrist as he bent and took up the bucket at his feet. “And that’s one thing that hasn’t changed, not one little bit.”

She opened her mouth to reply, and then closed it again. His response had surprised her, a little. “You’re quite the philosopher, Steve.”

“Ain’t we all, in our own way?”

Whatever answer she was about to give was interrupted as her phone beeped, signaling a received text message and she moved to answer it. It was from Mikey. “Oh, Lord. My camera-man got lost, says he’s standing at some ‘barn-thing’ and doesn’t know where to go.”

“I’m guessing he’s at the South field. Well, it’s a scenic little stroll, that’s for sure.” With a slight grumble he reached and grabbed the bucket, and set off. “Let’s go and rescue the poor boy.”

*****

The sun had moved a little ways off into the sky, signaling the onset of mid afternoon by the time that Steve finished showing the small news crew around the Double Thunders ranch. The tour concluded back at ranch house, where Staci’s journey had began two hours before.

In many ways, there had been little to see; large fenced paddocks and fields where dozens of cattle grazed and lowed, pens where stud bulls watched the intruders with steely dark glares, stone and wood buildings where bedding and feed were stored. Staci didn’t consider it a bust, however; by the end of the trip around the ranch, Steve Law was openly talking about just about anything and everything that came to mind, as if they were all the oldest of friends.

“With the brain tumor running it’s course, there wasn’t much that dad could do for the place any more. So Seth and I were running the place before I was twenty and he was still at high school. It was a damn shame, seeing the old man going downhill like that – but he must’ve told us just about every hour how proud he was of us, and how proud Mom would’ve been if she were still here. That made it all a little easier to bear.”

“I’m awful sorry to hear that, Steve.” As Staci followed him up the porch steps into the house, she noticed how his shirt was beginning to cling to him due to the summer heat; yet, he never even seemed to notice it. She couldn’t say the same; and Mikey seemed about to fold and drop due to the weight of the camera and the equipment backpack, if the hue of his face and streaming brow were anything to go by. “So, you and your brother have been running the show for eight years, now?”

The big guy nodded as he opened the door. It hadn’t been locked. “Going on it, yeah.” The shade of the porch was a hell of a relief; even greater was the promise of cold drinks and a sit-down once they were inside. “It’s second nature to us, now.”

Asking questions was just as second nature to Staci as running the ranch was to Steve. “How did you manage to keep up your training for the PBR while having so much to deal with?”

“I didn’t.” He waved them inside with a lazy gesture of the hand. “I always had a knack for bull-riding. Just about the only ‘training’ I ever did was to hop on the mechanical bull a couple times a week, and to attend the local competitions. Tourist-type events, for the most part – but it made a little money on the side.”

The dark wooden floors creaked comfortably beneath his boot-heels as he led them down the hall and into a wide, airy kitchen-diner. The afternoon light streamed in along with the breeze through wide open windows, and beyond was a small shaded garden overgrown with a riot of blooms in every color imaginable.