Stripped Down

“I closed gates. You opened them.” I could list her misdemeanors for hours, and not because I hold a grudge—but because there were so goddamned many of them. It’s a miracle she got any sleep. “You drove that car of yours twenty miles an hour over dirt and we all knew you were coming when we saw the road dust. I said: Be home by nine, and you’d drop my brothers off at nine. The next morning.”

“A simple misunderstanding?” She grinned over at him. “Next time, you knew better. You clarified.”

“No games today. You do what I say.”

“Sure thing, boss.” She flicks me a two-fingered salute.

As we jolt down the dirt road, Rose hums along to a country hit playing on my appropriated radio dial. Her taste in music has certainly changed since she was sixteen. I’m not sure it’s improved, though. The song is all heartsick love and loneliness, suiting the sky ahead of us, which is filling up fast with dark clouds. The air is pure tension, and I’ll have a storm on my hands soon enough.

When we reach the trough, the galvanized tank that should hold almost a hundred gallons is as dry as a bone. The pipeline from the source well runs almost a mile to this particular trough. If that well is running dry, too, Mother Nature has just raised the stakes on me.

Grabbing my tool belt from the back of the truck, I wade through the thirsty cattle and swing myself up onto the trough. The inch or so of standing water is barely enough to wet my boots, which explains the cattle’s unhappiness. They’re depending on me to drink, and I’m failing them. I get busy with the wrench, working the valve until the water seeps out grudgingly, flowing just a little faster.

Bottom line? There’s not enough. The pipeline is only delivering maybe five, ten, gallons per minute—far less than I need to keep the trough full. The cattle will drink today, and there may even enough to get the herd through the rest of the summer, but the well is clearly running on empty. Exhibit A is the sluggish trickle from a pump that should flow hard and fast.

Never content to watch, Rose slides out of the truck and wanders over to lean on the railing. Watching.

Her eyes move over the milling cattle and the too-empty trough. “Empty?”

I don’t want to have this conversation right now. Silently, I point the wrench at the too-slow stream of water feeding into the trough.

She frowns, fingernails tapping on the railing. Those nails are bright blue today with teeny-tiny yellow polka dots. Rose loves color. “You checked the pump?”

Better to have a broken pipe or a clogged pump than the truth. I’ve brought three drillers out to the ranch, and they’ve all said the same thing. There wasn’t enough rainfall this last winter, and the aquifer is done. My ranch drained it dry. The change hadn’t happened overnight, but the slow, steady suck—decades of overuse—still spells the end unless I pull the ultimate Hail Mary and strike cheap water.

“Pump’s sucking air.” I give the valve one last, hard twist. Tightening the hardware won’t help, but better to do something than nothing. “Water level’s just too damn low.”

She chews on her lower lip, running through an unseen mental checklist. “You had someone out here to take a look?”

Yeah. And they told me my only hope is the water underneath Rose’s beloved house. Bulldozing those walls means knocking down her dreams, too.

“I’m working on it,” I tell her, not wanting to take everything away from her right now. I’ll call it in. One of the hands can bring the water truck out here and fill her up.”

If I give her more time, will she see the light and decide to sell? I shoot her a sidelong glance. In addition to the tattoo that runs down her spine, she’s got tattoos inside her wrists and another, smaller tattoo twined around her ankle. She seems to be all about the flowers and bold swirls of ink. They’re fucking gorgeous, bursting with color and life.

“I don’t know how you lost that contest. The other guy had nothing on you.” Shit. My voice sounds gruff.

“You watched?” She sounds surprised.

“Every episode.” I give the equipment another once-over. The other guy had nothing on her.

“I want to open my tattoo shop here,” she says eagerly.

“Right here?” I say dryly. I love my ranch and have nothing but fucking appreciation for my herd, but it’s not where you’d head to get a tattoo done.

She punches me on the arm. “Don’t be so literal. The plan’s to do it in Auntie Dee’s house. Rory’s going to be my right-hand guy, and we’re going to give the best ink in the state.”

“Thought you might prefer somewhere busier,” I say.