So, giddy at their apparent good fortune, Trevor and Chassie had scheduled an appointment with the family banker to discuss their options. But the banker’s news wasn’t good. Although Chassie owned the West ranch land outright, she had no credit history. Same went for Trevor because he’d spent years living hand-to-mouth on the rodeo circuit.
The banker did present an option. Because they were otherwise debt free, if they could come up with ten percent of the purchase price as a cash down payment, the bank would be willing to lend them the remainder.
Not the answer they’d hoped for, but one which showed the banker’s faith in their ability to procure the funds. A totally misplaced faith since the couple was strapped for cash and living on next to nothing as it was.
If they didn’t assure Gus Dutton they could meet his price, Gus would offer the parcel to the other neighbors whose land bordered his on his south end—the McKays.
Her cousins already owned most of four Wyoming counties. For the first time in her life she understood her father’s resentment toward the ranching family. If the McKays got their hands on Dutton’s land it’d feel like encroachment, whereas if she and Trevor bought Dutton’s land, it would feel like progress, despite either way they ended up with the McKays as neighbors.
Neither she nor Trevor owned anything worth anything. No antiques, or jewelry or heirlooms. Their pickups were running on baling twine and prayers. The farm equipment was ancient. They could sell off a couple bulls, a couple horses and it still wouldn’t put a dent in the kind of cash they needed to come up with.
The financial situation weighed on Trevor, making him feel like he couldn’t provide for her. He’d considered asking his dad to loan them money, but Chassie would rather lose out on the land than have Trevor beholden in any way to his father.
Which put them back at square one; dreams without the resources to realize them. So when that pensive look settled on her husband’s handsome face, she didn’t push.
The passenger’s door slammed and Edgard climbed in, startling Chassie out of her brooding, as “cake”—feed pellets for the cattle—filled the metal bin in the truck bed.
“Hey, aren’t you supposed to be checkin’ on the repair status of your truck?”
“Yep. It’s not done.”
“I’m not surprised. Does Trevor know you aren’t in the house twiddling your thumbs?”
“No. I beat feet past the machine shed where he’s wrenching on some piece of metal and cussing like a truck driver. I’m here, I might as well help out. I like helping out.
Actually, I miss doin’ the work.”
“Consider yourself the official gate-opener again,” Chassie said, shifting the truck into first gear. “It’ll be nice to have your company.” As Trevor had all but ignored Edgard in the last few days, Edgard had taken to riding along with her in the morning and hanging out with her in the house in the afternoons. They’d had some damn interesting conversations.
After they’d passed through the first gate and pasture, she said, “Tell me more about your ranch in Brazil. Is it a family operation?”
Edgard pushed his hat back with a gloved hand. “No. I bought it with my rodeo earnings. It was close to my mother and stepfather’s place.”
“Was?”
“Is. Translation error.”
The truth? Or just a way to cover up the slip?
“Anyway, it’s small compared to the wide open spaces in Wyoming, only about two hundred acres.”
“How many cattle can you run on a spread that size?”
“I had three hundred head.”
Again with the past tense. “That’s a lot of cattle on not a huge acreage.”
“There’s a lot of rain, which means a lot of vegetation, so there’s plenty of feed. I’ll admit our cows are smaller and leaner than the ones I see here.”
The herd swarmed the truck, recognizing the sound of food. Chassie pulled the cord on the hopper and the cake dropped to the ground beneath them as they putzed along.
“I know it’s crass to ask, but how many head are you and Trevor running?”
“Four hundred. We got an eighty percent pregnancy rate with breeding in early summer, so we’re crossing our fingers for the birth survival rate to be around that same percentage. Even counting the heifers.”
“Universal truth that they’re notoriously paranoid first time mothers, eh?”
She smiled. “Must be. So bein’ so far south, do you calve around the same time of year?”
“Yep.”
“And you aren’t there to help out?”
He angled his head toward the window. “This place is beautiful. So different from the jungle.”
Chassie let the blatant subject change pass as they bumped over the rutted tracks. Her gaze caught on a moving object three hundred feet down the fence line. She snagged the binoculars from the middle of the seat and focused on the sagebrush. Not more than thirty seconds passed and she saw it move again.
“Shit!”
“What do you see?”
“A goddamn coyote.” She eased the truck into a half circle for a better view. She shoved the stick into neutral and pushed the emergency brake to the floor. Carefully, she reached for her “varmint rifle” on the gun rack behind her. No need to dig for ammo because it was already fully loaded.
“You gonna shoot it?”
“Yep.” Chassie didn’t bother to look at Edgard when she said, “Got a problem with that?”
“No. We have our share of predators in Brazil.”
“The Wiley Coyote, Bambi lovin’, PETA members don’t understand why I’d wanna kill a cute, fluffy little animal who’s only actin’ on instinct. After livin’ on this land my entire life, I know those beasts are licking their chops for a cow to fall behind so they can attack it. Gets worse when we start calvin’. If it comes down to my livelihood or a coyote’s, it’s my instinct to remind those scavengers I’m at the top of the food chain for a reason.”
“Can’t argue with that logic.”
With the window rolled down, she poked the barrel out the window and trained her sight on the bushes. “Come on out,” she taunted. “It’ll only hurt a little bit.”
Edgard chuckled.
A reddish-gold face broke through the underbrush and Chassie fired. The animal jerked and ran. She ignored the slight ringing in her ears and fired again. The coyote dropped beyond the rise. “Hah!”