“That’s up to you, Mr. Patterson.”
“Call me Bill, young man. And my son isn’t giving me much choice.”
“As I told your son, this here is your land. If you don’t want to be involved with rough stock, you shouldn’t be.”
“Let’s say I changed my mind. How would you feel about working here?”
Bullet wasn’t sure what to say. As long as he had a job, he didn’t really care where he was working. Being in Black Forest was convenient because he and Grey could stay with Lyric. The drive from her place here would take less than half an hour.
He’d have to give up the place he’d just rented in Crested Butte, but that wouldn’t be hard to do. He hadn’t gotten around to moving much of anything of his into the furnished apartment anyway. What little he owned, he’d packed to bring here, with him and Grey. He could make arrangements to give it up over the phone and send the keys to the property management company. That’s how transient his life was now; he could almost live out of two suitcases.
“The job comes with that place over there,” said Bill, as though he was reading Bullet’s mind. He pointed east, toward a house that sat closer to the road.
“Who lives there now?”
“Nobody’s lived there on a regular basis for years. Dottie keeps it on the ready though. Just in case. It’s the house we lived in when we were first married.”
“My sister has a place in Palmer Lake. Grey and I can stay with her.”
“Nah. Workin’ here means livin’ here. You managed a ranch before?”
Managed? Hell no. How in the world could he manage a ranch, take care of Grey, and get on bulls?
“Son, I asked you a question.”
“No, sir, I haven’t come close. I don’t know what Billy told you, but I’m a ranch hand for Flying R.”
“You think you could learn?”
“I know I could, but…”
“Go on, speak your mind.”
“I got my hands full, Mr. Patterson. I still ain’t figured out how to take care of Grey and hold down a regular job, let alone manage a ranch. I wouldn’t know where to begin.”
“You’d begin by learnin’. You’d be workin’ with me, learnin’ the ropes. For the time bein,’ you’ll only manage the rough stock portion of the ranch. I got a guy who’s been with me a long time, who manages the cattle operation.”
That was some relief. He understood rough stock. It was everything else that gave him pause.
“There’s somethin’ else isn’t there, Bullet?”
“What’s that, sir?”
“Bull ridin’. You’re lookin’ for a trainer, aren’t you?”
“Yes, sir. I am.” Bullet took his hat off and rubbed his forehead. This conversation was giving him a headache.
“Let’s go back to the house. We’ll have a sit down with Dottie and Billy and see what we can figure out.”
“Yes, sir,” Bullet said again.
“My name’s Bill, son. I told you that before. We’re gonna be spendin’ a hell of a lot of time together, and if you keep callin’ me sir, it’s gonna make me uncomfortable.”
“Yes, sir. I mean, Bill.”
There were three hundred photos waiting for Tristan to sort through, and her father had another pile he wanted her to look at.
The one on top was of a bull rider Lost Cowboy sponsored. The photographer had captured him flying through the air, just as the bull bucked him off. Her father had written the words, “It’s not how good you are…it’s how good you want to be,” on a sticky note on the back of the photo along with the digital image reference number.