The Ranch (closed)

[salty_sailor]

The shovel full of yellow mud landed on top of the coffin lid with a wet thump, resounding hollowly and then the thick clay began oozing across the pine boards, settling into a gelatinous puddle. Squelching boots and shussh of shovels in wet soil contributed to the sound of water hammering the ground around them an bouncing off umbrellas. Several more lumps of mud landed atop the first as more hands set about filling the hole.

Hank found it somehow fitting as he helped to cover up Clay with shovel-fulls of his namesake. Someone had had the foresight to conjure the earth on the old bastard's name day and at his burial. Dust to dust, right? Hank smiled ruefully, rain dripping off the brim of his hat, falling past his eyes, onto his shoulders and back.

Phyllis, the widow, had done the honorable, staying stoic and silent all throughout the proceedings. Hank respected her for it. She went through so much trouble in order to not be any fuss for anybody else. She was a good woman, friend to Hank's daddy before he had passed on, god rest his soul. If he hadn't of stopped her, she would have been out in the high country rain digging the hole herself. She didn't even blink or let her lip quiver when they'd said the words. She kept her face tranquil throughout. In fact, Hank wouldn't be surprised if Clay's passing came as a relief to her. He'd been sick, real sick lately and Phyllis had already begun the process of getting on. It was Hank who'd made the calls, gotten the family together, driving and riding down from their little corner of Montana that cool, late summer day. If she'd had her way it probably would have been just the three of them there that day, Clay and Phyllis and Hank. It had been the three of them for so long. Yep, she was a good woman.

Like most folks around these parts she just wanted to be left to herself. She'd dig her own grave someday, Hank was sure of it. Their family had come to the valley later than his, but they'd found it much the same. Likewise her family had come here much earlier than some. And likely they thought the same thing of newcomers as he did: upstarts. So it was that Phyllis and Hank both held their tongue and gritted their teeth as Sally and her husband pulled in. The husband, well, he about typified upstarts...if you looked 'em up in a dictionary, there'd be his photo.

Hank had been splitting wood, sending shards of alder spinning away with each stroke of the axe when they'd come by, horse trailer in tow. The trailer came as a bit of a surprise and Hank had done what he could to see they were appropriately stabled. Turns out, Sally and her man were planning to stay a while. Turns out Phyllis needed some looking after. Turns out that Phyllis had other notions about the concept.

As if it wasn't hassle enough to put a husband in the ground, here was Sally and the upstart telling Phyllis they were going to take care of things from here on out. Sufficed to say, that went over just swell. It was going to be an interesting season around the ranch.

When there was a mound of earth piled up, down by the wash, a carved stone marking it's head, Hank finally got around to saying goodby to Clay. It was nothing much, but it was enough in his way. He figured what better way to keep a man in your thoughts than to keep on after him and maintain what he helped build. They would all go inside, they'd huddle around the woodstove, trying to dry out their sodden clothes. There would be beer and crying. There would be stories and songs. Folks would still be talking about the second great war, and they'd sit around listening to the fire crackling.

After it all wound down and some light started to fade from the sky, Hank went out to the barn and saddled up his mount. He checked the other horses before he lead his own out into the dusk. He hardly had to look around him at all as the quarterhorse knew the path home as well as he did. Together they wound down the hill to the ancient cabin set among cottonwoods. Taking the saddle from his animal he checked the hay and went inside to light his own fire, letting the pieces fall where they may.

 

[hereiam_1971]

Sally stood across the open grave, watching the group of men take turns throwing the heavy wet soil on top of the coffin that contained her father. Tears streamed down her face, and she felt her husband, Mark’s arm squeeze her as the hollow thumps boomed from the rectangular hole. She looked to her left, at her mother who was staring stoically at the pine box; watching as it slowly was covered with earth.

As another shovel thumped onto the wooden lid, Sally’s eyes followed the reverse of its arc, and there standing on the edge next to the pile of earth stood Hank. She felt her heart began to beat as old feelings from ten years ago began to well up inside of her. He had been her first crush, her first fantasy and seemingly from nowhere she felt as if she was back in time.

He was still rugged and handsome, though a bit older, but then again so was she. His hair was now tinged with grey, but the way he easily, almost lazily moved shovelfuls of the muddy clay from the pile to the grave showed that age had not affected him physically, not nearly as much as it had her father. She continued to watch him, her mother’s tears and her husband’s condolences now lost to her.

Lost in thought, she was brought back to the present by a sharp tug on her arm. Her mother had turned away from the gravesite and was moving to the long line of automobiles that were parked on the grassy road that wound its way between the graves. Mark hurried past them, opening to rear door of the black Plymouth sedan that was parked behind the hearse.

Sally almost grimaced as she watched her husband cater to her mother. She suspected that the side that Mark was showing to her mother, came not from true sorrow at her mother’s loss, but more as a way to wiggle his way into her good graces. She had met Mark at the height of World War II, he had been a supply sergeant who worked at the hospital where she had. Despite the warnings whispered to her by the other nurses, she had fell under his charms; even after discovering for herself that he spent more of his time avoiding his duties than performing them. After the war, and when they settled in New York City, she refused to acknowledge his shortcoming, even though he could not seem to hold a job, at least for the first few years of their marriage.

Eventually she had become disillusioned with their life, she was able to find employment as a nurse as the moved around the east coast, but none of his schemes seemed to ever pan out. She often suspected him of cheating; coming home late, making excuses as to his whereabouts, and even the quality of his so called friends. At the same time, he had become cold and distant, his lies and deceits even more blatant, and she had become fearful, his temper was no longer being kept in check; so she found herself covering more and more for the other girls on her shifts, avoiding coming home until she knew he would be gone.

Then the news came that her father had died, leaving her mother to run the prosperous ranch, where she had been raised. Even through her grief, she could see Mark’s mind working, trying to figure out how he could gain. On the train ride west, he had quizzed her about the workings of the ranch, how resourceful it was, and she knew how he could turn it into his own profit with the least amount of work. She had been unable to answer his questions; her own experiences with the ranch had been years ago when she was a little girl, and since leaving home at eighteen had only visited her parents a couple of times.

Mark closed the door after her mother was situated in the seat. He gave her a strange look over the top of the car as he walked around to the driver’s side. Sally opened the door, but before stepping in she glanced back to the grave site, and saw that Hank was standing, motionless, the shovel upright in his left hand. Across the divide, their eyes locked for just a moment, and again the old feelings for him came back. Though this time it wasn’t the feelings of a little girl with a crazy crush on an older man, instead she felt something stir inside her.

A shrill voice came from a group of mourners who had followed the widows lead, and started back to their automobiles. “Sally,” the voice trilled, “Sally, don’t forget the luncheon is at the First Baptist Church, make sure you mother gets there.”

“Yes Mrs. McPherson,” Sally called back, recognizing the voice almost instantly. It was hard to forget the voices of these busy bodies, who seemed to live for weddings, funerals, livestock auctions and any other large gathering where they could put on a luncheon.

She quickly glanced back, looking to see if Hank was still looking her direction. He was back to work, the men shoveling the soil over her father’s body now working with abandon, no longer pacing themselves for the grieving families benefit. Sliding into the passenger seat, she looked her shoulder and saw her mother staring out the window to the group of four men finishing their task. There were tears in her eyes, and Sally reached back over the seat to pat her mother on the shoulder.

She heard Mark grind the shifter into gear, and they took off. She gave him directions to the church where the luncheon was to be held, After speaking to her husband, she turned her head to stare out the window.

The countryside was exactly as she remembered, green and lush. It was part of America’s breadbasket, and her father had benefited from it. As they drove on, she realized that every memory she was having of her father also included Hank; several memories stuck in her mind. At five, learning to ride a horse, both men were there; her father, his attitude very demanding and Hank not unkindly pulling her to her feet after falling off. She also remembered a formal when she was in school, her parents standing in the doorway as her beau took her by the arm to her car, and there, next to the barn stood Hank as well, watching as the couple drove off. She remembered wishing that it had been him guiding her to the car instead of the young man.

All to soon her memories were interrupted as the pulled up in front of the simple country church. Several cars were already parked on the grassy lot as then pulled up close to the front of the church. Outside stood Father Williams, the priest who had presided over her father’s wake and funeral. Almost before the car came to a halt, the portly priest was opening her mother’s door and escorting her into the basement fellowship hall. Sally watched as her husband quickly followed, trying to insinuate himself with the people that she had known a decade ago, but were now strangers.

Sally waited, her eyes following the road, back the way they had come. She silently prayed that Hank would come to the luncheon; he was after all the closest person to a friend her father had had. ‘And,’ she thought, ‘I want to see him again.’

 

[salty_sailor]

Hank had known Roger for almost as long as he could remember, come on as a ranch hand, back when Roger was just then himself trying to make a go of the farm having taken it over from his parents. Hank must have been 18 maybe when he moved to the valley. He alway drifted from place to place, but had always managed to fun his way back to this little corner of the world. So when Roger had offered him work, real work...the kind that meant he didn't have to go hunting for work next season, the kind as meant the he wouldn't have to safe for the winter, the kind that meant he could have his own little corner of the ranch to call his own...well he leapt after it. Wasn't too long before he moved into the little cabin by the creek and started calling that home.

It was odd having all the folks around that day. Hank hadn't thought Roger had been so popular, but then he had an awful big family. Soon though things would settle back down. Or would they really? That was something he was going to have to ponder.

He reached into the cupboard beside the stove and pulled down a bottle if whiskey, stared at the label for a moment before pulling out the stopper and pouring a healthy dose. Sally was back around, the cute little thin he'd watch grow up, teach to ride a horse and split logs, and then sent away for school, the war, and work. Now it seemed she was fixed to stay back around. Or perhaps her husband was anyhow. He had a hungry look about him. But her, Hank hardly recognized her anymore. She'd really grown into a fine young woman in her time away. Nt that she wasn't before...but she was simply more so. And he had read that of her in their brief encounter at the funeral.

He was staring out through the window, glass in one hand, and watching the cottonwoods toss in the wind. Would she want to keep him on? Would things be tossed into turmoil. Phyllis he knew could be counted on to back him. Hank had just become too damn useful around the place. Perhaps the young folks could be made to see that he could just be pitched out.

Her husband though, he was a loose canon. He was the one who warranted keeping an eye on. There was some new writing on the wall. He had to think about the future, but perhaps that would keep til tomorrow. Tomorrow too is when he'd go say goodbye to Roger, let him know he'd be missed.

 

[hereiam_1971]

Sally sat with her mother at the one of the long tables in the basement of the church. The country luncheon was in full swing; church functions, weddings, and funerals seemed to be the one way for much of the community to come together. As the family of the deceased it was their turn to be the center of attention as mourners quietly gave their condolences and reminiscences of her father’s life. Her father had not been a particularly kind man, but he definitely had made his mark on the countryside.

Throughout the noon hour, she continued to turn to the stairs each time she heard the door to the outside open, but the one person she expect; no hoped to appear never materialized. She was not surprised that Hank did not make an appearance. Even with the proprietor being laid to rest, the ranch had to be taken care of. Besides, she had heard Hanks, and her fathers, views on the church her whole adolescence; neither man was particularly God fearing. Hopefully her mother’s piousness was enough to provide the old man entry into heaven.

Finally the event ended and for probably the first time in her life, her mother wasn’t part of the cleanup contingency. Sally knew the customs, and knew that if she and Mark remained in the town she would become part of them. Again, Mark was chivalrous, helping her mother into the Plymouth. She knew her mother was aware of Marks dispositions; in fact her father had once told her that “I’ll kill that son-of-a-bitch if you bring him around.” She was grateful that unlike many of her friends who had found themselves in unhappy marriages, her parents had not chosen the husbands side.

They drove slowly down the main street and she could see Mark eyeing the tavern. She wondered how long it would be before he found a reason to return and investigate the dingy building firsthand. She also wondered how long it would be before she received a call from the sheriff to either get her husband out of jail or out of the dirty alley that ran behind the establishment. People didn't suffer fools lightly and a man’s worth was often judged by his mettle. Her husband had a lot of the former and very little of the later. She figured less than a week.

Silence pervaded the car as they drove west on the dusty rural road that led to the ranch. Sally’s family had first settled along the Loop River in the 1840’s and had little by little built up the ranch. It was one of the largest in the county, covering thousands of prime grazing land sustaining thousands of Angus cattle. Still her parents had lived modestly, though she knew that there was money being made. She also knew she had to convince her mother not to let her own husband have any part in the business of the ranch.

When they arrived, she helped her mother into the kitchen, and put a pot of water on the stove to boil. She and Mark had only just arrived the night before and Sally gazed out the kitchen window across the garden her mother kept to the barn and stables. Not much had changed since her last visit; a new coat of whitewash on the picket fence that bordered the garden and some new tin corn bins out past the barn. She looked to the north, trying to see the small cottages where the married ranch hands lived; her mother had told her there were now three families, residing on the property, but a row of oaks blocked her view.

She also knew that behind the cottages was the bunk house, where the single cowboys still maintained residence. Hank had his own cottage, along a small pond behind where the bins now stood. Her father had actually given him the small acreage some years ago, but it was maintained by the ranches finances.

The water quickly came to a boil and Sally poured her mother a cup of tea. AS she poured the hot water into her mother’s china cup, she said. “I’m going down to the barn; I would like to see what changes Daddy made.”

Her mother nodded absently as she dropped the tea ball into the steaming cup, letting the tea steep. Sally walked past her mother and down the hall, bobbing into the drawing room to see her husband sprawled out on the couch, his hat over his eyes and loud snores emanating from his nose. Walking down the hallway she stopped to grab her coat and as she turned saw herself in the large hallway mirror.

She sometimes didn’t recognize the woman who stared back at her. She often felt exhausted from work and then the requirement to fulfill her wifely duties to a man that often never left the house. Long wavy red hair cascaded down the shoulders of the woman in the mirror. She had almost emerald green eyes, which sparkled even though the skin under them seemed to be baggy with worry and sorrow. Even with the blemishes she was pretty; an upturned nose covered in freckles, which time in the morning sun had already brought out. She was dressed in a simple black dress, which was tight across the bodice, her breasts pushing back against the material, and black stockings and plain pumps adorned her feet.

She picked up a sweater from the hook where she had left it when they entered the house and stepped out onto the veranda. The front of the house faced the road and she stepped down onto a brick path which ran to the north side of the building. As she passed through the garden, she wished she had changed her shoes; something more sensible for treading through the barnyard. Letting herself through the gate, she now crossed rough terrain; marred by dried mud, animals and some of the new equipment her father had bought. Navigating her way through the landscape she stopped in front of the doors to the barn and looked through the spaces left by the corn bins to where she could see Hank’s little cottage, nestled in the trees by the small pond.

 

[salty_sailor]

The rain was still slashing down and the afternoon was slowly passing. With the low angle of the sun, westering in the sky, it wouldn't be long before sundown. Hank would have some chores to do before dusk. Checking feed and water was something that was not going to stop just because they'd put a man in the ground that day. He knew the herd would be just fine, and that it would take considerably more weather than this to make them come sniffing around the barn. The horses on the other hand, the chickens and ducks, would all need attending to before he could call it a night.

It had the feeling that this would be a cold night, despite the time of year, and Hank would not be surprised to see frost on the ground come morning. He went to the woodstove, using stick from the box beside it to knock the hot handle aside and draw the door open. He pulled a few pieces of log from the bin and tossed them into the hungry mouth of the stove. He left it open, watching as the quarters of Aspen caught fire and started to throw off steam. He inhaled deeply the scent of fire that was emanating from the stove and then shut the hatch, adjusting the dampers when he did.

He went back to his window, staring out into the evening. His glass had been emptied, refilled and emptied again, or was there another 'again' in there? Hank wasn't entirely sure. All the cars had returned from town and from the luncheon at church; a place that he was so rarely seen, he had to even question his welcome there. It had been so long. Hopefully though Phyllis and the rest of them had found some solace in one another's company, even if he was one who would not in such a place as that. A he stared up the hill and across the pastures to the barn and storage bins, and the house beyond, he saw that many we departed, their cars heading off into the evening one by one. Soon, and finally, they were all gone, and the warmth of the heater was beating back the cool that had earlier settled into the room. As he watched, he was a little surprised to see someone he didn't recognize walking into the barn.

Now he knew nearly everyone else by sight, least of all everyone who had any right to be in the barn, so it was a little unerving not to recognize the profile of the woman who was heading in through the big open bays. Hank finished off his glass, turning it upside down, empty on the counter beside the basin, setting it down with perhaps a little more force than was absolutely necessary. 'No time like the present' is the thought that passed through his mind as he figured he go out to tend to the animals. And to chase off whoever was traipsing around the place like that. On the rough bench inside the door, he sat to pull on his boots.

 

[hereiam_1971]

Sally stopped, staring at the cabin as if willing Hank to appear from the small tidy building. She saw no signs of movement or even of habitation. After a moment of watching the structure, she turned away and carefully made her way through the mud into the barn. Sliding one of the heavy doors open enough for her to slip in, she entered the building.

The interior of the barn was dim and Sally found herself hesitating in the doorway as her eyes adjusted to the lack of light. As she waited she drew in a breath, the scents she remember from childhood; the smell of hay, horses, and horseshit permeated her nose, but instead of disgusting her, memories of tending her horses, helping her father and some of the hired hands do chores, and Hanks hands on her butt as he help to hoist her up the broken ladder to the hayloft.

Her eyes went to the ladder, no longer broken, but the passage of time had turned the replaced wooden two by fours from the light brown she remembered to a duller gray. Her eyes took in the length of the structure, paddocks of horses on her right, the feed room, tack room, and a small office on her left. She knew that she would know none of the animals stabled in the buildings; her father wasted no space on old and decrepit animals, the horses she had grown up with would probably long ago been sold off or buried somewhere out on the range.

The space was incredibly neat; she had always been surprised at Hank’s insistence on order. He had drilled into over and over his mantra “a place for everything and everything in its place”. She knew he was the one who actually made the ranch run, her father was the thinker and Hank had been the doer; they had complemented each other well. As her mind wandered she walked slowly down the stall side of the structure; the lessons learned on approaching the animals imprinted in her mind.

When she reached the first paddock, she came face to face with a light brown mare. The horse raised her long face to Sally and in anticipation of a treat or food reached its long neck out towards her. Sally raised her right hand, sliding it along the horse’s jowl. Judging the animal’s reaction, her hand slid higher along the side of its face until she was gently scratching the mare behind the ears. She had always felt that animals could sense the character of a person and she wondered how this horse would react to her husband.

She moved down the paddock, the second stall was empty, but the third contained a chestnut colored stallion. She recognized the linage, the horse looked just like its father Royal; her own fathers pride and joy. She knew this had to be one of its offspring; her mother had informed her Royal had been put down several summers ago and that her father was more devastated by the loss of the horse than any other event her mother had witnessed. This particular generation of Royal seemed skittish of her, and she turned back the way she had come, her eyes along the rooms behind her, searching for some kind of treat for the majestic animal.

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw a silhouette in the half opened door to the barn. The figure was tall and muscular. She felt her heart begin to pound as her mind flashed to him pulling her close into his strong arms, making all the bad things go away; just like he had all those times so many years ago.

 

[salty_sailor]

Hank crossed the yard at a fast walk, watching his footing to ensure he didn't fall crossing the slick cattle guard, or have his feet slide out from under him in some patch of mud. He kept his head low, following the dirt track up to the barn, eyes on the ground in front of him, and hat pulled low. His breath came in wispy streams and he wondered what the temperature might be. Surely the continuing drizzle could turn to flurries at any minute. Or so it seemed. Perhaps in the high country anyhow. He could already see in his mind's eye the bulwark of white marching downslope come next morning. 85, maybe 8700 feet, he guessed.

At the top of the rise he could look through the open barn doors, through to the other end and to the hills and sky beyond. In the foreground though was weathered plank, piles of straw, and the silhouette of a woman who grew increasingly familiar as he drew nearer. Was it possible he knew the woman standing there in the main walk, and brazenly crossing to the stalls to nuzzle at the horses faces. Clearly she was an animal person, whatever else she was. But what did she think she was doing in there?

When he stepped into the dark interior, he took off his hat, shaking it vigorously to loose any extra rain clinging to the brim. He walked right up behind the woman, setting the hat back atop his head and expecting her to turn at any moment. Instead she seemed content to run a hand over the jaw of the big animal, scratching hard, the horse giving little grunts of enjoyment.

Maybe he was being a little too over protective. Maybe there had just been too many people coming and going this week, or maybe he just didn't like folks messing with his animals. Of course, by rights there were all Phyllis's horses, but he knew she wouldn't begrudge him taking so much ownership of the ranch. Of course that was how the place got to be in the sort of repair that it was.

He stood to his full height behind her, about 6 steps away and cleared his throat before speaking. "Excuse me, miss?"