round-up. Last year I was the greenhorn. But it looks like you know what you’re doing.”
“Fake it until you make it, right?”
Dawson laughed. “Despite the weather this is pretty fantastic, right? I spent years on the rodeo circuit without ever knowing what it meant to be a real cowboy. And this is it. Doesn’t get any more authentic.”
Court nodded, embarrassed by the fact that his throat was actually closing up with emotion. But he couldn’t help but be moved by the knowledge that he was participating in something here that went back for generations on the Carrigan side of the family. This land, ranching, the entire life-style had meant everything to Hawksley. And even to his father, the dream of the American cowboy was something he’d clung to all his life.
Now Court was living it.
And appreciating it.
He tried not to worry about his mother too much, but her stroke and Hawksley’s sudden death had both driven home the message that life was fragile. Moments like this one might not come again.
“Just follow Callan’s lead. Snow or no snow, she knows this country like no one else,” Dawson advised, before urging his horse forward to join up with Sage who was riding northwest with Red and the young man on the team, Tyler.
Callan had wheeled her mount around and with her gloved finger pointed at Derek, Jim and then Court. “You guys, come with me.”
She and Red were the undisputed leaders of this year’s round-up, and Court had no problem with that. He knew he had a lot to learn. He still hadn’t had an official meeting with Red and the team. Still too early for that, he thought. The transition period was going to be tricky. If only he could get Callan on side it would be so much easier. Though he had to admit the chances of that happening were looking slimmer each day.
Shortly after they split into the two teams, it began to snow. Not gentle, fat flakes, but icy pellets that stung exposed skin and, worse, reduced visibility to about twenty feet. When they hit a coulee, Derek and Jim decided to ride in and look for stragglers. Court was just moving alongside Callan when he noticed suspicious tracks in the snow. He drew up old Pinstripes and pointed them out to her.
“Mountain lion?” he guessed.
She nodded, casting a worried look in the tree branches around them.
The tracks were clear and sharp, suggesting they hadn’t been made very long ago.
“Have you had problems with them before?”
“We lost a calf about five years ago. Nothing since then.”
“This one looks to be heading up the ridge, too.” Court said.
“Yeah.” Callan urged her mount forward, but after just ten minutes Montana Sapphire stopped abruptly, letting out a snort and rearing up her head. “Whoa, Sapphire.” Callan leaned forward, stroking her horse’s neck. “What’s the matter? Do you smell something?”
“Does she usually spook easily?” Court asked.
“No.”
A sound like a bugle blaring rang out up ahead, quickly followed by panicked snorting and mooing. Court had never heard anything like it before, but could guess what it was. A panicked cow.
The mountain lion and had found her prey.
“Stay here,” he told Callan, as he urged good old Pinstripes into a lope. Whether the snow and wind had messed with Pinstripes sense of smell he didn’t know, but thankfully his horse didn’t spook. Less than a hundred yards later he came to a small clearing where a mother cow and her baldie calf were backed up against a ten-foot rock face.
Pacing back and forth in front of them, moving closer with each turn, was about a hundred and thirty pounds of adult mountain lion. Court caught his breath. He’d never seen a mountain lion in the wild, and it was a beautiful sight. The animal’s powerful muscles were clearly visible under its sleek coat, a uniform golden color except for the black tips on its ears and tail. Despite its size, it moved quietly and gracefully through the snow, its focus on the calf and how
“Fake it until you make it, right?”
Dawson laughed. “Despite the weather this is pretty fantastic, right? I spent years on the rodeo circuit without ever knowing what it meant to be a real cowboy. And this is it. Doesn’t get any more authentic.”
Court nodded, embarrassed by the fact that his throat was actually closing up with emotion. But he couldn’t help but be moved by the knowledge that he was participating in something here that went back for generations on the Carrigan side of the family. This land, ranching, the entire life-style had meant everything to Hawksley. And even to his father, the dream of the American cowboy was something he’d clung to all his life.
Now Court was living it.
And appreciating it.
He tried not to worry about his mother too much, but her stroke and Hawksley’s sudden death had both driven home the message that life was fragile. Moments like this one might not come again.
“Just follow Callan’s lead. Snow or no snow, she knows this country like no one else,” Dawson advised, before urging his horse forward to join up with Sage who was riding northwest with Red and the young man on the team, Tyler.
Callan had wheeled her mount around and with her gloved finger pointed at Derek, Jim and then Court. “You guys, come with me.”
She and Red were the undisputed leaders of this year’s round-up, and Court had no problem with that. He knew he had a lot to learn. He still hadn’t had an official meeting with Red and the team. Still too early for that, he thought. The transition period was going to be tricky. If only he could get Callan on side it would be so much easier. Though he had to admit the chances of that happening were looking slimmer each day.
Shortly after they split into the two teams, it began to snow. Not gentle, fat flakes, but icy pellets that stung exposed skin and, worse, reduced visibility to about twenty feet. When they hit a coulee, Derek and Jim decided to ride in and look for stragglers. Court was just moving alongside Callan when he noticed suspicious tracks in the snow. He drew up old Pinstripes and pointed them out to her.
“Mountain lion?” he guessed.
She nodded, casting a worried look in the tree branches around them.
The tracks were clear and sharp, suggesting they hadn’t been made very long ago.
“Have you had problems with them before?”
“We lost a calf about five years ago. Nothing since then.”
“This one looks to be heading up the ridge, too.” Court said.
“Yeah.” Callan urged her mount forward, but after just ten minutes Montana Sapphire stopped abruptly, letting out a snort and rearing up her head. “Whoa, Sapphire.” Callan leaned forward, stroking her horse’s neck. “What’s the matter? Do you smell something?”
“Does she usually spook easily?” Court asked.
“No.”
A sound like a bugle blaring rang out up ahead, quickly followed by panicked snorting and mooing. Court had never heard anything like it before, but could guess what it was. A panicked cow.
The mountain lion and had found her prey.
“Stay here,” he told Callan, as he urged good old Pinstripes into a lope. Whether the snow and wind had messed with Pinstripes sense of smell he didn’t know, but thankfully his horse didn’t spook. Less than a hundred yards later he came to a small clearing where a mother cow and her baldie calf were backed up against a ten-foot rock face.
Pacing back and forth in front of them, moving closer with each turn, was about a hundred and thirty pounds of adult mountain lion. Court caught his breath. He’d never seen a mountain lion in the wild, and it was a beautiful sight. The animal’s powerful muscles were clearly visible under its sleek coat, a uniform golden color except for the black tips on its ears and tail. Despite its size, it moved quietly and gracefully through the snow, its focus on the calf and how
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