look that came at her was a cross between anger and incredulity. “Two hundred? Goddamn…chickens?”
Oh, dear God. She did a mental eye roll. “Look, Mr. Parker—”
“I said you can call me Dalton.”
She mustered a glare of her own. “I think I prefer Mr. Parker.”
He shrugged a shoulder. “Suit yourself. Let’s go see about that fence.” He left the porch in a long stride, trekked toward her Chevy pickup and climbed in on the passenger side as if the vehicle were his.
Now Joanna was so put off she didn’t know if she could even drive, but she trailed after him and hoisted herself into the cab. She cranked the engine and away they went.
They soon reached the road that led to the south pasture. It was nothing more than two parallel tire tracks that traveled over grassy humps and bumps and through sandy gullies and arroyos. She set her jaw. Her pickup was her only vehicle, and she kept it clean and shiny. Though it was a four-wheel-drive pickup, she didn’t drive it on rough terrain or through bushes. Unfortunately, it was too late to unvolunteer for this ride. Shifting into four-wheel drive, she steeled herself to ignore what the sagebrush branches and mesquite tree thorns would do to her paint job, not to mention that she could end up with mesquite thorns in all four tires.
At five miles per hour, the five-mile trip took almost that long—an hour.
He didn’t say much, just looked all around, sometimes sticking his head out the window as if that allowed him to see more clearly. As they passed a cluster of grazing cattle, every one of them looked up and stared at them with curiosity, which, Joanna had learned since spending so much time with the Lazy P herd, was the nature of cattle.
“Cows don’t look too bad,” he said, more to himself than to her. “I assume they’re all pregnant. Looks like Mom’s still got the same crosses.”
Joanna wasn’t an expert on cattle and didn’t know if they were pregnant. She didn’t comment, though she did know that most of the Lazy P cattle were a crossbreed of Hereford and Black Angus. At this time of year, with sleek black or russet bodies and snow-white faces, they looked fat and round and healthy. Maybe they were pregnant.
After long minutes of a dearth of conversation, he finally said, “Pasture’s in piss-poor shape.”
No arguing that point. Joanna wasn’t an expert on rangeland, either, but she didn’t have to be to see the wide patches of bare sandy dirt where grass had once grown, and talk of the lengthy drought was common all over the county. “We’ve had a drought for several years running. And Clova thinks the pasture’s been overgrazed.”
“If it’s overgrazed, why didn’t she sell off some stock or move ’em to another pasture?”
Inside, Joanna winced. Any answer she gave to his question could be classified only as tattling. She couldn’t remember when she had ever been so uptight. Having not eaten since early morning, her stomach began to cramp. “It wasn’t…uh, well, it wasn’t totally under her control.”
“Why the hell not? She still owns the place, doesn’t she?”
“Well, yes, but…” Joanna stopped herself. How Clova ran the Parker ranch really was none of her business.
“What’s the ‘but’?”
She drew in a breath. “Lane’s supposed to be taking care of the cows, but he’s gone a lot and he’s—”
“Forget it. I know what he’s been doing. Or not doing. He’s too much like his old man.”
“Mr. Parker, I’m not anxious to criticize Lane. You need to discuss this with your mother.” Aggravation spiked within her again, and she found the nerve to say, “ You haven’t been around here, either, you know.”
“Touché,” he said, drilling her with those penetrating eyes, his irritation so sentient it almost had a life of its own. “What’s your name again?” he asked.
Damn him. She refused to believe he didn’t remember her name. She had left it on his voice mail and she had
Oh, dear God. She did a mental eye roll. “Look, Mr. Parker—”
“I said you can call me Dalton.”
She mustered a glare of her own. “I think I prefer Mr. Parker.”
He shrugged a shoulder. “Suit yourself. Let’s go see about that fence.” He left the porch in a long stride, trekked toward her Chevy pickup and climbed in on the passenger side as if the vehicle were his.
Now Joanna was so put off she didn’t know if she could even drive, but she trailed after him and hoisted herself into the cab. She cranked the engine and away they went.
They soon reached the road that led to the south pasture. It was nothing more than two parallel tire tracks that traveled over grassy humps and bumps and through sandy gullies and arroyos. She set her jaw. Her pickup was her only vehicle, and she kept it clean and shiny. Though it was a four-wheel-drive pickup, she didn’t drive it on rough terrain or through bushes. Unfortunately, it was too late to unvolunteer for this ride. Shifting into four-wheel drive, she steeled herself to ignore what the sagebrush branches and mesquite tree thorns would do to her paint job, not to mention that she could end up with mesquite thorns in all four tires.
At five miles per hour, the five-mile trip took almost that long—an hour.
He didn’t say much, just looked all around, sometimes sticking his head out the window as if that allowed him to see more clearly. As they passed a cluster of grazing cattle, every one of them looked up and stared at them with curiosity, which, Joanna had learned since spending so much time with the Lazy P herd, was the nature of cattle.
“Cows don’t look too bad,” he said, more to himself than to her. “I assume they’re all pregnant. Looks like Mom’s still got the same crosses.”
Joanna wasn’t an expert on cattle and didn’t know if they were pregnant. She didn’t comment, though she did know that most of the Lazy P cattle were a crossbreed of Hereford and Black Angus. At this time of year, with sleek black or russet bodies and snow-white faces, they looked fat and round and healthy. Maybe they were pregnant.
After long minutes of a dearth of conversation, he finally said, “Pasture’s in piss-poor shape.”
No arguing that point. Joanna wasn’t an expert on rangeland, either, but she didn’t have to be to see the wide patches of bare sandy dirt where grass had once grown, and talk of the lengthy drought was common all over the county. “We’ve had a drought for several years running. And Clova thinks the pasture’s been overgrazed.”
“If it’s overgrazed, why didn’t she sell off some stock or move ’em to another pasture?”
Inside, Joanna winced. Any answer she gave to his question could be classified only as tattling. She couldn’t remember when she had ever been so uptight. Having not eaten since early morning, her stomach began to cramp. “It wasn’t…uh, well, it wasn’t totally under her control.”
“Why the hell not? She still owns the place, doesn’t she?”
“Well, yes, but…” Joanna stopped herself. How Clova ran the Parker ranch really was none of her business.
“What’s the ‘but’?”
She drew in a breath. “Lane’s supposed to be taking care of the cows, but he’s gone a lot and he’s—”
“Forget it. I know what he’s been doing. Or not doing. He’s too much like his old man.”
“Mr. Parker, I’m not anxious to criticize Lane. You need to discuss this with your mother.” Aggravation spiked within her again, and she found the nerve to say, “ You haven’t been around here, either, you know.”
“Touché,” he said, drilling her with those penetrating eyes, his irritation so sentient it almost had a life of its own. “What’s your name again?” he asked.
Damn him. She refused to believe he didn’t remember her name. She had left it on his voice mail and she had
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