her eyes, and the brief smile for him. That smile had made her beautiful.
Shifted everything somehow.
He groaned, swearing under his breath. He had to start sleeping….
The three of them finished the Campbell hay crop and Karl and Tim moved to his grandfather's fields with him. Ten days later, Karl pitched the last bale to him at the top of the haystack. Satisfied, he jammed the bale into the corner spot then leaned over to beat it tightly into place with his gloved fists—an even three thousand bales made the haystack like a perfect, rectangular loaf of bread with the crusts cut off.
Afterward, with his evenings free, he shot pool in the Lone Tree Bar with the dark haired waitress from the café next door, and her brother. The girl's gaze on his had that hungry look he hated, but she played pool better than her brother did and the three of them hustled a few drunks. The hustle didn't last long in such a small town…but the brother had some horses he'd just pulled off the range for sale.
He rebuilt the round breaking pen his father had used years before, hauled in a deep layer of sand, and brought home the pool hustler's young horses—a filly and two colts. The bay filly and sorrel gelding with white socks showed promise. Both of them broke to the saddle with no more than half-hearted crow hopping, but the big paint, flashy, wild, and pig-headed, refused to relent.
Every day, the horse gave him a full-fledged ride around the pen, head bogged down between its forelegs, heels in the air, grunting with every violent effort to unseat him. He wore a brace on his knee against the ache throbbing in it after the daily struggles of will, but battling the paint horse released some of the bewildering pain of his own emotions, and he continued to let the horse buck.
Dave Campbell's condition improved over the summer, so his grandfather spent more time at home. Then the old man hassled him about many things—his swearing, his tobacco, the hair curling past his collar, but mostly about spending his time at the bar. Sometimes his grandfather even waited up at night to give him the dickens when he stumbled home after closing time.
Almost every night the two of them argued, their Howard jaws set in a stubborn line, just alike. With ruthless disregard for his frequent hangovers, the haggard and irritable old man routed him from bed each morning before dawn, and then with grim determination preached Jesus over breakfast.
At least once a week he threw his meager possessions into his duffle bag and hurled it into the back of his truck. There was nothing for him there. He could work as an underpaid ranch hand anywhere without having to listen to his grandfather nag him. And if he left, he wouldn't have to hope for a glimpse of Katie in the distance, jogging along the road on her pretty mare. His heartbeat wouldn't quicken at the sight of her walking down the sidewalk in Lone Tree, her swinging ponytail shining in the sun.
If he got away, he'd soon be his usual cocky self inside. He could forget about her.
But he always hauled his duffle back up the stairs and the next day fought the paint horse and the edge of his confused unhappiness…and kept watching for Katie everywhere he went.
One evening in late August, his grandfather received a phone call—a Sister Somebody was about to kick the bucket. The old man left and he headed for the bar, but his grandfather still wasn't home when he returned after closing time. He frowned and glanced at his watch—too late for a geezer to be out running around.
He hung his hat on a hook by the door and kicked off his boots. Padding into the kitchen in his socks, he opened the refrigerator door searching for the bowl of soup Katie's mother had sent home with his grandfather the day before. Gone. He scowled. The aggravating old fart delighted in eating all the good stuff before he could get any of it.
He cut the mold off a piece of cheese and ate it with the last two saltines rattling around
Shifted everything somehow.
He groaned, swearing under his breath. He had to start sleeping….
The three of them finished the Campbell hay crop and Karl and Tim moved to his grandfather's fields with him. Ten days later, Karl pitched the last bale to him at the top of the haystack. Satisfied, he jammed the bale into the corner spot then leaned over to beat it tightly into place with his gloved fists—an even three thousand bales made the haystack like a perfect, rectangular loaf of bread with the crusts cut off.
Afterward, with his evenings free, he shot pool in the Lone Tree Bar with the dark haired waitress from the café next door, and her brother. The girl's gaze on his had that hungry look he hated, but she played pool better than her brother did and the three of them hustled a few drunks. The hustle didn't last long in such a small town…but the brother had some horses he'd just pulled off the range for sale.
He rebuilt the round breaking pen his father had used years before, hauled in a deep layer of sand, and brought home the pool hustler's young horses—a filly and two colts. The bay filly and sorrel gelding with white socks showed promise. Both of them broke to the saddle with no more than half-hearted crow hopping, but the big paint, flashy, wild, and pig-headed, refused to relent.
Every day, the horse gave him a full-fledged ride around the pen, head bogged down between its forelegs, heels in the air, grunting with every violent effort to unseat him. He wore a brace on his knee against the ache throbbing in it after the daily struggles of will, but battling the paint horse released some of the bewildering pain of his own emotions, and he continued to let the horse buck.
Dave Campbell's condition improved over the summer, so his grandfather spent more time at home. Then the old man hassled him about many things—his swearing, his tobacco, the hair curling past his collar, but mostly about spending his time at the bar. Sometimes his grandfather even waited up at night to give him the dickens when he stumbled home after closing time.
Almost every night the two of them argued, their Howard jaws set in a stubborn line, just alike. With ruthless disregard for his frequent hangovers, the haggard and irritable old man routed him from bed each morning before dawn, and then with grim determination preached Jesus over breakfast.
At least once a week he threw his meager possessions into his duffle bag and hurled it into the back of his truck. There was nothing for him there. He could work as an underpaid ranch hand anywhere without having to listen to his grandfather nag him. And if he left, he wouldn't have to hope for a glimpse of Katie in the distance, jogging along the road on her pretty mare. His heartbeat wouldn't quicken at the sight of her walking down the sidewalk in Lone Tree, her swinging ponytail shining in the sun.
If he got away, he'd soon be his usual cocky self inside. He could forget about her.
But he always hauled his duffle back up the stairs and the next day fought the paint horse and the edge of his confused unhappiness…and kept watching for Katie everywhere he went.
One evening in late August, his grandfather received a phone call—a Sister Somebody was about to kick the bucket. The old man left and he headed for the bar, but his grandfather still wasn't home when he returned after closing time. He frowned and glanced at his watch—too late for a geezer to be out running around.
He hung his hat on a hook by the door and kicked off his boots. Padding into the kitchen in his socks, he opened the refrigerator door searching for the bowl of soup Katie's mother had sent home with his grandfather the day before. Gone. He scowled. The aggravating old fart delighted in eating all the good stuff before he could get any of it.
He cut the mold off a piece of cheese and ate it with the last two saltines rattling around
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