At Whit's End (Wells Ranch, #4)(16)
Jonas reminds me a lot of my younger brother, Beau, as a kid; he’s quiet and reserved and hard on himself for even the smallest mistakes. The other day Jonas slammed a fist into the barn wall—hurting nothing but his pride—after Denny scolded him for not closing the paddock gate properly. But he sure learned his lesson, and he triple-checked every gate he closed for the rest of the day.
“So what exactly are we doing?” Jonas asks, tossing a stick for Betty as we approach the massive, gently sloped pile of silage—chopped-up hay that’ll be left to ferment for cattle feed. Already covered in overlapping white tarps, it’s just waiting for us to place rows upon rows of tires to weigh it down and help keep both oxygen and moisture from getting in to ruin the fermentation process.
We drop our lunch bags on a shaded patch of grass and I point to the stacks of old vehicle tires piled high. “You’re covering the tarp in those.”
He blinks at me, and a small smile crops up on his lips. “You’re messing with me, aren’t you? That’s not a real thing.”
“Sure is. We put plastic over the cut hay so it can ferment for a few weeks to feed the cattle through winter. Gotta place all those tires on there to hold the tarp down in the wind.”
He still doesn’t seem to believe I’m not fucking with him, so I start up the gradual embankment, grabbing a tire under each arm and setting them down along the top of the pile.
With black streaks already evident on my hands from the warm rubber of the tires, I position them on either side of my mouth to bellow at the kid. “Come on. Don’t want this to take all day and night, do ya?”
Awkwardly cradling a tire in both arms and looking through the hole in the center, he walks toward me, huffing and panting the entire way. With an exasperated, dramatic yelp, he lets go once he’s reached the top. The tire hits the tarp with a hollow thunk, teetering on its edge for a split second before rolling halfway back down. When it finally catches a small lip in the plastic sheeting and tips over, it swirls around for a moment, sounding like the dull bounce of a half-deflated basketball on a gym floor. Taunting Jonas.
I pull the collar of my shirt over my nose to silently laugh. I definitely don’t need to correct him on this one; he knows exactly where he went wrong.
Jonas throws his hands up. “Oh, what the fuck—fridge.”
Fear overcomes him. He stares at me wide-eyed, metaphorically crapping his pants. Kid probably expects soap in his mouth or some shit.
“Fuck fridge?” Laughter no longer quiet, tears build in the corners of my eyes. “Man, that one earns you a real fuck. Give’r.”
Stomping his foot, he balls his hands into fists and yells, “Fuck!”
And without being told, he slowly trudges down toward the tire, muttering a string of expletives that I’m sure his uptight, pantsuit-wearing mother wouldn’t appreciate. Sweat beading on his upper lip when he gets back to the top, he puts the tire down with the gentle touch of somebody setting down a newborn baby, smiling to himself when it stays put. Doesn’t feel like a good time to tell him that we could’ve left that one where it landed, since eventually we’ll need to cover this entire thing anyway.
“One tire down, about a million more to go.” I slap him on the back.
And for the next hour, we work alone, taking frequent, dire water breaks and sweating our fucking bags off under the summer sun. Thanks to parched mouths and heavy breaths, we don’t talk a lot, but this feels different than the other days. Neither of us complain, nor do I need to encourage him along. We’re simply two ranch hands working side by side.
Finally a couple other guys show up to help, and that allows for slower movements and a snack break. We chat a little bit about our hobbies—I razz him about his silly video games, and he roasts my thrifted T-shirt collection.
Both of us are panting as we grab tires from the quickly dwindling pile. Jonas pipes up, “You think cows like the taste of hay?”
I squint at the rolling, sun-soaked hayfields in the distance, brushing sweat from my upper lip. “Nah. I think it’s like salad. We kind of just eat it because we have to.”
“My mom likes salad. I think it’s disgusting.”
“Your mom pretends to like salad to convince you to eat it. Bet she’d rather eat pizza. Bet the cows would, too.” I follow him through the soft dirt, skirting around another ranch hand.
When the last tire hits the tarp with a small cloud of dust, we collapse in the shade under a nearby oak tree.
“Shit, that was some tough work.” I peel the sweat-drenched shirt from my body and fan my face with my cowboy hat. “Thanks for your help today, dude.”
Swallowing hard, Jonas leans back against the tree and wipes his filthy hands across his thighs. “Please tell me we don’t have anything else to do now.”
“If you see Denny or Austin coming toward us, run.” I laugh under my breath. “No way in hell they’re making us do more work today.”
Jonas hands an empty plastic water bottle to Betty, who gleefully crunches it and tosses it in the air for herself. She followed him up and down the silage pile relentlessly, sticking close to his heels and nipping each tire he threw down, like she was reminding it to stay in its place.
“Matter of fact, let’s get outta here before they can try to give us another task.” Hands pressed to the cool earth, I push myself up to stand, relishing the crackle of my spine and the hard-earned ache everywhere else. “I’ll give you a ride home today, if you wanna stop for ice cream on the way?”