The Rancher's Spittin' Image

No, Jesse, I can’t.

He lifted his fists at the dark heavens and shook them. “Damn you, Mandy!” he roared. “Damn you for choosing your father over me!”

Two

Jesse stopped his horse alongside Pete’s and dug a pack of cigarettes from his shirt pocket. He shook one out, then offered the pack to Pete, the foreman of the Circle Bar.

Pete eyed him skeptically. “I prefer to roll my own,” he grumbled disagreeably, but took one with a muttered, “obliged.” In keeping with his own style of smoking, though, Pete pinched the filter off and tossed it to the ground.

Hiding a smile, Jesse clamped his own cigarette between his lips and dug a hand in his jeans pocket, working a lighter from its depths. He’d always had a fondness for Pete Dugan. In some ways, Pete had been more a father to him than Wade Barrister had ever been. It was Pete who’d picked Jesse up off the ground after his first bronc had thrown him, and it was Pete who had stuck Jesse’s head in a horse trough when as a teenager he’d come home drunk the first time. It was also Pete who’d found Jesse the night he’d ridden his horse back into the barn after Lucas McCloud had put a bullet in his left shoulder.

Though Pete had cussed a blue streak, trying to convince Jesse he needed a doctor, he’d cleaned the wound and patched Jesse up as best as he could, then stood on the porch of the bunkhouse and watched Jesse drive away into the night.

Frowning at the unwanted memory, Jesse raked a thumb along the lighter’s wheel, then cupped his hands around the flame as he drew it to the cigarette’s end. Inhaling deeply, he passed the lighter to Pete, then blew out a thin stream of smoke and the memories along with it.

“Looks like you’ve got a good crop of calves this year,” Jesse offered, gesturing to the cattle that grazed in the pasture below.

“Cain’t complain.”

Jesse nodded, hearing the pride behind the simple reply. “Who’s giving the orders around here now that the old man’s gone?”

Pete snorted. “Who do ya think?”

“And you’re taking them?” Jesse asked in surprise.

“I listen, say yes’m real polite like, then do as I damn well please.”

Jesse laughed, then leaned over to thump Pete on the back. “I always did like your style.”

“Never did cotton to takin’ orders from no woman. ’Specially one that cain’t tell a bull from a steer.” Pete twisted his head around just far enough to squint a look at Jesse through the smoke that curled from between his gnarled fingers. “You gonna be takin’ over the reins now that you’re back?”

Jesse shrugged, then squeezed the burned-out butt of his cigarette between two fingers before tossing it to the ground. “I suppose. At least until I decide what to do with the place.”

“You mean you might sell?”

“I don’t know,” Jesse replied uncertainly. “I’ve got my own place up in Oklahoma now. Kind of hard to manage two places that far apart.”

Pete shook his head, turning his gaze back on the cattle. “Cain’t imagine the Circle Bar belongin’ to anybody but a Barrister. They’ve owned this land long as I can remember.”

They sat in silence, pondering the reality of that a moment, before Jesse said, “The old lady offered to buy me out.” Though Pete’s gaze never once wavered from the cattle, Jesse saw the tension mount in his shoulders on hearing of Margo’s offer. “She said she’d do it to free me from any responsibilities or obligations that Wade might have burdened me with. Pretty generous of her, don’t you think?”

Pete didn’t answer, but continued to stare at the cattle below, his mouth set in a thin, grim line.

“Well, don’t you think it’s generous?” Jesse prodded.

Slowly, Pete turned his gaze on Jesse. “Margo Barrister never done nothin’ in her life to benefit anybody but herself and you damn well know it, so what’s your point in askin’ me a damn-fool question like that?”

Jesse chuckled, then smooched to his horse, guiding him onto the narrow path that led toward the pasture below. “Just checking to make sure she hadn’t softened up over the years,” he called over his shoulder.

“Margo Barrister?” Pete snorted, but guided his own horse in behind Jesse’s. “They’ll be crankin’ homemade ice cream in hell the day that old woman’s heart softens.”

Pete and Jesse were headed back to the Circle Bar’s headquarters when Pete suddenly pulled up and held up a hand, indicating for Jesse to stop too. “Look over yonder,” Pete murmured in a low voice, nodding toward the lake that lay about a quarter of a mile to the west.

Jesse looked but didn’t see anything out of the ordinary. “What?”

“Down by the water’s edge under that weepin’ willow.”

At that moment Jesse saw a flash of red streak from the bank and land with a silent plop, sending ripples on the water’s surface radiating toward the distant shore. “Think we caught us a trespasser?” Jesse asked.

“Atta’d be my guess,” Pete replied dryly.

“Well, I guess we better remind him that he’s poaching on private property.”

“Damn-fool kids,” Pete muttered irritably, leading the way. “If I’ve told ‘em once, I’ve told ’em a hunnerd times to keep off this land. And danged if I didn’t just bait that hole myself last week.”

Chuckling, Jesse fell in behind him, already sympathizing with whoever was fishing Pete’s favorite spot. By the time Pete got through with him, the poacher’s skin would be raw from the tongue-lashing he would give him.

“Hey! You there!” Pete yelled, reining his horse to a stop just shy of the willow tree.

A young boy, about twelve or so in Jesse’s estimation, whirled, his eyes round with surprise. Immediately, he started scrambling, trying to gather up his fishing gear in order to make a run for it.

Jesse was out of the saddle and on the ground, his hand closed on the back of the boy’s collar before the kid made three steps.

“Now hold on a minute,” Jesse warned as the boy started twisting and fighting, trying to shake loose. When his warning wasn’t heeded, Jesse grabbed the boy around the middle and hauled him hard against his side. “Now dammit, I said hold on!” Jesse yelled.

The boy immediately stilled, though Jesse could feel the tension in him beneath his arm. Not wanting to frighten the boy any more than he already was, Jesse said quietly, “Now, I’m not gonna hurt you, I just want to talk to you, all right?” When the boy slowly nodded, Jesse loosened his hold and turned him around to face him, shifting his hands to the boy’s arms.

The boy jerked his head up to meet Jesse’s gaze, his chin jutting in defiance. Jesse couldn’t help but admire the kid’s spunk. He reminded him a little of himself at that same age. But he knew he had to put the fear of God in the kid. He couldn’t have him or any other trespassers thinking that the Circle Bar was open for poaching.

“Do you know that you’re on private property?” Jesse asked, forcing a level of sternness into his voice.

“I didn’t do nothin’ wrong,” the boy replied defensively. “I was just fishin’, and I even threw back everything I caught.”

“The point is, you’re trespassing. This land belongs to the Barristers and they don’t welcome uninvited guests.”

The boy raised his chin a little higher, making the cleft there a little more obvious. “The Barristers don’t scare me none,” he scoffed.

It was all Jesse could do not to laugh. “They don’t, huh?”

“Nah. Besides, there ain’t no Barristers left, ‘cept the old lady and she’s nothin’ but an old bit—” He caught himself just shy of finishing the word, and Jesse had to wonder if he’d done so to avoid having his mouth washed out with soap in the event his mother caught wind of him cussing. “Nothin’ but an old bat,” the boy said instead.

Jesse had to fight hard to keep from grinning. “She is, huh?”

“Yes, sir, and that’s a fact.”

“Well, now, what if I was to tell you I was a Barrister?”

The boy’s eyes widened before he could stop them, then narrowed to suspicious slits. “There ain’t no more Barristers. Wade was the last, and he died more than a month ago.”