Delores Fossen - No Getting Over A Cowboy

Together, Lawson and he ran the Granger Ranch, another of Z.T.’s legacies, and now the two of them stood side by side studying the Gothic house and the people meandering around it.

“What the hell’s going on?” Lawson asked. “And why is that kid poking at that cow shit with a stick?”

Garrett didn’t have the answer to the first question, but as for the second, he knew from experience that kids poked at shit. Even kids who wore pink overalls and had their hair in pigtails.

“I just got here,” Garrett explained. “I came out to look over things for the work crew, and I saw them. I have no idea who they are or why they’re here.”

“Maybe they’re from the historical society?” Lawson added. “They could be sprucing up the place since it’s obvious we suck at doing that.”

It was a good guess, but Wrangler’s Creek was a small town by anyone’s standards, and Garrett knew every female for miles around. Every kid old enough to poke at a cow patty, too. He didn’t recognize any of these folks. Plus, there wasn’t a woman in the historical society under the age of seventy. These “visitors” were all much younger. And then there was the tow truck. No one in Wrangler’s Creek, possibly the entire state of Texas, would drive a vehicle like that.

“Or they could be those ghost groupies,” Lawson offered.

Another good guess. Since the house looked like something out of a bad horror movie and because there were rumors of Z.T.’s spirit haunting the place, it had indeed attracted ghost hunters over the years. But as far as Garrett knew, they’d never resorted to trespassing. Or cleaning.

“Looks like they got here using the old ranch trail.” Lawson, again.

His cousin tipped his head to the tow truck and the SUV behind it, both of which were parked about ten yards from the house. Once there’d been an actual dirt and gravel road leading to the place, but the pasture had long claimed that. Now, the only way to get to it was on horseback, walking a half mile from the main house or by driving on the trail. The last time Garrett had checked it out, there’d been more potholes than trail surface, and there were bushes growing in spots. It wouldn’t have been a smooth ride to get here.

“How many of them are there?” Lawson asked.

“Four.”

But Garrett was being optimistic. That was only the number he could see. Since the old three-story house had over twenty-five rooms, it was possible that the entire population of a small country had taken up residence there.

On his land.

All right, it wasn’t all his exactly, but Garrett had always thought of the ranch as his domain. His sister, Sophie, ran the family business, Granger Western. His brother, Roman, owned a rodeo promotion company, and Garrett ran the ranch. He made all the key decisions and knew everything that went on here.

Everything except for this.

“As soon as I spotted the visitors, I tried to get in touch with Sophie and my mom,” Garrett went on as he walked closer to the house. “Maybe they’ll call back soon.”

Unfortunately, there were dead zones for cell service out here, but Garrett didn’t intend to wait for any more info. He could find out what these women, and the child, wanted and then send them packing. He had a work crew arriving first thing in the morning to expand the nearby pond, and he didn’t want any hitches with that. Having people parked in the very spot he intended to dig would definitely qualify as a hitch.

The women had obviously spotted Lawson and him because the two outside were now huddled together, talking and pointing at him. A third woman came out of the house and joined them. The only one who ventured to meet him was the little blond-haired girl.

She still had hold of the crap-coated stick, but she also caught his hand as if he were a long lost friend. “I Kay-wee.”

Garrett had no idea how to respond to that. None. But he kept walking toward the house with the hope that she’d let go of him. He wanted to put a quick end to this, and it might somewhat diminish his air of authority if he was holding hands with a toddler.

Plus, there were the other feelings that came. They always did when he saw a baby or a young child. It’d been three years since he’d lost his own daughter. Three years, two months and six days. He could have provided the hours if someone had asked. And yes, he was still counting.

Always would.

Some aches just didn’t go away no matter how much time had passed.

“Cows,” Kay-wee pointed out as they got closer to the house. Or rather t-ows.

She used the stick to point and point and point. She could have pointed for a long time since there was a herd just on the other side of the picket fence that surrounded the house and grave.

The cows were forever breaking through that fence, and that was probably why there’d been a patty so close to the porch for the girl to poke. They would continue to break through, too, and that’s why these folks had to go. Once the work crew had expanded the pond, they could reinforce the fence so he could bring in the new shipment of cattle.

“I’m Garrett Granger,” he said to the women.

They stayed huddled, their heads together like conjoined triplets, and they continued to whisper.

“Gare-if,” the girl attempted. She finally tossed the stick.

“This is the Granger Ranch,” he added to the women. “It’s private property.”

More huddling, more whispering. Since the only one talking to him was Kay-wee, he looked at her. “Why are you here?”

She let go of him to lift her hands and shrug. “Mommy,” she said as if that explained everything. It didn’t explain diddly squat. She took hold of him again and started leading him to the porch.

The huddling women scattered to the side of the house and from there they eyed him as if he were a rattler ready to strike. Funny, because most women in town gave him sad, puppy-dog looks. Once, though, he’d been considered the golden boy of Wrangler’s Creek. These days, Garrett felt more like that discarded shit stick.

For just a second he got a flashback of why he now had that shit-stick label. It wasn’t often a man got to see a video of his wife blowing some guy in the backseat of a VW, but Garrett could add that to his list of life experiences.

Another woman appeared in the doorway, glared at him and then scampered off. Garrett thought about doing a smell check of his armpits. He’d been working with a new cutting horse all morning and was sweaty. That might explain the scurrying and rattler looks, but if he did stink, maybe that would just get the squatters moving faster.

He walked into the entry and looked around. Not that he could see much in his immediate line of sight. The house was a wooden ant farm with some rooms that had no purpose other than to lead to other rooms. It was a time capsule of sorts since it still had all of Z.T.’s furniture and stuff. Some things also left behind by his great-aunt, who’d lived here long before Garrett was born.

“I’m sorry, but you can’t stay here,” Garrett called out to anybody who might be in hearing range.

The little girl kept hold of his hand, and with Lawson right behind them, they began to make their way through the room maze. Someone had indeed cleaned the place and taken off the old sheets from the equally old furniture. Not a good sign. In his general experience, people who swept and dusted had plans to be around long enough to enjoy their cleaning efforts.

They went through the parlor, the place where Garrett had lost his virginity to one of the ranch hands’ cousins who’d been visiting the summer he’d turned sixteen. That’d been eighteen years ago. Mercy, a lifetime. But still it was a sweet memory.

There was also a library that conjured up some deflowering memories. Seventeen years ago, he’d brought a cute flute-playing classmate out here. One thing had led to another, and even though he hadn’t known it was going to happen beforehand, she’d lost her virginity to him. Things hadn’t lasted between them, neither the sex nor the relationship. A month or so later, he’d broken up with her so he could date the woman he’d eventually marry.