Seeds of Summer

by Deborah Vogts

  “Listen, we have to work together now. The ranch won’t run itself. There are chores to do, animals and pastures to tend. We can’t stop the clock just because we’re mourning. And just because you’re hung over, doesn’t mean I’m going to cut you any slack.” Natalie reached for her sister’s shoulder only to have her hand shrugged away.

  “Who says I want any?” Chelsey flung the covers back and stumbled to the floor to retrieve a pair of jeans.

  “About last night,” Natalie began. “There’ll be no more sneaking out of the house after dark…or any other time, for that matter. As for Lucas, I think it’d be best if you don’t see him again.”

  “You’re kidding.” Chelsey tossed the wrinkled jeans to the floor in search of another pair. “You can’t tell me who to date. He graduates today. I’m going to be with him.”

  “Lucas is too old for you. Too experienced. He’ll only get you into trouble.” Natalie thought of the fake tattoo and considered this talk might be too late. “Have you and Lucas…?” She ducked her head, unable to finish. Oh, how she wished her father were here.

  “Not yet.”

  Natalie looked up to see Chelsey’s lips curl into a lovesick expression.

  “Not that we don’t want to—it just never seems to work out.”

  “It’s not going to work out either.” Natalie grabbed a clean pair of jeans from a nearby chair and tossed them at her sister, hitting her square in the chest. “Because you’re not going out with him again.”

  “That’s what you think.”

  “That’s what I know. Now get dressed. We’ve got work to do.” Natalie headed out of the room, ignoring Chelsey’s protests. As soon as the door closed behind her, Natalie heard her sister’s defiant scream. Then something hard crashed against the wall.

  JARED LOGAN STARED AT THE BLANK PAPER UNTIL HIS EYES BLURRED. He’d never felt such pressure to come up with a sermon, yet here he was, with little more than twenty-four hours before he’d preach to his first congregation. It didn’t help that this flock had been shepherded by a beloved reverend for the last eighteen years. Talk about big shoes to fill.

  He glanced out the office window and caught the movement of a white-tailed rabbit behind the bushes.

  Enough procrastinating.

  He tore his gaze from the bright scenery, determined to move the desk away from the window when time allowed. Springtime in the Flint Hills held too many distractions—even for the most diligent student. No, not a student—a minister, serving his first parish. A minister who could be without a job if he didn’t come up with a decent sermon for the devoted members of New Redeemer Church.

  A soft rap pushed his office door ajar. “I’m not interrupting, am I?”

  He recognized the woman’s voice and leaned away from the large mahogany desk. “Not at all. Come in, Mrs. Hildebrand.”

  The church secretary set a plate of cinnamon rolls on his desk and smiled. “I figured you’d be working today. My daughter baked these fresh this morning.” Her hands clasped in front of her wide midsection.

  Jared lifted the plastic wrap and the sweet cinnamon triggered a response in his mouth he couldn’t ignore. Having grown up in a small town, he relished the idea of serving the rural community of Diamond Falls where simple hospitality and charm abounded. “Thank you for thinking of me. You and your husband have been most kind, helping me move into my home and then assisting with my ordination last Sunday.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous. We were glad to do it.” She gathered a plate and napkin from a nearby supply shelf and commenced to serve him a gooey roll, thick with icing.

  “There certainly was a lot of activity that day, with all your family and visitors.” Her eyes remained fixed on him, watchful. “In all the commotion, I don’t suppose you had a chance to meet my daughter Clarice?”

  Jared noted the gleam in Mrs. Hildebrand’s eyes as she mentioned her daughter’s name. He remembered meeting Clarice, if only for the briefest moment. “Didn’t you say she was a teacher at the elementary school?”

  “She loves working with children. Hopes to have three or four once she settles down with the right fellow.” The sturdy woman pushed the foam plate closer, a cheeky grin on her face.

  Jared’s mind sped through a list of responses that would express his regard without suggesting a romantic interest, though his mother would be delighted if it were. Nothing would please her more than for him to find a wife and have children. “I’m sure your daughter will find a suitable companion—all in God’s time, I always say.”

  “My thoughts exactly.” Mrs. Hildebrand settled into a chair by his desk, intent on conversation. “I find it extraordinary that a bright young man like yourself has agreed to serve our congregation. Who would have thought we’d snag a talented student right from seminary when we have so little to offer—and such a handsome one too.”

  Warmth invaded Jared’s cheeks at her remark, and he shook his head in protest. Rather than comment, he busied himself in search of a fork.

  The woman handed him one as though from thin air. “Since you’re unmarried, I’m guessing your time here is a stepping-stone to bigger things?”

  “I really couldn’t say.” Jared removed his wire-rimmed glasses and set them on the desk, no longer interested in the sweet roll. He’d heard tales from school about female congregants pursuing young ministers, but he’d always laughed them off. Now he sensed the gravity of such a situation through the claws of an assertive mother. “For now, I’m glad to be here and a part of your community.”

  “My Clarice always tells me it’s better to be content with one’s life than to be constantly searching for what we can’t have. I believe the two of you would get along quite nicely. You never know what God might desire.”

  Jared cleared his throat, becoming increasingly uncomfortable with the woman’s push and shove tactics. Right now, the only thing he was sure of was that God desired him to complete his sermon. He glanced at Mrs. Hildebrand whose eyes traipsed from him to the cinnamon roll. Sometimes the quickest way to a destination meant traveling a less desirable path. With a sheepish grin, he tore off a piece of the roll with his fork and lifted it to his mouth.

  THREE

  NATALIE LEANED OVER HER SADDLE HORN AND SWATTED A MOSQUITO. Could the day get any worse? Lined on the early morning horizon were five pot trucks waiting to unload the summer cattle, and to her left were her only cowhands, Dillon and Chelsey. Much to her displeasure, Tom took off on a ranch errand earlier that morning and had yet to return. His irresponsibility irked her to no end.

  Against the silhouette of a hazy sky, the first truck backed up to the metal chute with squeaky precision. The double-decked trailer bulged from the hooves clamoring inside.

  “Dillon, you watch the west gate. Hold any steers sent your way.”

  At his nod, Natalie turned to her sister who gave no indication of caring the least about their predicament. “Chelsey, I’ll count. You sort them as they come through. I’ll call out if any need doctoring and you can send them to Dillon.”

  With no time to consider whether her sister would carry through with her duties, Natalie dismounted her gray gelding to meet the driver. The smell of musty hide and manure seeped from the vented sides of the trailer, accompanied by the shuffle of hooves and the distressed bawl of a black-muzzled calf.

  “Looks like you’re short on workers this morning.” The man walked with a hitch in his stride, probably due to the many miles between here and Texas.

  Natalie stared down at the rich, green bluestem. Today they would unload over five hundred cattle, the second of three shipments her dad had scheduled on the calendar this month. Just like every other year, they would double stock the pastures, then in August, fifteen hundred steers would leave, each about two hundred pounds fatter. “We’ll cover our part of the grazing contract, don’t worry about that.”

  “Makes no mind to me. I’m not the one holding the money.” He turned toward the pipe cattle pens where Dillon and Chelsey waite
d on their horses. “You sure you’ve got enough experience there to handle unloading?”

  The doubt in his voice made Natalie’s spine bristle. Her brother and sister might be young, but they’d helped their dad every summer. The only difference was this year she was in charge of the transient grazing instead of him. “We’ll manage fine. Whenever you’re ready.”

  He tipped his straw cowboy hat and cocked a smile. “Little lady, I was born ready.”

  Minutes later, the end gate clanked open and the first white-faced steer bounded out, followed by three more black baldies. For every ten head, Natalie made a notch in a small notebook she carried with her, calling out when she spotted a calf that might need doctoring. As the cool morning air gave way to the heated sun, Natalie shucked her denim jacket and rolled up her long sleeves.

  “Let’s take a quick break,” she called to her brother and sister as the third truck ambled from the chute across the flint-covered pasture.

  “Figures you’d take a break as soon as I get here.”

  At the sound of the gravelly voice, Natalie tore her gaze from her calculations. “I think after three hundred steers, the kids deserve a break, don’t you?”

  “I reckon they do indeed.” Willard Grover cuffed Natalie on the shoulder, then offered her a hug. “You holding up okay?”

  “As good as can be expected.” Natalie reached out to the man who was more like a grandfather to her than a neighbor, surprised he’d come all the way out here to check on her. “How about you?”

  “You think this ol’ black man’s gonna wither away now that I ain’t got your dad to pester no more?”

  Unable to answer, Natalie stared at a nearby clump of butterfly milkweed, one of the many wildflowers adorning the pastures this spring. Willard had been the one to find her dad trapped under the overturned tractor, her father’s breath all but taken from him. In Vietnam, Willard saved her grandfather’s life, but he hadn’t been able to rescue her father. Circumstances like that had to mess with a man’s perspective.

  “‘My heart aches, and a drowsy numbness pains my sense, as though of hemlock I had drunk.’”

  Natalie studied the old man dressed in jeans, a long sleeved shirt, and a corduroy vest. Willard’s fondness for poetry never failed to amuse her. “Emerson or Longfellow?”

  “‘—Past the near meadows, over the still stream, up the hillside; and now ’tis buried deep in the next valley-glades: was it a vision, or a waking dream?’—Keats, my girl. Didn’t I teach you anything all those years ago? Back when you were scrawny as a whip and feisty as one too.”

  Natalie lifted the plastic water thermos from the ground. “Back when all I could think about was how to get away from this place. Now look at me.” She took a drink and welcomed the cool liquid as it relieved her parched throat.

  “Nobody’s forcing you to stay.”

  “Nobody needs to.” From the corner of her eye, she noted Chelsey and Dillon’s slow progress toward her. “If you two want a drink, you better hurry up. We’ve got two more pots waiting to unload.”

  “Where’s Tom?” Willard’s eyes searched the area. “I figured he’d be helping you today.”

  Natalie frowned. “He was supposed to. But I don’t see him, do you?”

  Willard paced the grass, his shuffling boots wearing a path in the fresh new growth. “Like I told you at the funeral, I’ll help in any way I can. Money, advice, whatever you need. Might start with a good scolding to that hand of yours.”

  Though tempted to accept, Natalie didn’t feel comfortable dumping her problems on anyone, even if he was a friend of the family. “Don’t worry about us. We’ll be fine.”

  “I promised your dad.” He stopped pacing, his words terse.

  Natalie’s stomach turned squeamish as she handed Chelsey the water thermos. “What do you mean?”

  Willard’s face contorted, his words just above a whisper. “The day he died. He asked me to look out for you. Right before his heart quit him.”

  He swiped his dark, pooling eyes. “I gave him my word.”

  A brusque wind swept Natalie’s ponytail into her face and threatened to steal her breath away, or maybe it was Willard’s words. She didn’t need the burden of a tired, old man. “The best way you can help is if you go on home. I don’t mean to be disrespectful, but I have too much to do without worrying about you falling or getting run over by a young steer.”

  The gray-haired man waited a few seconds then poked a crooked finger at her. “I promised I’d watch out for you and the kids…so don’t tell me what to do, little missy. I served three tours as a platoon sergeant in Nam and saw men younger than you get blown to pieces by mortar and artillery fire. Most went home with missing limbs—or in a wooden box.” His voice cracked with emotion. “After your grandpa sold me my land, I watched you grow up—changed your nasty little diapers, and put you to bed more times than I can count, so don’t give me none of your worries—not about me. I may be old, but I can still hold my own, and I’ll help who I want.”

  Once he’d finished, a slow smile crept onto his face.

  Natalie knew when she’d been beat and secretly welcomed the support. “If you really want to help, there’s a cattle prod in Dad’s truck.”

  With a huff, he headed in that direction.

  FOUR

  JARED STROLLED DOWN THE DIRT ROAD, HIS FIBERGLASS ROD PROPPED ON his shoulder and a coffee can of earthworms in his hand. The late-afternoon sun ate up the blue sky while meadowlarks nested in the lush green pastures, their plaintive see-you see-yeeer carrying in the wind. He admired the rolling hills of Charris County, eager to try out his new stainless reel in the murky waters of the Cottonwood River and reclaim a piece of his childhood he’d been too long without. Sunday afternoon fishing—a pastime he’d enjoyed with his granddad on many occasions.

  Though the man died years ago, Jared had every intention of drawing near to his memory despite the troubles they’d faced before his death. It somehow seemed fitting to do this on his granddad’s birthday. Maybe he’d even cook the fish for supper—pan-fried with a cornmeal batter.

  Able to imagine the salty taste on his tongue, he grinned, content with the day and pleased with his morning’s sermon—a drastic change from the angst that tore at him the night before. All week he’d struggled to find the right words to say to his new congregation. Then late last night, beat down and ready to admit defeat, he finally gave his fears over to God. Once he did that, the words began to flow onto the paper.

  His granddad always told him the easiest lessons were often the hardest learned. He carried that message with him as he cut through the pasture and headed for the river.

  The directions Jared had been given brought him to a slope on the inside of a wide bend in the river. From here, he noted the shallow riffle over a limestone shelf where the water cut deep into the riverbed to form large swirling pools. Time and current had eaten pockets in the muddy bank beyond. That’s where the flathead were, and in those pools they fed. With images of a twenty or thirty-pounder, Jared broke through the new undergrowth and scooted down the embankment, his boot heels digging into the damp earth.

  When he reached the gravel bar, he prepared his line, wadding sod worms on his hook. It took a moment to remember what he once knew well…lessons on the Republican River back home with his granddad.

  Now mid-May, tufts of cottonwood seed floated from the trees and into the river. The height of spawning season, the channel was sure to be crawling with catfish. In anticipation, Jared rubbed his casting thumb, tender and no longer calloused from summers of riding and breaking the spool. His years in seminary had softened him.

  Thanks to an abundance of spring rain, the water ran swift over the rocks and gushed down into the pools. Jared targeted the area of his choice—a sixty-yard throw. With timed calculation and both hands gripped around his rod, he cast his line.

  Careful, ride the spool—don’t bird-nest.

  As he reeled the line in, he glimpsed a movement from th
e other side of the river. A young boy in jeans and a red ball cap headed due south in a jaunty manner.

  Jared gave a nod and noted the boy’s fishing pole, most attentive to the string of fish dangling at his side.

  He cast again as the boy hiked past through the thick brush. An hour later, he caught sight of the sandy-haired youth, this time on Jared’s side of the river, his pant legs soaked to the knees.

  “Getting any bites?” the youngster asked.

  Jared preferred not to acknowledge the bites he’d missed. He eyed the two big carp and three flathead on the boy’s string. “Nothing to speak of.”

  “You new here? I don’t recall seeing you around.” The boy appeared too young to be crossing rivers on his own or asking so many questions.

  “Yeah, I am. I’m not intruding on your fishing hole, am I? Some men at my church told me this was a good spot, so I thought I’d try it out.”

  “I’m done and heading back.” The boy pressed the bill of his cap down and peered in the direction of what must be home.

  Jared dug another worm from his can to thread onto his empty hook. “What’s your name? Where’s home?”

  The boy squinted at him, and Jared noticed the many freckles dotting his cheeks and nose. “Name’s Dillon. I live a couple miles from here.”

  “Do your folks know where you are?”

  Dillon looked away. “It don’t matter as long as I’m home before dark.”

  The boy’s confidence reminded Jared of himself when he was young. Jared hoped that self-assurance wouldn’t get the boy in trouble as it had for him. He noted the long shadows from the tree line and suspected the sun was glowing reddish pink against the rolling prairie above. “Best be moving on then, so you don’t worry your mom and dad.”

  The slamming of a truck door carried in the wind, and Jared’s eyes roamed the top of the riverbank. After a few minutes, he caught sight of a sleek-haired beauty, her long, black hair fluttering in the air, and her hands on her hips. She called Dillon’s name.