by Cassie Cole
I gave a polite smile. “I don’t want to sound callous, but my father and I weren’t close.”
I wasn’t just deflecting: we weren’t close. Not growing up, and not since then. In fact, I was struggling to feel much of anything about his death, and I was beginning to think it had nothing to do with emotional shock.
Here’s the thing about my dad: he was never good about taking an interest in my life. Dinner table conversations centered around the ranch, which cattle had grazed where, how many bags of feed we needed to buy the next time we were in town. When I asked for a computer for my 14th birthday, he snorted and said computers were a waste of time, and that was the end of that discussion. He was thoroughly uninterested in anything I liked.
But he sure loved that fucking ranch.
It was the only thing he seemed to love. His passion, passed down to him by his father. The only time he smiled was when he’d repaired the fence wire or the stones around the well, and he only laughed when he was on a horse. Anything else, whether hugging his wife or getting to know his daughter, he treated like wasted time.
I’d learned to accept it, growing up. Momma made up for his coldness tenfold, and I never felt unloved. All things considered, my life could have been worse.
But now my father was dead, and it was my turn to be cold. It came naturally without pettiness; a rotten harvest he’d planted and tended for 25 years. His death wasn’t a tragedy to me. It was an inconvenience.
“Honest,” I repeated to the sad looking man across the desk. “We just weren’t close.”
“Even so. Losing a parent is difficult. Especially after your mother…”
“I’m holding up okay,” I quickly said. The last thing I wanted to discuss with this man was momma. “Let’s talk about what needs to be done.”
Robert—I couldn’t think of him as a Bobby—hesitated. “Do you want to discuss how… That is to say, the way in which… Your father…”
I waved a hand. “You were clear in your voicemail. He slipped while repairing the roof. Broke his neck. Pretty straightforward.”
“Yes, of course. Straightforward.” He opened the manila folder and slid out one sheet. “I’ve taken the liberty of contacting the funeral home in town. Do you have a preference for which day to hold the service, or a viewing? Both Saturday and Sunday are open.”
Of course the were. My dad’s death was likely the only business they’d had in over a year. “No need for a viewing; we can do a service on Saturday and be done with it.”
He made a note on the sheet of paper and moved it to the corner of the desk, precisely parallel with the edges. “Now then. Your father’s will.”
I smiled. “Don’t we have to wait until after the funeral to read the will?”
His mustache curled up in a grin. “Actually, no! That’s all Hollywood nonsense. In actuality, the will can be read at any time, and is best done as soon as possible. The part that takes a while is executing the will. That involves submitting the will to probate court and then reviewing your father’s finances, seeing what outstanding debts are owed by the estate…”
“Great, so let’s get started.” I hoped I didn’t sound impatient.
“Very well. All the forms are boilerplate; your father made no specific statements or testament. It’s all very simple since your family is small.” He cleared his throat. “I, Richard Jameson, declare this to be my will, and I revoke any and all wills and codicils I previously made…”
I zoned out while he was going through all the legal jargon.
“I give all our family photo albums and videotapes to my sister, Sophia. All other tangible personal property and proceeds of insurance I give to my daughter, Cynthia Jameson.”
I blinked. That was it, then. No mess, no fuss.
“It goes on to list the specific property,” Robert continued. “20,000 acres of land and all mineral rights therein, the 2,800 square foot home, all heads of cattle, horses, various smaller animals such as chickens, and all supplies and equipment required for such maintenance.”
“Great,” I said. “Where do I sign?”
“You don’t. This is all just for your information. The only thing you’ll sign is the receipt of inheritance after it all passes through the probate court.”
“So we’re done here?”
Robert looked at the stack of remaining papers, which was considerably thick. “Well, err, next we have payroll information for the four ranch hands your father employed…”
“Don’t need to know about any of it. I just want to get this over with quickly.”
“Yes, umm, but beyond that some of the estate finances are included. It’s recommended we review them. They’re only a broad overview of the estate; I’ll need to request the additional records from the bank, and any creditors your father may have had. That way if you decide to keep the land rather than do an estate sale…”
I leaned in. “Robert, I don’t want to sound callous but I have no interest in keeping anything. I just want it all gone. Sell the mineral rights, the land, the home. Hell, send the cattle straight to the slaughterhouse. Even if it means selling them for pennies on the dollar, I just want to put this behind me and get back home.”
He sat up very straight. “I understand. I’ll get this submitted to the probate this afternoon. Once that is returned we can find an estate arbiter to handle liquidating all the assets.”
“Can’t we get the arbiter now?” I asked. “Speed things up?”
“I’m afraid we have to wait for the Grant of Probate before we can begin anything else.” He chuckled. “Can’t have someone selling your estate and belongings without legal proof that they can sell them!”
“Guess not,” I said, rising and extending my hand. “Thanks for all your help.”
“Of course.” He shook my hand. “Are you going to head over there, next?”
“That’s the plan. Look for anything sentimental. Do some cleaning. Get a feel for what needs doing before we hand it all over to someone else. How long until we get the Grant of Probate?”
“I’ll drive over to the court and submit it right now. It usually takes a few days to get back, but the judge is a hunting friend of mine, so I’ll see if I can speed things up. And if you need anything else, of course you can ask.”
I cocked my head. “Actually, can you recommend a hotel in town? Does Maggie still have that little motel next to the McDonald's?”
He winced. “Maggie’s closed last year. Not enough business. The closest hotel is an hour east in Ozuna.
Huh. That surprised me: the town typically had no shortage of oil surveyors and workers passing through. I guess times had changed. But I sure as hell didn’t want to drive an hour east, in the direction of home. If I started that trip I just might keep going until I hit Austin.
He scratched his mustache. “If, uhh, you don’t feel comfortable staying at your ranch, on account of what happened there, my wife can make up the spare bedroom…”
“It’s totally fine,” I said. “I’ll stay at the ranch.”
4
Cindy
The sun was falling toward the horizon ahead of me as I drove down the two mile gravel driveway onto our property. Pasture land flanked the road on either side. I couldn’t see any cattle, though that wasn’t surprising; I was only looking at about 1% of the total land I owned.
It all seemed so huge, and so small at the same time.
The house rose in the distance, with the single tree standing vigil next to it. Two stories of brown wood with a porch ringing the entire bottom floor, it had been beautiful when it was first built but now it seemed out of date. A relic from another time. Another life.
No cars were parked in front of the garage. The ranch workers should have been settling in for the night; they must have gone into town. I hoped my father hadn’t hired poorly. The last thing I wanted to deal with was a bunch of rowdy drunks while I tried to sort through my shitty memories.
The moment I stepped out of my SUV, a small f
urry shape came sprinting out of the doggy door.
“Heidi!” The German Shepherd practically tackled me as I crouched down, licking my face and sniffing me all around. “I forgot all about you.”
She rolled onto her back and whined until I rubbed her belly.
The front door was unlocked—which was good because I didn’t have any keys, and my hips were definitely too wide to fit through Heidi’s door. The smell of the house hit me like a sack of memories: wood and dust and the distant scent of leather oil. I stood in the foyer and took a moment to collect myself.
Here I was. Home again.
I had to search my memory for the last time I’d visited. Christmas, three years ago. Dad acted like he was too busy with ranch work to entertain me, so I returned to Austin after only a single night here.
I took a deep breath, let it out slowly, and set to examining the house.
Everything was different, and everything was the same. My bedroom was a guest room now, plain and boring. Unlike momma, dad had loathed unnecessary decorating. But when I checked the other three bedrooms upstairs, I found them all similarly unused. Maybe the ranch workers were staying somewhere else? Free lodging was usually one of the perks of the job.
Once the nostalgia wore off, I began to see the cracks. The literal cracks, in some cases: the plaster was cracked along the ceiling in the living room, foyer, and downstairs bathroom. The hardwood floors were so dusty I almost slipped and fell, and every fifth board looked to be damaged, or outright broken. Everything creaked. The ceiling of the living room had a huge oval wet spot. I got on a chair to touch it; it was still damp. Must be a leak from the upstairs bathroom.
The master bedroom on the first floor was a mess of boxes and papers. My dad hadn’t been a hoarder, but it looked like he’d been well on his way before he died. The sheets were wrinkled and clearly hadn’t been changed in weeks. The room stank of mildew and grime. Every corner and seam between wall and floor held a layer of dirt.
Overall, it was going to need some work. At least a day or two of cleaning, and then I could figure out which cosmetic repairs were worth making. Hopefully the exterior was in better shape. Ultimately, all I really had to do was get it into a semblance of cleanliness so potential buyers could look around. The other damages could be negotiated at closing.
I crossed the back yard to the huge red barn, which was more brown than red with age. I was excited to see the horses, which was the one part of the ranch I always loved. Judging by their temperament they were just as happy to see a human—and judging by the smell their stalls hadn’t been mucked out in days. At least a week, I thought when I saw the piles of droppings covering the hay in one horse’s stall. Dad’s death wasn’t to blame for that.
I gave the chicken coop next to the barn only a cursory glance. They were clucking happily, and that was good enough for now. There were the 20,000 acres of land I still had to check, and the cattle roaming it, but that was a problem for future-Cindy to deal with.
Dad still had that damn answering machine on the wall of the kitchen, which flashed with a red 12 to indicate how many voicemails were unplayed. I pressed play to give myself something to listen to while perusing cabinets.
BEEP.
“Mr. Jameson. This is John Bolton at the First Credit Union. Calling again to discuss your account. Give me a call at your earliest convenience.”
Everything in the kitchen was the same. The red glass bowls and matching water glasses, straight out of the 1970s. The silverware with the shiny wooden handles. The big mixing bowl with the painted sunflower in the bottom.
BEEP.
“Hey there, Richard. It’s Gus again. Your feed order is still sittin’ here, waiting for you to pick it up. Come by any time.”
The appliances were the same ones from when my grandfather had redone the kitchen some 40 years ago. A white metal stove with four gas burners. The tiny little oven that was just barely tall enough to fit momma’s turkey on Thanksgiving. A fridge so old it could be called vintage, with the metal handle that twisted to lock the door closed. Dad still hadn’t bought a microwave. He didn’t trust them.
BEEP.
“Mr. Jameson, I don’t care how many times you call, we’re not fucking budging.”
I jerked my head toward the answering machine.
“We’ll come back to work when we get our pay from the last three months. We’ve been more than patient. Christ, Alex has kids to feed. I hate to see the ranch go to disrepair but I had to take a job at another ranch until you pay me. Times are too tough to skip a paycheck, you know? No hard feelings. We’re loyal, and we’ll come back the moment you make things right, but not until then.” The voice sighed. “I’m sorry.”
BEEP.
Well that explained why the ranch workers weren’t around. Dad was always a hard-ass when it came to payroll. If a worker didn’t do what he considered a flawless job, dad would dock his pay or withhold it until the worker righted the wrong. Some ranch hands suffered it quietly, and strove to meet his unrealistic demands.
Others eventually reached their breaking point.
It never crossed my mind that it might be an issue of money. This was just the type of thing dad used as leverage. It was the principle of the thing. Dad was the kind of man who would demand a refund from a little girl’s lemonade stand if he thought the drink was too sweet.
Was. Dad was the kind of man. Past tense.
I felt a tickle in my gut, and pushed it back down before it could manifest.
The fridge was empty except for condiments. The freezer held 20 pounds of steak, but unless I wanted to wait until morning for them to thaw I was going to go hungry.
My stomach rumbled. That sure as hell wasn’t an option.
My phone had no signal, which meant no Google Maps. “Guess we’ll have to see what’s in town,” I told Heidi. I grabbed my keys.
*
Greenville wasn’t green, nor had it ever been green; its name was more wishful thinking or weak marketing than a legitimate description. The town I’d considered home was still barely more than a one road village, with a single gas station, single McDonald’s, and no movie theater. But the feed store was still running, with the glowing neon “OPEN” light above the door blessedly lit.
“Stay here,” I told Heidi.
The girl behind the counter wasn’t a familiar face, and barely looked up from her magazine. There were no hand carts, so I grabbed a push cart and made my way to the grocery section in the back. Shopping while hungry was always a bad idea, but my options were limited because most of the small freezer was filled with microwave dinners. I grabbed a frozen pizza, a half gallon of milk, and some eggs to make breakfast. After hesitating, I tossed two bags of Doritos into the cart. My diet could fuck off until I got home.
“Coffee!” I hissed under my breath. That was more important than the food. At least a coffee maker was one appliance I knew dad owned. He refused to set foot outside before he’d had his first cup. I guess that’s where I got it from.
Thinking of that reminded me of all the work ahead of me. Tomorrow was going to be a long day. How long had the ranch hands been gone? Days, or weeks? The land might need a lot of work: even under the best of conditions fences needed to be constantly checked and repaired. Herds were susceptible to disease this time of year, which meant identifying sick cows and quarantining them until they got better. Calves had to be watched carefully, weaned and vaccinated, and then castrated before they were three months old. And there were a whole host of other little things like urine tests to ensure proper nutrition that I didn’t even know the first thing about.
I’d hate to shell out three months back pay out of my own pocket, but what choice did I have but to get the ranch workers back as soon as possible? The longer the ranch went unmanaged the more it devalued. Plus I would make the money when the estate eventually sold.
That was better than trying to do it all by myself. I helped my dad with chores when I was a girl, but running an entire ranch
alone was a challenge I didn’t care to attempt.
I stopped to check my phone. Sure enough, I had three bars of signal. Good to know Greenville was an oasis of civilization if I needed to get back on the grid.
As I pushed back toward the check-out counter, two men entered through the front door, mid-argument.
“Come on Mr. Anderson,” one man said. “You can’t do this.”
“Sure I can,” the other said. His raspy voice and white hair meant he was much older. So did his dismissive tone. “I’m doing it right now. You’re all fired.”
“We have a contract.”
“That contract is void because one of you is dead weight. The requirements were clearly stated.”
“Daniel can do plenty of other tasks! Chores, and repairs, and…”
The old man grabbed a beer from the fridge by the cashier and pointed it at the younger man. “I need three ranch hands who can drive my cattle. Not two. Three. That’s what you promised me, and that’s what I paid for. Honestly, what kind of cowboy can’t even ride a damn horse?”
The younger man stiffened dangerously. “You don’t know him.”
“And now that he doesn’t work for me, I don’t care to.” He slapped a paper bill down on the counter without looking at the cashier and started to walk away.
“Come on, Mr. Anderson, we can work something out.”
“Work it out for my lawyers. You owe me four heads of cattle.”
The bell chimed as he strode out the door.
Realizing that I’d stopped to eavesdrop on the argument, I pushed my cart back toward the front. The cashier was gazing at him like he was made of gold.
“And here I thought my day was bad,” I said.
He turned around.
It would be melodramatic to say my heart skipped a beat, but that’s honestly what it felt like. That, or getting kicked in the chest by a wild horse. This guy was fine. Jeans and black boots, with a flannel button-down with the sleeves rolled up to the elbows, revealing dark tattoos on his forearms. A cowboy hat that matched the boots. And a face that could have been chiseled from stone except for the bristles of a five o’clock shadow.
