Bring the Rain

by Lizzy Charles

  Colt pats my back, “You ready for the steer?”

  “No problem.” I lean in challenging him.

  “Okay then,” he chuckles and, when Dad isn’t looking, he rests his hand on my lower back to lead way. My molecules shoot warp speed, bumping into one another in a race along my spine while his palm warms my skin. Whoa. My lips burn and beg as they remember his nanosecond of a return kiss from the night before.

  I’m so distracted that it isn’t until we reach the steers’ pen that I remember I have no idea what I’m doing. The steers are massive compared to the calves, and they smell so much worse. The ground’s now mud thanks to their piss. They don’t seem to mind though, stomping and splashing in their creation. One rams into the gate in front of me. I jump away but not in time for a little splash to land on my knee.… Not that it matters anymore, but still.

  When I was little, Dad wouldn’t let me work the steer. They were too big, and, as I eye the largest black one hovering over the herd, they still are. I glance over the bars to the other side. Dad’s chatting with Todd while he drinks from a water bottle. Does he know I’ve never done this before? The hands move some fences and gates, preparing the alley for the steers’ run. Sure, I’ve watched sorting, but that’s not hands on training.

  Dad flicks his cowboy hat up and waves me over. I climb over the gate and join him along the edge of corral holding the steer. The smallest is easily double my size.

  “Remember this? Everyone has a gate they’ll open it if it fits the assigned size of steer. You’ll group the small ones. The steer’ll rush the alley in two’s, sometimes threes. You’ll pull your gate open if it’s a small one to change the chute’s direction into your pen. Got it?” He pats my knee with his work glove, dripping mud over my jeans. “It’s simple, don’t sweat it,” he says as he removes his glove, before calling out gate positions to the other crew hands.

  “Simple. Fine,” I say under my breath. But, if memory serves correct, it’s much more chaotic than that.

  Colt points me towards the first gate, where the small ones will go. It’s great I get the tiny ones, but that doesn’t mean the large ones won’t be charging down that alley too. I cling to my side of the fence. My heart beat ticks away in my ears as I analyze the chute before me. There's fifteen feet of space to hear the sorting call, run my gate into the alley to redirect the small steer into its pen, and close the gate again to keep the steer grouped.

  Yeah, right. Why the hell am I doing this? I turn to find Dad but he’s disappeared on Shadow into the Steer Sea.

  Todd opens the gate and a few steer bolt forward. “LEFT SMALL. RIGHT MEDIUM.” I dash with my gate into the alley, blocking and herding both into my pen. How do you stop one but let the other move on?

  “That’s okay,” Colt calls from behind. “Try again next time.”

  I trudge back to the rail, thankful Todd doesn’t notice my error. He’s focused his attention on keeping a huge steer from leaving the pen too early. “Large,” Todd hollers when my gate clangs shut. “And medium,” a brown one darts past him too. Colt waits a count before he steps into the alley with his gate. He scares the large one towards the edge where it can slide past before he redirects the medium one into his pen.

  Smart. I can do that.

  “Large,” Todd bellows again followed by “Small.” A red steer jolts down the alley toward me, with a petite black one hiding in its tail. One. He sidesteps, kicking the small one. Two. He crashes into the fence. Three. I run, throwing the gate out in front of me, hoping to let the big one slip past while the small one spooks back.

  Slam. The large steer rams the gate and the metal vibrates my soul. I'm thrown on my back as the beast rages against the fence, sending me mud surfing toward the rails.

  THUD. The gate rattles and strong arms yank me off the ground and toss me over a back. My diaphragm slams into his shoulder bone.

  Can’t.

  Breathe.

  Everything slows.

  The steer rams once more against Colt’s climbing legs and then, clang, we’ve escaped.

  Colt stops, hovering on the top rail.

  “Autumn,” he whispers. Calloused hands grace my arms, lowering me down off his broad shoulder. No. Air. Colt wraps his arms around me, still cradling me against him. “Calm. Breathe,” he says. I gasp again. “Feel me breathe, Autumn. It’ll come.” He takes a deep breath, chest expanding against my own.

  Feet pound the ground. Gloved hands reaching up to take me from Colt’s arms. I flail, kicking the hand away to stay with Colt. No air. The view breaks into pixels and my hearing disappears. Colt’s wide blue eyes barrel down, his mouth moves in rhythm with his breath. Each expansion nudges me, reminds me to try.

  Just one last time.

  I gasp, and like someone cutting a rubber band, my chest loosens, letting in air. Air. The pain jolts but it melts away with each new breath. Horrid cow smell and Tide. Tide? I push my face into Colt’s shirt.

  “Colt, hand her down.” Dad’s voice rings as I regain hearing. He reaches up again and this time Colt lowers me into his arms. My wet hair is back on the ground, in the dust now. I suck in another deep breath.

  Air. Sweet stinky cow air.

  “Autumn, are you okay?” He asks as he inspects my legs. “Does this hurt?” He makes me rotate my hips and flex each knee and ankle. It hurts like crazy, but I keep my gaze steady. Everyone’s watching. I refuse to let them see me cry. “How about your ribs?”

  “They’re fine.” I wave him off as I sit up. Dust snowflakes off my head and sticks to my jeans.

  “Colt,” Dad says in a lower voice. “Take her back to the barn, now.”

  The vessel on his neck pops out as Colt hops off the top rung.

  “No,” I wave him away. “I’m fine, Dad. Let’s get back to work.” Everyone’s still staring. My face is warm and I know I’m tomato red. “Let’s all just move on.”

  Dad squeezes my shoulder, just a little too hard. “No. To the barn, please.”

  “I’m okay.”

  Dad’s forehead crinkles. “Autumn, now.” Another squeeze. Crap. He isn’t messing around. Why am I being tossed out? I did nothing wrong. I open my mouth to say just that but Colt tugs on my elbow.

  “I’ve got her, Chris. I’ll be back.”

  “Soon, Colt, soon.” Dad sends an obvious message and I think I hear Colt gulp. Todd chuckles, clapping my dad on the back. They return to the steers. Dad never looking back.

  I stand up, wincing as I pat the dust off my jeans. Howdy walks to my side. My saint. Colt offers his knee. I take it, sliding up and onto the soft leather saddle. Fire shoots down my inner thighs. F-this. Damn steer. What the hell was Dad thinking sending me in there? It could've trampled me, my legs broken in two, or butted me up in the air like they do at the rodeo, landing on my neck and then snap! I’m dead. And he thinks Mom's a neglectful parent? Maybe after she hears about this, she’ll let me leave early and meet her in Paris. We’ll have our favorite sidewalk cafés, chocolate’ patisseries, and I’ll spend my summer in The Louvre.

  There’s no risk of being trampled alive there. It sounds like heaven.

  I pull out my ponytail to relieve some stress. I love the pain of letting it loose after being tied up too tight. As my hair hits my shoulders, I realize how foolish I am. Now the stench of cow shit increases. As Howdy clomps behind Colt’s palomino, I examine the huge chunks of brown muck caked in my hair.

  “All right, easy.” Colt guides me off Howdy when we reach the barn. I’m acutely aware of his hand resting high on the back of my thigh, but I need his help. It burns while I drag my leg across Howdy’s back. “Let go of the horn,” he instructs. I do. As I slide into his arms, I can’t help but groan at the shooting pain down my inner thighs. “There you go.”

  I expect him to put me down but he doesn’t. He carries me into the barn house and brings me into a stall packed fresh with hay. He lays me on the ground. Howdy tromps along behind us, trying to enter the stall too.

 
“No, boy,” Colt says. “This isn’t yours. You know where you go.” Colt points down the hall towards the rail car in back. Howdy snorts before trudging away. Colt follows him to lock the stall’s latch. A loud crack of hooves against wood follows. Howdy is as loyal as they come.

  My whole body aches, but something is messed up in my inner thigh. Colt joins me in the hay. I kick off my shoes and he helps me with my socks. Those ice blue eyes meet mine as he lightly touches my ankle. The warmth of his palm feels nice. He closes his eyes, his hands squeeze up my calf with light pressure, evaluating each muscle and then the knee… and then, holy mother, my thigh. My heart gallops as he gets a little too close. Right before I move to stop his hand’s ascent, he pauses.

  “These muscles are fine.” He nods, not registering the physicality of the situation. My right leg’s next. When he examines my calf, it doesn’t’ hurt, but when the warmth of his hand reaches my knee, there’s a spike of pain. I bite my lip. His hand hovers there for a moment before continuing. He presses harder midway up. Pain sears up and down the entire leg. He rubs it, pain flares and I try to jerk my leg away, but he holds me still, applying a deep, warm pressure on the spot. The pain melts away. And then his hand climbs higher and I’m a mess of shooting pain once more while my heart flies out of control.

  This hurts too much. He’s too close… and way too high.

  I press my palm against his hand. “Stop.” I don’t care if he’s a healing shaman, if his hand slides up a few more inches, my gravestone will read Death by Hormones. His eyes open and lock with mine. I glance down at his hand. Way, way too high.

  “Oh,” he says, blushing.

  “Watch it, buddy.”

  His smile sneaks through then. I toss a handful of hay in his blond hair. Screw my ideals. Hormones rule. I lean in towards him. This is perfect, alone in quiet space. I could go for something good after the way Dad treated me. But Colt shakes his head, flustering to rise to his feet.

  “Your abductor is pulled," he says with a chilled voice.

  “Oh?” I bite my lip, attempting to embrace Gina’s stand-by sultry expression she uses in the clubs for fun.

  “Nothing’s torn.” He brushes off hay from his chaps.

  “And how do you know this?”

  “Physiology major.” A new pair of horse hoofs hit the cement patio out front. “Pre-Med School” he explains before backing out of the stall.

  “How old are you anyway?”

  “Eighteen. I started post secondary a few years ago.” He gives me a classic cowboy nod, leaving without a goodbye. It’s like he became a glacier.

  I grasp at the stall’s wall to heave myself off the ground. Could this get any worse? As an answer to my question, Dad saunters through the door.

  “Autumn, what happened out there?” Dad blocks the stall’s exit. “What were you thinking?”

  “Are you kidding?” I laugh. “I… I was doing the job.”

  “By nearly killing yourself?” He loops his thumbs through his belt.

  “I guess so.” I try to scoot past him without wincing but he holds his ground.

  “Autumn, I'm dead serious. Why would you throw yourself in front of that massive steer?” The vein on his neck still throbs. “Were you trying to get hurt?”

  “No. It happened because I’ve never done it before.” I cock my head. What is he implying?

  “Oh, come on. You’ve seen the timing a million times. You know how it goes.”

  “How could I know that, Dad? You never let me help with that when I was little.”

  “But you watched.”

  “Yeah, like seven years ago,” I say. Dad’s face holds stern. “Seven years, Dad.”

  We stand, dust dancing in the sunlit air between us. My eyes never leave his face. Mom taught me not to back down. He does though. He steps aside, allowing me to pass. Wimp. I hobble out of the stall and out the front door. “Screw this.” Why am I spending my sweet sixteen summer here when I could be in Paris?

  “Autumn, it doesn’t have to be this way. I assumed you’d remember the pace. In a few weeks, it’ll all come back,” he calls after me.

  I whip around. “No Dad.” He just doesn’t get it. It’s not about the task. “You didn’t even care it was dangerous. You made me do it. I don’t need this. I’m going home.”

  “Home? To where—New York City?”

  “Paris.”

  “Paris isn’t your home, Autumn. This,” he motions towards the dusty gravel road and endless horizon, “is your home.”

  “No. This place hasn’t been my home for seven years. Anywhere but here is home. I’m Skyping Mom the moment I get back to the house.” I keep walking and Dad clomps behind me. His pace quickens and his hand rests on my shoulder, turning me around.

  “Autumn, you can’t go. This is my summer.”

  “Your summer?” I search his wrinkles for a tell. What is he talking about?

  Dad’s face is blank, and then, there it is. He rubs his nose, kicking at the dirt. He looks back up, jutting out his jaw before he speaks. “It’s written in our divorce papers and custody agreement. Your sixteenth summer, spent with me. You are under my legal authority and I’m not allowing you to leave.”

  The prairie winds still.

  “There’s a custody agreement?” It’s like Shadow kicked me in the gut. No one told me about this. Ever. They made it seem like they’d worked it the details of the divorce on their own.

  “Yes, there’re official papers. No divorce is easy when a child’s involved.”

  Dad’s reaches out to me, and I push his hand away. “I’m calling Mom.”

  “Fine, but, it’s useless. She can’t bring you to Paris until September second. For the next three months, you’re mine.”

  “I’m yours? Like, as in your daughter? The daughter you visit once a year? The guy who calls once, maybe twice a month to speak with about the weather. No. I’m sorry. You have no claim here.” I stomp up the steps and through the front door before turning around. He stands stupid on the front porch. I glare at him. “I’m my own.”

  Grits aren’t really my thing. I push my fork against the mush and it bounces back. It’s a little rubbery. Yuck. This is so far from my usual Saturday spread of white linens, an espresso, a goblet of fresh squeezed orange juice, and a tomato egg benedict. I tilt the goop from my spoon. It falls into the bowl with a slurp. He tagged a note to the television remote: It’s a universal controller. It’ll do it all. It’s the size and weight of a brick, filled with a gazillion buttons and none of them colored green for power. With the television mounted so high, it’s impossible to reach that button too. The chime from the Grandma’s clock in the front room sends a shiver down my spine. I can’t stand be in here any longer, everything old and new suffocating me. I escape out the back patio door. The already scorching Oklahoma sun greets me. I swear I can hear some of the grass shriveling away.

  The ranch needs water, desperately.

  The wind-blown curtain of dust dries out my throat. Coughing, I step back inside and pour myself a glass of satiating water. I’m about to empty out the last sip but I glimpse the wilting garden outside that could use this more than the pipes. The sweltering sun has already withered whatever vegetables Dad’s planned for his garden, but Mom’s old garden plot is thriving with sprouts. I tip the remaining drops out at the base of a plant. The soil is dry but unlike Dad’s garden, it is free of weeds and rock.

  He’s been tending here.

  A familiar creaking jostles me. I spring out of the soil and find Dad barefoot behind me. “Nice of you to share with the sunflowers. I think I’ll have some of that too, please,” he says, nodding to my glass. Mom always loved sunflowers. Does he grow them to torture himself? I return inside and open a cabinet to get him a new glass. I’m not happy with how yesterday ended. Yes, it was justified, but it wasn’t pretty.

  “You don’t have to get me a new cup, Autumn. I’ll use yours if you’re through. It’s one less to wash.”

  “Mom’s
sunflowers are still here?” I fill the glass and hand it over.

  “Yeah, they come back every year.” He looks out the glass to her garden.

  He drains the cup in one gulp, handing it back for a refill. I don’t know what to say to him. We didn’t speak at all since yesterday’s argument. He spent the day sorting cattle while I isolated myself in my bedroom icing my thigh, reading my Paris travel guide, and pondering the mystery of Colt. Is he only here for the summer then? Pre-Med? Cowboys don’t become doctors. Where does he enroll?

  His expression is blank as he sips from his second glass of water. I guess today will be more of the same, not that I wouldn’t mind spending another afternoon thinking about a hot cowboy. Or better, maybe even getting some answers. He must live close. I bet Gina could help me dig something up before my Skype date with mom tonight.

  Dad clears his throat on his way into the kitchen. “Autumn.” Ah, my name as a stand alone sentence-- a classic, brilliant, and terrifying parenting move. “I’ve got something I want to show you,” he says, while clearing away a stack of papers from a junk desk. Underneath, he opens a laptop and clicks around. Odd. He doesn’t seem like the type who gives a gift after an argument. But then again, we’ve never argued like that before. I bite the inside of my lip. This is wrong. I don’t want him buying my love, no matter how much I want those Frye boots.

  “Here you go.” He turns the laptop around so now it faces me. “Your mother didn’t want you to know about the custody agreement. I disagree. You were right.”

  I was right?

  “You should know everything. I’m here for questions when you’re done.” He stands up and offers me his chair. I sit down and grip the edge of the desk. The fridge pops open and Dad dives inside. I slide my finger across the touch pad, still not daring to look at the screen. It’d be nice to read this in private, but I dare not let the chance pass. With care, I study the page before me.

  Custody Agreement for Autumn Batty Gallagar between Father, Chris Joseph Gallagar and Mother, Jessica Pringle Gallagar (Maiden name: Jessica Grace Pringle).