A Gentle Rain by Deborah F. Smith Read Free Book Online

Ranch
    If anybody'd asked me to predict the other events that were about to change my life forever-the first one havin' been Joey's diagnosis-I'd never have said, "Oh, I'll probably buy a killer horse." I thought I was smarter than that.
    It was spring auction day at the Talaseega Livestock Barn. We got out the Sunday Stetsons and plenty of cologne for a trip to Talaseega, site of the biggest cattle, horse, donkey, mule and goat auction in north Florida.
    Ranchers like me went there not just to do business but to socialize and trade gossip. You could see everything from new trucks to new boob jobs. Talaseega provided some fine people-watching opportunities. Especially if the people were females wearing tank tops and skin-tight jeans.
    But with Joey's diagnosis weighing me down, I'd've been happy to trade the springtime Talaseega trip for a beating with a big stick. It was a four-hour roundtrip drive, and that's a long haul when you're caravanning a sickly brother, a truck pulling a trailer full of nervous yearlings, and a van full of persnickety ranch hands.
    I loved my crew, but there was no getting around it: They didn't make life easy. I was the trail boss for seven men and three women who had, let's call it, a special way of looking at the world. Not that they didn't work hard; they worked like dogs. Their day, like mine, started at dam-i with chores for a thousand head of beef cattle and fifty horses. They never complained.
    Yeah, they worked like dogs, but getting `em ready to go somewhere was like herding cats.
    "I'm two pecans shy of a pie," I yelled through a bullhorn pointed at the cabins and trailers across the creek from the main house. "And if those two nuts don't get their behinds into the van pronto, they're staying home alone."
    Cabin doors popped open. Cheech came out with a brand-new turkey feather twirling from his hatband. I watched as he hung his camera around his neck. God bless digital. Now Cheech could take a thousand cheap pictures of his favorite subject. Rocks and feet. "Vengo este momento, Boss," he yelled.
    Cheech trotted my way over the creek bridge like a bow-legged sailor. He was a Cuban Yosemite Sam. A plastic grocery bag dangled from one elbow. Cheech toted his snacks and drinks any time he left the ranch. He had a thing about his food and wouldn't eat anything but ranch chow. Whenever I took the hands to dinner at The Fat Flamingo, a local buffet restaurant, Cheech took a lunch box and I bought him iced tea just to keep the manager happy.
    On the other hand, Cheech's weird food ideas made him a wonderworking food psychic where animals were concerned. He handled all our feeding chores. When it came to mixing livestock feed for maximum benefits, Cheech was a gourmet chef.
    I turned my bullhorn toward his neighbor. "Bigfoot, leave those cats be! They don't need to know your schedule for the day. They've already got it memorized. Come on!"
    Bigfoot was telling his four cats everything they needed to know about where he was going and when he'd be back. Bigfoot straightened to his full height and waved at me merrily as he tromped across the bridge.
    Sunlight glinted off the silver belt buckle he'd won at a Special Olympics rodeo. A breeze fluttered the blue ribbon he'd gotten at our county fair for throwing an old bass boat motor the farthest. Sort of like winning the Highland Games for Crackers.
    He loved that prize ribbon, and he wore it on all special occasions. Bigfoot couldn't add two plus two, but he could pick up a two-hundredpound calf as gentle as a mama cat picking up her kitten. There was nothing on four legs Bigfoot couldn't move, carry or hold down with his bare hands without harming a hair on its hide.
    I put the bullhorn to my mouth again. "Cheech. Bigfoot. `Foss up. Where's Lula this mornin'?"
    Both men grinned shyly and shrugged. They were like kids when it came to talking about their girlfriend.
    "I'm right here, Ben," Lula yelled out the window of Cheech's cabin. "Hold your