should come and meet Chuck.â
He led her outside to a series of pens made out of dense posts and rails. Cal drew her forward, indicating she should climb up next to him on the planks. He hung over the top rail, long arms dangling a net towards a fully grown buffalo bull standing in the middle of the pen. Hope climbed up another plank from Cal and stood up tall, looking at the huge animal.
âWhy Chuck?â
âAs in steak?â
Hope stared at the massive hulk of the buffalo blowing softly through his nostrils as he contemplated the hay net. She looked at his dark coat and the lighter coloured curly mop between his horns. âYou donât mean . . . ?â
Cal nudged her shoulder with his. âNah, of course I donât mean that . . . heâs one of the best breeding bulls in the States. Charles Mayweather Austin is his real name. Chuck for short, but this guy will never be beef. Dad is like totally in love with him. You should see it. Chuck? Come on, you big flirt, come and play.â
Chuck lumbered towards Calâs outstretched hand and the hay. He blew on the net for a few seconds before snatching a few strands and munching as Cal rubbed his head. Hope kept her hands well away, until Cal took one and placed it on Chuckâs curls, his fingers sending little sparks up her wrist. Chuck carried on pulling at the net with his long purple tongue, snatching out wisps of hay.
âSee? Harmless.â
âIf heâs harmless, why have you got him in this tiny pen?â
Calâs head tipped to one side. âAh, well. Most of the buffalo stuff is artificial insemination, genetics and all that. But Dadâs big on keeping them as naturally as possible so . . . Chuck here gets to pay a few house calls over the summer. But first, it helps if you keep him here for a few hours each day and feed him up a little. Er, power nutrition, that kind of thing. And frustration. They think that helps too.â
Hope began to laugh. âYou so have to talk to my motherabout this. Sheâll have a whole view about how Chuck is representative of the worst of modern male society.â She realized their hands were still touching and pulled away, letting her hair fall into her face. âMention the house calls and we may have an international diplomatic incident on our hands.â
He was laughing. âI think Iâve caught on to the fact your momâs into womenâs rights. This is modern Montana, not the Old West.â
âYou wouldnât know it from that policeman. What did he mean? About you?â
Cal stopped laughing and jumped down from the edge of the corral. âNothing.â He walked away.
Back in the house, Hope wrestled with the remote to turn on the television. The huge screen finally came to life, showing unfamiliar American news. She went to the kitchen and opened the fridge in search of a bottle of water.
âWhat do you want?â Cal asked from behind her, Buddy at his heels.
She jumped. âOh, just water, please.â
He reached over her shoulder, tugging a water out of a drawer half filled with beer stamped âMoose Droolâ, cracking the top and handing it to her. He was wearing a fresh shirt and jeans. His hair was damp and pushed away from his face, and his feet were bare. He smelt like washing powder and sun-warmed skin as he pushed the door closed.
Hope took a sip of water.
âWhereâs your dad if you and your mom travel like this?âCal asked.
âNot around.â
âSee him much?â
She twisted the cap back on. âNever met.â
He cocked an eyebrow. âCome and sit outside?â
Hope followed him out to the seating on the terrace. The house was on the side of a rolling hill, which terminated abruptly in a steep drop. Beyond it was a plain rising into the mountains to the west towards which the sun was dropping. He collapsed into a chair, gesturing for her to do the
George Simpson, Neal Burger