The sizzle of charred beef smelled different when said cow was alive and kicking and not quartered into pieces and placed in a pan. Brenda Vance backed up. She avoided the bull’s hindquarters, but she wasn't quick enough to avoid the wood. The plank of the fencing splintered, and a shard of wood caught the side of her forehead.
Blood mixed with sweat and caught in her eye. Brenda swore. Her muttered curse made the younger three of her ranch hands wince. They should all wince. It was their fault the cow wasn't properly secure.
"You all right, missy?" came the gravely, tobacco tarnished voice of the fourth and eldest ranch hand. Manuel Bautista had stepped on this ranch around the time when Brenda had taken her first steps before she’d turned a year old. Like her, he knew this place inside and out. Unlike her, he was not the one in charge.
Brenda bit her tongue before she could utter another curse. Her brother might be a pastor, but she’d learned that his role didn’t give her any extra free passes for the next life.
"Don't call me missy." She swiped the blood and sweat with her worn flannel shirt, getting a whiff of the hard work she put in this day. Looking up, she saw that two of the ranch hands’ hands barely glistened in the hot afternoon sun. Their brand-new cowboy hats were starched perfect. Their shirts had not a single drop of sweat at the pits.
“It's Miss Vance,” she said as she stared down at the blood on her shirt. “Or, boss."
As the elder ranch hand turned back to calm the new bull, Brenda caught the sound of a Spanish curse. Two of the other men chuckled. The skinny blond one in tight jeans that most certainly came from either Old Navy or Urban Outfitters was the one Brenda had nicknamed Yankee. The second chuckler, the one Brenda called Frat Boy, had a T-shirt with Greek letters stretched over his brown biceps. He’d claimed his great grandfather was one of the famed Buffalo soldiers. Though Brenda doubted that this kid came from that strong stock when he constantly swatted and yelped when any bug came near him, or any mark landed on any piece of his wardrobe.
The other hand didn’t laugh. He pretended to look away. Not to be above it all. His attempt to not take a side was clear. His name Brenda knew. He was Angel Bautista, the nephew of her ornery elder ranch hand.
Angel was young, just out of high school. Born in a time where girls were told they could do or be anything, and they had examples and paths to follow. Angel’s uncle had been born during a time when women's places were in the kitchen. Or, if she wanted to venture outside, in the garden.
The other two hands were outsiders. This was a semester internship for them. They’d be back to their city colleges in a couple of weeks’ time. Whereas Angel lived here and would need to find and keep work on a ranch. He was stuck between two worlds with two elders to mind. Brenda wouldn’t wait long to figure out who the kid would follow.
This was her life, her livelihood, and she needed good hands to keep it going. She'd been herding cattle just as long as she been riding horses. She'd been bruised feeding livestock. Broken a toe while changing out a horseshoe. A broken wrist while on a cattle run which she’d led on her own. You name it, she sprained it, strained, and might even have fractured it at some point in her line of work as the overseer on this ranch. And through it all, she'd never missed a day of work.
Brenda had done it on her own the last three years after her parents retired. But in those many years, she'd made the ranch so profitable that she'd grown the herd, thereby increasing the workload and the need for hands to help her.
With these sorry excuses for hands, she might as well be doing it on her own. Manuel refused to listen to her way of doing things, relying instead on the old ways. And the other men followed behind him, even though she was the one who signed their paychecks.
"Maybe you should head back inside the house," said Manuel. "To tend to your injury. It's dangerous work out here."
He left off the end of his sentence for a woman. At least he learned one lesson today.
This had all stemmed from her suggestion that they use sugar as well as grain to corral the new bull she’d just purchased so that they could brand it. Sugar would’ve helped calm the animal down. But it was a new way of doing things, and Manuel had balked. Then the bull had kicked out.
Brenda was too tired to fight. The blood still dripping in her eyes was making it hard to oversee what they were doing. She knew they weren’t doing it the way she wanted them to do it. But the bull was branded, signifying that she was the owner. That was the major item on her to-do list for the day, so she might as well call it a day.
She banged through the back door of the big house and froze. The back door led directly into the house’s kitchen. Dinner was sizzling in a pan. A perfectly cooked steak alongside roasted smashed potatoes just out of the oven and buttered green beans. The fridge was opened and a body hunched down inside. The door closed, and a man in an apron stood.
"You are truly a gift from God," said Brenda.
"And you're bleeding from the crown of your head,” said the man. “But I don’t see any thorns.”
Brenda touched her hand to her forehead. The warm trickle of blood stained her fingertips. Luckily, there was no pain.
"If I go out there, am I going to find one of the ranch hands dead, Bren?"
Brenda sighed, disappointment clear on the gust of breath. "No, Walter. You won't be giving any last rites tonight."
Brenda's brother, Pastor Walter Vance, grabbed paper towels and pressed them to his sister’s forehead.
"Ouch,” she complained.
Walter ignored her. This wasn’t the first time he’d cleaned her up after she’d broken skin. It had been a regular occurrence in the Vance household when they were kids. Might be one of the reasons he’d gone into the church. “Tell me what happened?"
"Incompetence. Chauvinism. Lazy ranch hands. That's what."
"I thought Bautista was one of the best?" said Walter.
"Maybe twenty years ago. The times have changed."
"Good thing that they have," said Walter. "With all the technology you've implemented into the ranch, you need fewer hands than when we were kids."
Their dad had left the ranch to both of them. But Walter gave up his share to Brenda and turned to the church. She was grateful. Especially since because her brother was not a partner, she didn't have to share with him just how much said new technology cost her, not to mention the new bull. She’d financed it, and the first payment was coming due. She didn’t have enough cash liquid to keep up with all the bills and overhead.
“Bren, if something is wrong," her brother said, "you’d tell me?"
No, she wouldn’t. "Of course, I would."
Brenda learned long ago that lying to a pastor didn't cause an immediate lightning strike. So, she had time. "As long as you keep coming over and cooking for me, all will be right with the world."
"Maybe you should marry," said Walter.
Brenda's utensils clattered down on the plate. This was one topic where her brother was not evolved. Brenda had no desire to get married. Men slowed her down. Case in point, her ranch hands were slowing her operation.
"You got a ranch full of soldiers next door," said Walter. "Some looking to marry in the next ninety days, as goes the regulations on the ranch land.”
Which was why Brenda steered clear of her neighbors at the Purple Heart Ranch. And that included their boundary line, which forced individuals to get married just to stay on the healing ranch. She was sure the arrangement was illegal, yet no one had reported it.
"Didn't one of those soldiers run off with your fiancé?" she said.
Beth Cartwright, the pastor's daughter, had been engaged to Walter briefly. But then her childhood crush who had been MIA returned, sweeping her off her feet with a proposal and an engagement ring.
"Reese is a good man," said Walter. There was genuineness in his voice despite the bitterness of the breakup. "All of the soldiers are."
Walter was far too forgiving. But it was part of his job description. Brenda's job description was rancher. She didn't have time to be someone's wife. She was far too busy with cattle, more repair projects than she could fit on an 8 x 10 sheet of paper – single-spaced, and good for nothing ranch hands who she could see were headed to their trucks before sundown without getting their work done.
No. She was best left to her own devices. She doubted she would ever allow a man to take her hand.