Emmett Pratt had not been involved in his own haying in a long time. That was what he had a grown son and a bunkhouse full of hired hands for. But since Cedra left, he needed more to occupy himself than riding around on horseback watching other men work.
“Pump some water, Sonny,” he said, pointing toward the pump handle. Sonny did as he was told for once, and Emmett leaned out over the trough and felt the well-water splash across his head and the back of his neck. It was icy cold, but it felt good. Emmett was hot. He might even have a touch of sunstroke coming on, and he needed cooling off fast.
He allowed as how stacking hay might not be a job for a man almost fifty years old, especially one who wasn’t used to it.
“Damn, ol’ man,” Sonny said with a snigger. “You look like you’ve about had it.”
“Keep cranking that handle,” Emmett said. He let the water wash over him a while longer, then tilted his head and drank some. He stopped himself before he swallowed too much. When he stood erect, he felt some better, but it was clear to him that piling up winter feed on a hot August afternoon was a chore he’d been better suited for in younger times.
He pulled a kerchief from his rear pocket and wiped his face and neck. The boys were still out in the field cutting, but, though Emmett hated to admit it, he’d had enough. It had been a long, hot week, and he’d worked right alongside every twenty-year-old on the place.
He’d never liked the practice of farming his feed anyhow. He was a cattleman, not a damned sod buster. When he’d first come out to this country the prairie grass was higher than a tall man’s ass. A fella’s cattle could eat their fill summer or winter wherever they found it. Hell, one spring he’d located a bunch of his cows nearly sixty miles to the east. It was an open range in those ancient days, and they’d wandered that far over the course of the winter hunting grass not covered in snow. But that was fine by Emmett. Rounding them up in the spring was part of it. It was a lot better than fences, and it was a whole lot better than keeping them penned all winter and feeding them hay. To Emmett Pratt’s cow-savvy way of thinking, cattle should be able to come and go as they damn well pleased; that’s why they wore brands. But, of course, the open-range days, like plenty of other good things, were gone forever.
Emmett tied the wet kerchief around his neck and looked across the trough at his son. Sonny was a handsome kid, nearly six feet tall, lean and hard. He had strawberry blond hair like his mother and eyes the color of an old pair of jeans. But the boy didn’t have his mother’s disposition, never did. Emmett Pratt had been a lucky man at finding good women. They didn’t make them any better than Alice, his first wife, nor Cedra, his second. He lost Alice to a cancer, and Cedra . . . well, he wasn’t sure what it was he’d lost Cedra to, but he guessed it was to the loyalty a man has to show toward his son.
“What’re you doing in from the field, anyhow?” he asked. “Why aren’t you out there with the rest of the crew?”
“Come in to change my shirt,” Sonny said. “Me and the Joneses are headed into town.”
That was what Emmett had figured before he had even asked. “God-damn it, Sonny, it’s the middle of the week and there’s haying to be done.”
“It’s getting done,” Sonny said, jerking his thumb back over his shoulder toward the crew in the field.
His loyalty was not fading, but Emmett was beginning to admit to himself—if not to anyone else—that Sonny had grown to be a disappointment. The boy had always been a little wild, even before his mother died. Now, though, he’d become more than wild. He was mean. Emmett knew that. But there was still some good in him. Sonny wasn’t as bad as Cedra believed he was. And as much as he loved that woman, Emmett couldn’t accept as true what Cedra said. Sonny would never harm his stepsister. Never. It came down to Sonny’s word against Polly’s and Cedra’s, and in the end, Emmett had to go with his son. That was how it had to be. Even if it cost him what he knew had been a happy marriage to a fine woman, there was nothing else he could do.
“You’re not going into Probity tonight,” Emmett said. He figured telling Sonny that would cause some ruckus, but before his son could answer, they heard horses coming down the road. Emmett turned in time to see Hank and Lester Jones ride into the yard.
“Heya, Sonny,” Hank called. “Mr. Pratt.” He made a gesture toward his hat.
Hank was twenty, the older of the two brothers, and right at Sonny’s age. Hank and Lester’s parents had both passed on, and the two boys were left to run their small ranch out on La Bonte Creek. From what Emmett could tell, they were pretty much running it into the ground.
“Mount up, Sonny,” said Lester. “Let’s get-a going. Time’s a wastin’.” Lester was a dull-looking kid of about eighteen. His teeth were terrible. What few he had left poked out in every direction and were black around the edges.
Hank took off his hat and whacked his brother in the face so hard it left a welt across Lester’s cheek. “I don’t know what your hurry is,” he said. “That whore Becky’ll be spending her night screwing every cowboy and thimble rigger in the county before you get a chance at ’er.”
Lester gave his busted picket fence grin and said, “Ah, hell, she’ll make time for me, Hank. That girl loves me dearly.” He rubbed the red welt with dirty fingers, but didn’t complain to his big brother about it. This was likely not the first unexpected smack to come Lester’s way.
“Loves you,” Sonny said with a laugh. “She’ll love you as long as you got yourself a couple spondulicks you ain’t got a problem with handing over to that whore-keeper Adelaide.” Adelaide was Probity’s bawdy-house proprietress.
Emmett suspected his son was more than a little familiar with the inner workings of a bawdy house.
Sonny climbed aboard his sorrel.
“Sonny,” Emmett said, “you heard me. You’re staying home tonight.”
“Well, sir,” Sonny said, reining his horse’s head toward the gate and the road beyond, “I reckon you’re as wrong about that as you can be, ya ol’ coot.” He gave out a high-pitched laugh, gigged the sorrel, and led the two brothers off in a lope.
Emmett Pratt had little experience with having his wishes ignored, but it seemed he exercised less and less influence over his son. He knew he was to blame for the way Sonny turned out. The boy was ten when Alice died, and Emmett had never been much of a father. But deep down where it counted, Emmett still believed Sonny was a good boy.
From the shadow’s slant, it figured to be around five o’clock. He’d hoped to get all this field cut by the end of the day so they could get started on the field by the river tomorrow morning. It didn’t look like that was going to happen, though, now that Sonny was quitting early.
Emmett looked around and found his straw hat on the ground beside the trough. He picked it up and placed it on his head. He considered going inside for a rest, but with Cedra gone, the house was an empty place. Besides, he felt better now. The hot spell that had come over him earlier had passed.
He pulled off the kerchief, pumped some water over it, then tied it back around his neck. Yes, sir, he told himself as he headed off to the field to give the boys a helping hand, his son could be ornery, but at heart Sonny was still a good boy.