From the Boots Up (3 page)

This time, however, Meg approached Saratoga from the
north, because she’d had to go to Laramie to pick up the saddles Stan had
requested. So she’d taken I-25 north-northwest from there to Walcott, and
turned south onto 130. She hit the outskirts of town twenty miles later and
slowed. Saratoga maintained a loose-limbed western feel, as if the original
Anglo newcomers had just decided to park their wagons among the tall cottonwoods
and Chinese elms then build houses nearby, keeping a respectable distance from
neighbors. Downtown, which encompassed barely a few blocks, was easy to find
off Highway 130, a main artery, and once Meg got past the residential areas on
the outskirts of town, she hit the area zoned for businesses, too.

Several locals gave her the quintessential rural
wave—a raised index finger off the steering wheel of a pickup—and
she returned the greeting in kind. Tourist vehicles she recognized, as well. Those
were the sport sedans, usually with out-of-state-plates. They came for the
fishing and outdoor recreation, including Saratoga’s mineral hot springs. The
North Platte River flowed through town, and it harbored some of the most active
in the state, known among Indians for generations before the city fathers
harnessed it in the late nineteenth century and created an outdoor municipal
pool, the Hobo Hot Pool, free of charge, for sitting and soaking. If you wanted
to pay a little more, you could indulge in the nearby resort, just off
downtown. Meg had enjoyed both over the years, though now that she was in
school, she didn’t get back enough to do it. Maybe if she got a little time off
later this summer, she could. She’d also recommend the springs to the reporter,
give everybody a break at the ranch from scrutiny.

She pulled Stan’s big Ford F-350 off 130 into the
dirt parking lot of Saratoga Feed and parked right near the entrance. She got
out and stretched, the afternoon sun of mid-May warm on her back through her
tee. A couple of older guys leaned against a beat-up blue Chevy truck nearby.
One, with features as craggy as a canyon wall, nodded at her in greeting as she
walked toward the store’s entrance. She gave him an answering nod before she
went in.

“Hey, Chet,” she said to one of the men behind the
counter as she approached. He was a living embodiment of a Wyoming
landscape—big, raw-boned, wind-blown. His voice rumbled from his chest
like a train. He’d been doing business with her father longer than she’d been
alive.

“Meg. Good to see you. When did you get in?”

“Couple weeks ago. Had to finish up finals.”

He nodded, approving. “Your dad says you got straight
As again.”

“I did.” She gave him a grin. Worked her ass off, but
it was worth it.

“Good to hear it. Vet school still in your plans?” he
asked as he pushed the brim of his worn ball cap back on his forehead a bit.
The Justin Boots logo on the crown was wearing off. It said “stin Boot”.

“Yep. I’d like to stay at CSU, but I’ll apply to a
few others.” She handed him the list of items her father had requested. “Unless
I decide to be a bull rider, of course.”

He smiled. “Taking any classes this summer?”

“Nope. But that’s okay ’cause I’ll still graduate in
December.” And she was already preparing for her classes, with a reading list
she’d put together before the previous semester had ended.

“I reckon there’ll be a hell of a party this side of
the Tetons after your last semester.” He glanced down at Meg’s list.

“Well, you’re invited,” Meg said.

“Much obliged. Where are you parked?”

“Right out front.”

“All right. Give us a few.”

A bow-legged older man plunked two new pairs of
leather gloves and two tins of gall salve on the counter. A young man Meg
vaguely recognized rang up the items while Chet took care of her list.

Two more locals approached the counter with items in
hand and she turned to wander down the aisles. The feed store was as familiar
to her as home. She loved how it smelled like the barns on the ranch, a pungent
mixture of molasses from omolene and other animal chows, alfalfa, and leather.
She studied the shelves of fly and lice control products and listened to random
snippets of conversation about the things that mattered here. Weather, cattle
health, livestock for sale, who was sick, who just had a baby. Cycles of life
and death, the natural rhythms of lives lived close to the land.

She never got tired of it, and she knew that this
would always be home, as much a part of her as her bones and blood. Maybe that
was another reason that she and her mom didn’t see eye to eye. Meg had too much
Wyoming in her, too much West, like her dad and his dad and his dad. Her mom
had been the newcomer, the outsider, and she couldn’t find purchase in the
hard-packed ethos of a state that hadn’t moved too far past its pioneer
beginnings. She grimaced.

That and the gay thing.

“All right, got you all loaded up,” Chet said,
clumping toward her. He handed her the list.

She followed him back to the counter, where the young
man was helping an attractive blonde woman wearing skin-tight Wranglers and
dark blue ropers. Meg let her gaze wander down the other woman’s back. Not
quite her type, but nice to look at. Definitely Davey’s type, though. And he’d
let this woman know, too, if he were here. What he lacked in subtlety he made
up for with good humor, at least.

“Here’s the invoice,” Chet said as he tore it off the
printer. “Good to see you. Come and bother us again.” He winked as he handed
her the paper. “And practice that bull riding.”

“Maybe I’ll test it out at Frontier Days,” she deadpanned
as she folded the invoice and slid it into her back pocket.

Chet chuckled. “You do that.”

She grinned and left, but held the front door open
for an older woman carrying a box. “Thank you, honey,” she said.

Meg nodded at her and headed to the truck. A gray
Nissan Pathfinder was parked next to the driver’s side and she noticed that it
listed at an odd angle in the back. She watched as the left back end started to
rise. Somebody was jacking it up. Flat tire, probably. She went around the
vehicle to see if she could help.

A woman was concentrating on the motion of the jack
as she cranked the handle, one knee in the dirt. Meg approved. She appreciated
a woman who didn’t mind getting her jeans dirty.

“Hey,” Meg said.

The stranger looked up and brushed a lock of dark hair
off her forehead. “Hi,” she replied.

Meg stared at her for a moment, transfixed by her
dark eyes, and the warmth that sparked within. “Need some help?” she managed.

“Not sure there’s much you can do. Kind of a
one-person job.” She smiled up at her.

“True. Okay. . .how about I get your spare?” She returned
the smile, and her palms were suddenly sweaty.

“Thanks. In the back, underneath the mat. It’s open.”
She resumed cranking and Meg turned to the back of the truck. The back window
was indeed open, and the tailgate was down, as well.

“Okay if I move your stuff here?” she asked.

“Oh, yeah,” came the response. “Just toss it onto the
seat.”

Meg leaned in and hefted the two big duffel bags over
the back seat. She flipped the mat back and unfastened the panel that would
reveal the spare. She pulled it off and leaned it against the right side of the
vehicle, glad that the stranger used a full-sized spare. She appreciated that,
too. Practical, especially out here. She hooked her hand into the rim and
hauled it out.

“It occurred to me that I did this backward,” the
stranger said from her position on the ground, an undercurrent of laughter in
her tone.

Meg looked at her, still holding the tire, and a little
spark bounced around her stomach. She liked her strong features, and the little
crinkle lines at the corners of her eyes when she smiled. And she liked the way
her dark hair fell past her ears and brushed her neck, and she especially liked
her eyes. Almost black. Mysterious but welcoming, an invitation in their depths
to give them a long, slow look. She caught herself staring and managed a
nervous smile.

“Well, it
is
easier if you get the tire out
before
you jack the side up, yeah. No problem, though.” She lowered the spare to the
ground and rolled it around the side. Before the Pathfinder’s driver could
protest, Meg picked up the lug wrench and set to work.

“You didn’t get this part backward,” she said,
laughing a little, still nervous because she imagined the stranger’s warm, dark
gaze on her and it made her heart beat a little faster. Fortunately, she’d
already loosened the nuts. With quick motions, she removed them and put them in
her shirt pocket then eased the tire off and leaned it against the side of the
Pathfinder. She turned to get the spare, but the stranger was already moving it
into place.

“Nice work,” Meg said as she handed the other woman
the nuts out of her pocket. She watched as the stranger tightened them a bit
before she lowered the jack. When the vehicle’s full weight was on the ground
again, the stranger tightened the nuts further.

“Thanks,” she said as she stood. “Is there any place
I could take that—” she gestured with one hand at the flat, “and get it
fixed?”

“Yep. Jim’s Auto. And they’re open for another two
hours.” Meg gave her directions, which wasn’t hard because everything was
relative to Highway 130. “It’s not far. It’ll be about fifteen bucks and they’ll
cut you a little deal for cash.”

“Great. Thanks.”

“Sure. Ask for Jim or Buck. Tell ’em Meg sent you.”

She chuckled. “So I take it you’re local.”

“For the most part. When I’m not at school.”

“Well, it’s nice to meet you, Meg. I’m Gina.” She
extended her right hand and Meg took it, and her hand was warm and strong in
hers, and another spark kicked around her stomach. They were about the same
height, which made it that much easier for her to lose a few seconds in Gina’s
eyes. She reluctantly released Gina’s hand and slid her own nervously into the
front pockets of her jeans. Her palm seemed to tingle.

“In town for a bit?” she asked.

Gina started to respond when Chet called from the
door of the feed store. “Meg, Mark’s on the phone. He needs to check with you
about something.”

Meg sighed. She’d talked to him before she left
Laramie and he said they didn’t need anything else. “Be right there.” She
turned back to Gina. “Sorry. You got this?” She pointed at the tire.

“Not a problem. And yes, I can handle it. Thanks again.”
A slow smile tugged at the right side of her mouth. “Maybe I’ll see you around.”

Something in her voice made Meg’s heart rate speed up
again, and sent more sparks down her spine. “Yeah. Take care.” She gave a
little half-wave and went back into the store, forcing herself not to look back
and seem overly eager or something. She finished with Mark and asked Chet for a
few more bags of feed, chafing at what seemed his slow pace. He printed out
another invoice and she took it and almost ran out of the store.

The Pathfinder was gone.

She stood looking at the spot where it had been
parked, disappointed. The faint marks in the dirt where Gina had kneeled were
still visible, as well as a few scuffed tracks from both of them. “Damn,” she
said under her breath. She hadn’t even looked at her license plate, so she
didn’t even know where she was from.

She waited for the guys to bring the feed and put it
in the back of the truck and then she got in and headed home. She almost turned
and headed over to Jim’s, but thought that might make her look like a stalker.
And besides, what would she say? Hi. Me again. Are you single? Better yet, are
you into women? I know this is a little forward, but I—she stopped. What?
Really like your eyes? Think there’s something about you? Lame. Beyond lame.
She grimaced and turned the volume up and sang along with Martina McBride, still
thinking about the all-too brief encounter with a stranger in a parking lot.

Three

M
eg wheeled
Rusty around and started back
toward the lodge. Mark said he’d seen a few unbranded calves with Diamond Rock
cattle in this vicinity, so she’d tracked a portion of the herd along the
eastern border of the Medicine Bow National Forest, but all those calves had
brands. If she had time tomorrow, she’d take Mark and see if they couldn’t find
the strays and brand them. They’d also need vaccinations. Damn. It’d be half a
day to cut them from the herd and bring them down. Easier to just chase after
them, maybe.

She whistled sharply, and looked back over her
shoulder. Dammit and Bugoff tore out of a stand of pine, racing each other to
get to Rusty’s side. Dammit was a mixture of border collie and Australian
cattle dog. Bugoff was a blue heeler. They were the best-trained of the four
dogs at Diamond Rock and Meg took them with her whenever she thought she might
have to cut a cow from the herd to check it for something. They didn’t have to
do much work today since she was able to get close enough to check the cattle
with a visual, but the dogs did keep her amused with their antics.

She clicked her tongue softly and gave Rusty’s neck a
pat. They’d be home in a half-hour. She glanced toward the sun. Late afternoon.
Plenty of time to get Rusty squared away, clean herself up, and be at dinner to
meet the reporter and make nice for a good impression. She hoped the reporter
wasn’t completely annoying. The week was going to be long enough.

The next round of guests had started to arrive
yesterday. They included a young newlywed couple from Chicago that had brought
the groom’s parents for some bonding. Another, an older woman from St. Paul,
drove in from Denver. She was an artist, she said, and was looking to “clear
her head.” She seemed nice.

The dogs raced back and forth across the cow path in
front of Rusty, who diligently ignored them with calm, equine patience, his
hooves following the familiar track home over the rolling prairie. She inhaled
deeply, the smell of pine, sage, and tall grass filling her nostrils. No matter
what was going in her life, she always found peace here.