Page 60 of The Cowboy and the Stray

Tess was waiting on the porch, arms crossed, one foot propped up on the step. Her hair was pulled back, but not in the tight ponytail she usually wore. It was softer, almost frayed at the edges. She was fidgeting with the hem of her shirt.

“Nice boots.” They were the same ones she wore every day, but it had seemed right to say. I held up the cooler as an offering. “Ready to get some mud on ‘em?”

She didn’t answer right away, just glanced at the cooler like it might explode. “Is that dessert?” she said, skeptical.

“Gourmet,” I told her. “I went all out.”

She raised an eyebrow but smiled. “Should I be scared?”

“Only if you’re allergic to peanut butter.” I walked past her, and she fell into step. She didn’t ask questions about where we were going. I liked that about her.

The sky was purple-gold by the time we hit the trail. It was maybe a twenty-minute walk to the bluff if we cut across the dry creek bed, but with Tess, I slowed it down.

She didn’t talk much, just took it in. Land, sky, everything. Every once in a while, she’d ask about a plant or a weird sound, but mostly we walked in silence.

When we hit the rise above the back pasture, the light was still good enough to see all the way to the river. The bluff wasn’t anything fancy, just a flat spot with a couple of boulders and a clear view of the whole valley. I’d come up here as a kid, usually when I wanted to run away or punch something. Now it looked almost peaceful.

I spread out the blanket and set the cooler in the middle. Tess sat cross-legged, picking at a frayed patch on her knee, waiting for me to say something.

I cracked open a beer and handed it to her. “You’re supposed to drink it fast, so you don’t taste how warm it is.”

“Classy,” she said, but she took a long pull and didn’t complain.

I opened the sandwiches and passed one over. She bit into hers and closed her eyes, making a show of it. “Is this…?”

“Chocolate muffins.”

She nodded. “One of my foster moms used to make these with applesauce.”

“That’s a hate crime,” I said.

She grinned. “You ever tried it?”

I shook my head. “I respect myself too much.”

She took another bite, then said, “What about you? What’s your weirdest food memory?”

I thought about it. “When I was twelve, Midge tried to make sushi. Bought one of those kits at the gas station. It ended with a trip to urgent care and a no-raw-fish rule in the house.”

Tess laughed loudly. “Midge doesn’t seem like the sushi type.”

“She’s not,” I said. “Especially not since then. She says if it’s not cooked or fried, it doesn’t count as food.”

Tess leaned back on her elbows, looking up at the sky. There were more stars out now, just starting to break through the blue. For a while, we didn’t talk. I wasn’t sure what to say.

She said, “Did you ever think about leaving?”

I didn’t answer right away. “Of course. Everybody does, surely. But there’s always something keeping me here.”

She stared straight up, not at me. “You like it?”

“It’s all I know,” I said, honestly.

She took a breath and held it. “I used to think about leaving all the time. When I was a kid, I’d make these little go-bags. Flashlight, some cash, candy bars, matches. I’d hide them under my bed or in the closet. I never actually left, at least not without my mom, but I was always ready.”

I tried to picture Tess as a kid, skinny and wiry, sitting in the dark with her bag, counting her Skittles. It hit me in the chest.

“My mom would vanish for days sometimes,” Tess said. Her tone was light, but her hands were clenched together. “When she was around, she’d talk about moving to the beach. California. Sometimes she’d just wake me in the middle of the night, and say we had to go, right now. We never stayed anywhere more than a year.”