I wrote this western piece in September, but have struggled to find a fit for it with a literary journal since it’s more genre fiction. So I figured what the heck, I’ll release it on my own as a little holiday gift to my (very) small audience to show my appreciation. Because there are no rules. You can just do stuff.
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It Starts Again
by Nichelle Schulz
“Dammit, Daffodil,” the old rancher muttered as he craned his neck around. “Where the hell’d you go?”
He pulled on the reins and Tulip, the equally old Appaloosa—in horse years—came to a halt. Tulip dropped her head instinctively and found a sparse patch of greenery to graze on. Frustrated and tired, the rancher agreed that a break was needed and climbed down the retired war horse gingerly. Taking Tulip out on a long ride brought him back twenty years to when they rode together with the Union. But his movements were slowing on him daily and he knew he needed to be more careful.
Last spring, while trying to steer the very cow he was looking for now back to her pen, a coyote snuck up behind them and spooked Daffodil. She charged right for the fence to make one of her fantastic leaps to freedom and the lead rope wrapped tightly around the rancher’s thumb. Before he could shake his hand loose, she leapt at full speed and her thousand pounds of weight tightened the rope fast, taking the rancher’s left thumb clean off.
With the loss of dexterity in one hand and the loss of his wife the year prior, the rancher had finally conceded this spring to bring on a ranch hand. He didn’t really have the budget for it, as it was a small ranch, only 160 acres, but he also couldn’t afford to miss out on the season. He was lucky to have found Billy. He knew that. The population in the area was small, even with the immigration boom Canada continued to see after the war, as more Americans like himself ventured across the border to lease cheap land. Billy was one of the few kids around that didn’t already work on an orchard or ranch for his parents. His family owned the apothecary in town, but Billy was too wild to be tamed by four walls, so his pa sent him to the ranch when he heard the rancher was looking for help. The boy took to the work well, too. The rancher never had to repeat himself or watch him closely.
As he reached into his saddle pack to grab his canteen, guilt panged through his chest. He had given Billy a tongue lashing this morning after Daffodil’s escape was discovered. The boy didn’t really deserve that. Daffodil somehow learned to escape no matter where she was kept. She was infamous for it. But she was also the rancher’s best milking cow and would eventually sell for at least twenty dollars, more if he was tasked with the butchering. He’d apologize to the boy tomorrow, he promised himself.
He had left the ranch early that morning, leaving Billy to tend to everything while he searched. The sun would be going down in a couple of hours. Soon it would be time to head home. Taking a sloppy pull from the canteen, he stuffed it back in the saddle and grabbed a piece of salted beef. Chewing it slowly while taking one last look around, he sighed and handed Tulip the last of the crab apples.
“Well, we best be getting on ‘Lip.”
Delaying, he gave the horse a rub across its back legs when something caught in his periphery. A burnt orange colour shifted, no longer camouflaged from the packed clay ground, and he turned towards it. A California poppy peeked out at him from a thick weed bush. Without a thought, he went to pick it. His wife, Sue Ellen, had taught him all about different herbs and plants, and he recognized this particular flower to have both sleep and calming effects. Something he was surely in need of.
His brain was focused on the plant and the memory of his wife, and he missed the tell-tale warning sound until it was too late. The rattlesnake shot out from the flower bush, puncturing the rancher’s left forearm as he blocked the serpent from reaching his throat.
Cursing, he attempted to extract the curved fangs as they dug in deeper, venom spilling out of the wounds, but failed. He unclipped his Colt Navy revolver from his hip and took a shaky aim at the length of the beast, firing until the midsection ripped in two from the bullets.
“Charge you to Hell, you sonofabitch!” He heard himself screaming. He was finally able to dislodge the remainder of the creature and toss it away.
Tulip whinnied from behind him. Being used to the sound of guns and violence, the horse hadn’t bolted but voiced her concern. Making a clicking sound out of the side of his cheek, the farmer beckoned the old mare to him. He reached for the canteen and tried his best to clean out the wound as it oozed opaque dandelion coloured venom mixed with blood.
Already feeling woozy, the water not clearing the puncture marks fast enough, he tossed down the canteen and closed his mouth around the bite, sucking as hard as he could. He sucked and spat until he could no longer taste the foul but sweet flavour, rinsing his mouth out with the last of the canteen water after. Ripping his handkerchief off his neck, he tied it around the wound tight to slow the bleeding, something he had to do often in the war for himself and others.
With his strength waning, he mounted the horse and gave her a spur kick despite her protest.
“Take us home, Tulip.”
He knew if he could just get home, there was some broadleaf plantain his wife insisted on growing in the garden that would help with the bite. They’d used it before on the goats when a rattler had slithered into their pen.
He also knew that home was a good couple of hours away and that he might not make it.
Twenty minutes into the ride, the rancher could no longer sit straight up. He slumped forward onto the stead’s back. The late afternoon air grew cold against his sweaty, hot skin, helping him stay conscious. He stroked the horse, grateful for the care and companionship. Tulip could be trusted to find the way home without the rancher keeping a look out.
In his semi-consciousness, he daydreamed about his wife. It was something he did often when he was alone but somehow his memories were more vivid today, coming to him with ease instead of him forcing his brain to squeeze every last blurry drop into his mind’s eye.
He remembered when Daffodil was born. His wife had named her Daffodil because the calf was so tiny but had huge round eyes with large, clumped lashes like daffodil petals lining them. His wife loved flowers, but the rancher couldn’t take the time to bring her flowers as often as he’d like, and couldn’t afford to buy her all the seeds she’d wanted, so he suggested she name the animals after blooms. It had become her favourite thing to do, and had become his favourite thing to watch her come up with the names.
Daffodil was a nuisance to the rancher and he knew this season should be her last before selling her for beef if he wanted top dollar. He knew this—he just didn’t know if he could. The stubborn and wild cow had brought his wife much joy. She doted on the heifer more than any others, bringing her snacks and wildflower crowns during the day. Routinely when the day ended, his wife stayed near the house, stoking the hearth and getting the wash in from the line, as the rancher was tasked with putting the animals away. Every night in bed, his wife would roll towards him with a hint of a smile on her face and ask if Daffodil gave him any problems. He would groan but smile back at her, enjoying the nightly routine of griping about what Daffodil got up to. She was always the last to go in the barn, holding out for a food bribe.
“Too smart for her own good,” the rancher would say, and his wife would giggle.
“I don’t know, sounds like she’s doing pretty good with her smarts,” his wife would always respond.
Tulip started to slow enough that the rancher noticed through his delirium. He made the excruciating effort to lift his head to see where they were, his whole body aching with the movement. The day had become dusk without him being aware of it. Off in the distance he could see his homestead. His house was inviting, with warm lights on inside and the chimney was giving off soft plumes. His heart did a quick thump and his throat caught. Was he dead? Was he approaching heaven, with his wife waiting for him in their home, getting everything warm in preparation for the cold Okanagan night?
A pang of loneliness overtook him and a sluggish tear trickled down into his beard. He felt as though he didn’t have long now. Even though the homestead was in his sights—if it wasn’t just a venom-fueled vision—his energy was leaving him. Pain ravaged through every inch of him and he became aware that he wouldn’t be able to get to the plant in the garden on his own.
Exhausted, he rested his head back down on the saddle and his mind flashed back to his wife’s final words on her death bed.
“What am I going to do without you?” he had asked her. As soon as he said it, he felt selfish, worrying about himself when she was in her time of need. She just smiled and stroked his hand softly.
“You’ll be here. With our animals and our home. And I’ll be here, watching over you while you curse out Daffodil.”
They laughed together one final time. That night the doctor came to the ranch to declare her death from consumption, and then her body left the house for the last time to be prepared for the cemetery.
A voice called out to him, extinguishing the tender memory instantly. The rancher’s eyes popped open and he glanced up again.
“Mr. Orrin? Mr. Orrin, hey!” Billy’s voice sounded closer and the rancher could hear steps fast approaching.
Another sound rang out. A low pitch bellow riddled with worry.
The rancher coughed out a laugh as the boy reached him.
“Is that Daffodil?” Orrin asked.
“Yeah, she’s been doing that all day. She showed back up shortly after you left. All the other livestock are bedded down, but she wouldn’t let me put her away. Kicked up a heck of a fuss; almost got a hoof to my ribs.”
Orrin was able to wheeze out another titter. On the trek home he had thought about getting into bed when he reached the homestead and letting the venom over take him. The sounds of Daffodil’s screeches reminded him that his wife would want him to keep on. For the animals. For the garden. For the good life they created together.
“Mister, you don’t look so good,” Billy said as he brought the oil lamp up to the rancher’s face.
“I know boy, now listen close,” he said hoarsely and the boy tentatively stepped near, his eyes alert. “In the corner of the garden where the fence is starting to fall away, there’s a plant that looks like a weed. It has big leaves about the size of your hand. Go run and grab a couple, quickly. Come right back.”
Billy nodded and took off. Orrin was left panting from the exertion of talking. Tulip moved forward again until they were close to the house, near a patch of hay that was left out. Orrin positioned himself in a way that he could flop into the pile, not wanting the boy to try and help him, and end up jostling him worse. He landed hard, realizing the fall was just as bad, but his pride was happy that he did it on his own.
“Here, here, here,” Billy said, rushing up next to Orrin. He laid the leaves on the rancher’s chest, but Orrin shook his head.
“No, son. You have to chew it up into a paste and then put it on my arm.” Orrin reached over and tugged the handkerchief off with his good hand.
“Oh, good Lord, sir,” the boy whispered. He paled at the sight of the torn, weepy flesh but did as he was told.
When the wound was covered in the paste, the rancher got the boy to help him across the threshold and into his bed. The last thing the Orrin remembered was Billy forcing him to drink water and then wiping his dust-caked brow with a damp cloth before letting darkness take him away.
*
When the rancher awoke he heard rustling in the kitchen. Before awareness hit, he thought it was Sue Ellen, and then remembered what happened last night and realized it was likely Billy. The sun was streaming brightly into his bedroom. The curtains hadn’t been closed last night and the blue sky before him gave him a new hope. As he shifted, his arm throbbed. Sucking in air through the agony, he brought it close for inspection. The sharp pain that shot throughout his body last night had now been centralized to his forearm.
Seeing a water basin with a wash cloth on the night stand, he reached over and wiped the puncture marks clean as best he could. The skin around the marks was red and itchy, but it didn’t look infected. He got up slowly, still feeling wobbly, and shuffled to the kitchen.
Billy snuck a quick glance his way before turning back to the stove. “The coffee is just about ready. There’s fresh water on the table. All I know how to cook is eggs and toast, but they’ll be ready shortly. How are ya feeling, Mr. Orrin?” he rambled.
“Good, boy. Good,” Orrin said, carefully lowering himself in a chair at the table. He looked around the small kitchen with a renewed point of view. A large part of him last night thought he’d never see it again. It was simple with just the basic amenities, but it was pleasant and comfortable. Homey. Cheery baby blue gingham curtains lined the windows and knitted placemats adorned the table, all done by Sue Ellen. He ran his fingers over the soft woolen placemat in front of him and grinned.
“Here you are, sir,” Billy said, his chin tucked to his chest as he set the plate of food and coffee in front of Orrin, his hair falling forward. Orrin noticed Billy kept his face turned slightly away as he returned to the kitchen.
Puzzled, Orrin thought maybe the boy was embarrassed or wanted to give his boss some space. He cleared his throat.
“Billy, what you done for me last night…you saved my life. Thank you. And I’m sorry for getting after you over Daffodil. It surely wasn’t your fault—I was just angry is all.”
The boy paused. His back was still to the rancher but he inclined his head quickly in his direction. “I appreciate that sir, but no apology necessary. The doctor should be arriving soon to check you out. If you’ll excuse me, I’ll be getting outside to work since it’s already late in the morning.” Billy moved to head out the front door.
“Before you do, can you come here a moment?” Orrin asked quietly but assertively.
Billy hesitated. Finally, his shoulders dropped and he turned towards Orrin, holding his head up defiantly. He was sporting a fresh black eye and a bruised, swollen cheek.
“Humph.” Orrin scratched his beard. “Who did this to you?”
“It’s nothing.” Billy looked away.
“Who?”
Billy took in a deep breath. “My pa did. After he heard what happened. I went into town last night after you passed out to fetch the doctor, but he wasn’t available until this morning. Pa heard me telling my brothers what happened when I went home to grab a change of clothes. He was drinkin’. Gave me this shiner for letting Daffodil out…letting this happen to ya.”
Orrin regarded the boy closely. “How old are you now, Billy?”
“Goin’ be 16 later this summer.”
“You like it here?”
The boy became more animated, rocking back on his heels and rubbing his hands together. “Oh, sure. You’ve taught me a lot. I like working on my own. No customers to deal with.”
“Well…I need someone full time. Even after the season. You willing?”
“Really, I—I mean, you bet, sir.”
“Good. You can have the spare bedroom across from mine. Linens in there need to be hung out. They’re likely musty. Your pay will be less, given the room and board, but I’ll need someone to take this ranch over when I’m gone. If you keep working the way you have been, I reckon we can work something out. My wife and me…we didn’t have any kids of our own, not for lack of trying.”
Billy’s eyes grew to saucers and he was dumbstruck for a moment. “Th-thank you, Mr. Orrin. I won’t let you down.”
“Just call me Orrin from now on, son. You best get to work. I won’t be up to helping you today.”
Billy left the house without another word, but he had a bounce in his step that made Orrin smile. He was happy he found a way to repay the boy. Happy that his ranch would live on.
“Well, Sue Ellen, I can’t name this stray by a flower, but I do believe he’ll come to grow on me,” Orrin said quietly, setting his hand on his heart briefly before finishing his breakfast.
Easy read. Enjoyed the cranky, sentimental old guy.