Logan circles the yard, leather boots in sand. The gelding canters with each flick of his rope. He wanders in a closed circle, right foot before left, always walking towards the horse's hindquarters in a sure, even pace. If he lags, Logan moves the rope again. It never makes contact, just a silent reminder that this isn't a holiday, this is work. The horse pulls to a stop and Logan switches directions, left foot first this time, and the gelding turns, familiar with the routine and trots in the other direction. Another movement of the rope cracks him along, a full canter now. Logan leaves a nice long rope, keeping his space, and giving the horse his own. Hoofbeats make gentle thuds on the sand when he senses a presence walking up to the yard. The sun makes its fall to kiss the tips of the mountains that flank him to the west and he looks out, squinting, raising his hat. She climbs onto the first beam of the post and rail fence, leaning over the top, blonde plait falling to the side, watching them.
"He's doing much better," she calls out, regarding the horse with a keen eye.
Logan nods, dropping the rope to the ground, signaling the end of today's workout. Hunter drops in pace, coming to a brusque stop. Logan pulls the gloves from his fingers and runs a hand through the wiry black mane and down across his withers, the skin retracts and shivers against his touch, ears pulling back.
"He's still sore," says Logan, pulling his hand back.
"I'll work him a little more this weekend, might take him for a hike up along the river with Opie tomorrow," says Piper as she unlatches the gate and holds it open as Logan and Hunter walk through toward the stables.
Hunter's gait is wide, but he remains behind Logan, lead-rope between them, the unspoken laws of master and servant. The gelding had sustained a back injury and was deemed lame which meant a cheap sale and the target of kill buyers looking to send horse exports to slaughter in Mexico. But Logan saw potential for healing and re-homing, like many of his other equine projects, and tends to each of them in their rehabilitation. Horses, unlike humans, deserve a second chance.
Piper closes the gate and jogs to catch up with Logan and Hunter, taking the rope from his hand as he gives her a playful nudge.
"If you're going to keep doing all my work for me, what am I supposed to do around here?" he says.
"If you want a job…" she replies in a distinct voice, replicating his own with eyebrows raised.
"No, no, no, I'm not looking for more to do," he holds up his hands in surrender and smiles.
The workload on the acreage is never ending. Even with five full-time ranch hands, there is always stock rotation, harvest, a fence to fix, an animal needing care, water sources to be checked, and the list goes on and on and on.
As they walk Logan looks to the sky, the color of August, endless beckoning blue. The finale of the warm days drawing to a close, leaves taking their last hold of branches before succumbing to the Fall winds that sweep them down the gullies and over the plains. He knows that in a few months he'll miss the warmth on his face when there is nothing but infinite snow. Logan basks in the changing of seasons he experiences in Montana. Seasons that were absent from Southern California, where sticky warm summers and warm winters punctuate daily blue skies and the requirement for a jacket at any time of year was negligible. His vistas of teen years, crashing waves and sand are replaced by the undulating plains, the way they roll like water until they greet the mountains, rising into the clouds like great sleeping giants. Here, he learns to enjoy the frosts of Fall that morph into a foot of snow in winter, the tips of native grasses peeking their heads from the white. Some days the wind howls so fiercely down from the peaks and through the valley he can barely keep upright. In spring, the melt fills the creeks and rivers in a bursting flux and he feels himself thaw as well. Each season with its own distinct smell, its own spirit, and its own set of tasks to ensure the smooth operation of the ranch. So he takes another moment to absorb the warm light, just walk and take it in, a mass of dappled-gray muscle by his side.
Piper turns her head as she walks, watching him, watching the mountains. She faces forward again, her plait swaying with her. Piper's long hair had taken on a life of its own. It reached almost to her thighs, but each day she diligently braided it, which pulled it up to rest at her waist, thick and heavy, the color of wheat fields just before harvest, and there were more than enough around here for reference. She settles the horse in her stall, taking a moment to rest her face flat against Hunter's long one, a tender hand rises and sweeps her forelock to the side. The horse doesn't move, allowing Piper unblinking intimacy and trust. Logan isn't sure where this innate connection with animals came from. She exuded a calm that he rarely felt he possessed, and all creatures seemed to respond in turn. So many times he tried to replicate it in his own interactions with the animals, only recently had he felt what Piper had since she was young. Respect.
Piper removes the halter. Freed, Hunter walks to the wall and begins scratching his face against the rough wooden railing. Together they collect handfuls of dry hay and fill the nets. They check the rest of the stables, topping up water as they go. The blue sky fades to gray as they work in companionable silence. Her initial resentment of their move to the middle of nowhere seems long gone now, distracted by their endless tasks. Duties completed, they take a final pass along the barn, checking all the latches are closed. Nine horses in total today, one less than last month.
They begin the walk back to the ranch and an off-white pickup pulls up, Bill and Houdini exit, each shuffling a soft stroll on gravel towards them.
"Hey Bill, can you…" Logan starts and Bill nods before he finishes his sentence, Bill was already on the way, Houdini the labrador in tow, to give the calves the last feed of the day.
"Night Bill," Piper calls and Logan can tell, even from behind, that Bill's smiling as he raises a palm in a wave.
"What would you do without Bill?" she asks.
"I'd be back in California," Logan replies, honestly.
Bill had become Logan's ranch manager four years ago. He is a stoic, old-fashioned man who didn't use ten words when three would do. The ones he did use were often interrupted with a wet tobacco hacking and missiles of phlegm that careen out of the corner of his lips to whack the earth. He is the closest thing that Logan has here to a friend, if you could consider a friend someone you pay biweekly. Bill is a general handyman, diesel mechanic, fence repairer, farrier to the horses and rudimentary veterinarian. He understands the land, the weather, the movements of herds in a way that Logan admires and seeks to learn.
The first year here, Logan went through staff on the farm with astonishing turnover, from general uselessness, thievery, to the most common issue, a reluctance to sign and abide by his non-disclosure agreement. But Bill, he was different.
Logan met Bill while collecting his first horse, Lightning. The name itself should have been a warning, but it was one that Logan didn't heed. Green in all matters of horse riding and care, he was a man with a ranch, and every man with a ranch needed a horse. One afternoon at a foreclosure two farms from his own, he'd just purchased Lightning and was attempting to load the mare onto his brand new trailer. The sale had cleared out, but Logan remained, walking circle after frustrating circle, trying to get the horse to load, unsuccessfully. On the fifteenth try, or maybe the twentieth, Logan saw a man out of the corner of his eye, watching him, arm resting over the yards, cigarette dangling from his mouth like the Marlboro man. He tried to ignore the audience, tugging at the rope, clicking the horse on, taking sure, even paces towards the trailer and then at the last minute, just as he was about to hit the ramp, she shied, spinning on her hind legs, slamming over a thousand pounds of rump against him. Logan's arm ricocheted off the metal divider and he was certain he could hear the snapping of bone as the instantaneous flood of heat drew to his wound. No chance to inspect his arm before Lightning jerked her head backward, ripping the lead rope through his semi-clutched, injured hand. The horse bolted backward twenty paces, placed her head down and began munching on green tendrils of wild oats.
Logan staggered out of the trailer, shocked, and found that the man was holding onto Lightning's lead rope, a rotund labrador by his side, sniffing at the horse.
"D'ya check if she was trained for trailers?" the man asked.
"My knowledge on which is the front, and which is the back of the horse is questionable, I must have missed the book on checking for horse-trailer-training," said Logan while he wiggled his fingers to check for breaks, feeling the flames of pain dissipate to a steady throb.
The man ignored Logan's comment, "Mind if I try?"
Logan gave a raised eyebrow, then a nod of reply.
"First thing, if you only have one horse, load to the left."
"Sure, why?"
"Camber of the road, you got over a thousand pounds on the right side, you'll flip ya trailer."
"Makes sense," Logan replied. Everything about this new life was a learning curve. Sometimes he felt like he was a newborn in the early stages of standing, he kept falling right back down again each time he dragged himself up.
He watched as the man made several attempts, pressing his fingers into the barrel of her stomach, behind her legs, making various clicking noises, taps on her rump. But he seemed to make no more progress than Logan had.
"Well fuck me. She won't load," he said, taking out rolling paper, pulling apart the tobacco and settling it in its paper nest. He swiped with the edge of a tongue, twisted between grimy fingers and lit it with a match in a matter of seconds.
"Don't suppose I could tie her to the truck and drive real slow?" Logan joked, but considered it for a moment as he was fresh out of options, "Thanks for trying," he added.
"What's ya name?" the man asked. He seemed to speak without opening his mouth.
"Logan."
"Fuckin' weird name."
Logan laughs, "What's yours then?"
"Bill," which he pronounced Beeeel, still without opening his mouth.
Bill is in his fifties, but too much sun and too much life has prematurely dragged his face into his sixties. He wore a Stetson, frayed blue button-down, Wranglers and embroidered cowboy boots layered with years of dust and mud.
"Where'd ya live?" Bill asked.
"Rock Creek Ranch."
Bill nodded like he knew it, took an extended drag and seemed to think about this for a while.
"D' she come with tack, a saddle?"
Logan nodded, Bill squinted in the sunlight as he looked down the driveway and down the road.
"I could ride 'er," Bill said.
And because he had no other option, Logan agreed to the idea. He gave Bill directions that it appeared he had no need of, watched him haul himself up, step into the stirrups, and set off. Logan started up his truck and drove home. There he sat on the couch icing his swollen arm, certain that he'd just exchanged a ten thousand dollar horse for an obese labrador who lay by his legs, snoring. Time dragged on and it grew dark. Finally, he heard his own dogs bark, and he bolted from his chair, out the door, and there were Bill and Lightning. Strolling down the drive in the darkness, the glow from his cigarette signaling their approach.
Bill dismounted and stretched out his legs.
"Thanks Bill, you really got me out of a jam. Can I pay you for your help?" Logan outstretched his palm for a handshake and Bill obliged with a sweaty return, Logan reached into his back pocket for a wallet but Bill just shook his head and waved his hand. They walked to the stables with Lightning, undid the halter and stood by the gate in the darkness. As Bill leaned against it, the metal frame dropped with his weight.
"Ya gate's fucked," he said, ambling to where the gate met the fence and began to mend it, and from that day, he never really left. Logan never made him sign an NDA like the others. Once when they were moving cattle through the foothills amongst ponderosa pines Logan asked him not to tell anyone about Piper and himself.
Bill just eyed him with confusion, "The fuck'd anyone wanna know about you?" he asked, skeptically.
"I don't know, some people just do," Logan replied.
"Well, I'd just tell 'em ta fuck off."
Bill moved into the stone cabin under the ancient gnarled Bristlecone and became part of the ranch scenery, anticipating Logan's needs before he knew them, teaching Logan what's required for the upkeep of a ranch and the responsibilities that that entails. And slowly, surely, Bill helped Logan to walk steadily on two feet and take control of his own land.
After washing the day's dust from his skin under a hot stream, Logan collects items from the fridge for the Friday night stir fry. He's now a reluctant vegetarian after Piper's recent proclamation against the consumption of animals. When only cooking for the two of them, it's hardly worth separate meals. He slices vegetables and doesn't dare broach the irony of being a vegetarian on a cattle ranch.
Piper appears fresh-faced wearing an oversized Billings Mustangs t-shirt and pajama bottoms. She stands beside Logan and picks at the raw broccoli he just chopped, chewing thoughtfully. He fires up the work burner and adds coconut oil, watching it go from a solid white glob to slick and clear.
"Don't you have homework to do? x plus y equals z and all those ridiculously complex theorems you love?" He can see her hesitate, consider an excuse, and reconsider before rising with a sigh to collect the books from her backpack. She lays them out with a calculator and a pencil, but leaves them untouched, glancing at his phone, illuminated and vibrating on the marble countertop.
"It's ringing," she says.
Logan looks at it, an unlisted number displaying on the screen as it dances to the edge with each pulse.
"Unlisted," he says, turning away.
The phone stops vibrating, and Piper can see four missed calls listed in the alerts.
"What if it's the hospital and Grandma's had an accident, or Dick, calling for you to bail him out of jail?"
"Well, if it's any of those, they will leave me a voicemail and I will call them back. Whoever is calling today hasn't left one voicemail," Logan replies, turning back to the wok, focusing on the simmering of garlic and shallots. He can feel Piper staring at the back of his head.
"Dad…" she starts nonchalantly, and he knows whatever is coming next is bound to be trouble.
"Uh oh."
"Why do you assume it will be bad?"
He laughs, "Because you're fifteen, anything you possibly say in that tone will make me have nightmares."
She rolls her eyes, "You're such a drama queen."
Logan places an invisible crown on his head before winking, picking up the chopping board and depositing the julienned vegetables into the hot wok.
"Okay, spit it out. What do you want?"
Piper still hasn't opened her homework, instead playing with the wet ends of her hair sitting on the counter as she speaks, "Sienna's mom asked if I could go to a sleepover next Friday."
"The fatherly thing to say here would be, will her parents be there?"
"Of course," she says.
"Well, I will be speaking to her mother about that, just to be sure," he says as he tries not to think about what he was doing at fifteen. But with it came the realization that at fifteen, he wouldn't have even asked parental permission for such a thing, let alone abided by the response. Piper was a good kid. He was wholly unsure how he stumbled upon such luck, with her family lineage surely she should be shimmying out of windows by now or have spent at least one night in the lock-up. But, alas, his teen preferred mystery novels and daily horse rides to any interactions with the opposite sex. He wasn't complaining, just enjoying the quiet while it lasted.
"Sienna's Mom would love that. She said when you drop me off you could stop by for a coffee... or a wine," Piper raises her eyebrows, awaiting Logan's response.
Sienna's mom was one of a few mothers at Piper's school who showed Logan particular interest. He was sure that being a widow emitted some mysterious pheromone from his pores that made him irresistible. That, or the fact they were simply digging for information, a scrap to feed the hungry paparazzi on a slow news day. So he keeps his distance as much as possible, preferring school drop offs and pickups only, rarely leaving the comfort of his truck. If he has to enter the school grounds for an art fair or a play they descend on him like hungry wolves. But he keeps his cool. For Piper.
"I have a coffee machine here, perfect working order, and a wine cellar. I can drop you off, no drinks required."
Piper smiles, "Drink or no drink, Dad, she's still going to corner you. She's divorced and thinks you're rugged."
"Rugged, hey?" he waggles his eyebrows and swipes fingers across the stubble on his jaw.
"Daaad!"
"Fear not, I'm pretty wily, I can probably outrun her."
"She does pilates, the type on machines!" replies Piper.
"Are you trying to sell me, or dissuade me from her?"
"Please don't marry her, then I'll have to be sisters with Sienna and I like her and all, but I can't live with her. I like being an only child."
"It's all the Christmas presents, isn't it? You don't want to share?" Logan asks.
Piper rolls her eyes at him.
"Hand on heart Piper Echolls, I swear I will not marry any of the moms from school," he makes a cross on his heart.
"Even Nelly's mom?" she asks, knowing precisely how stunning Nelly's mom is, a fact which didn't skip Logan's attention.
"Even Nelly's mom." This time he holds out a pinky to swear on, but she doesn't present her own, instead grumbling, unconvinced. He briefly ponders why she harbors these concerns, as he has not dated once since they moved here.
"She's only interested in you because of Mom." Piper pauses, "She asks me about her sometimes."
Logan picks up a cloth and wipes at the already clean counter, head down.
"Like what?"
"What she was like, if I'm still sad, if I know Brad Pitt."
"And what did you say?"
"Brad Pitt is, like, sixty, as if I would know him. Gross," Piper deflects.
Logan laughs, then falls serious, "And what do you say about Mom?" his tone changes, reluctant to speak of the subject, as always.
"I dunno, I don't really like talking about Mom with anyone."
Logan understands that impulse, it is one borne entirely of his own making. If you can't discuss your dead mother at home, how can you do it with other people?
Logan puts down the knife, "You don't have to, you know that right?"
She nods.
He continues, "Just because Mom was famous doesn't mean that they know her. They think they do, but they don't. And just because she was famous doesn't mean you're obliged to talk about her with them either. She's your Mom, Piper, don't worry about what anyone else says."
Piper doesn't respond, so Logan stares at her and waits for an acknowledgment.
"Okay," she says finally, putting her head down and beginning her algebra. Logan looks at it but can make no sense of the figures on the page, so much for Mr. Beckley's riveting classes on quadratic equations.
He goes back to the stir fry, adding soy sauce, ginger, chili, cornstarch, stock and a little water. His back is turned when Piper speaks again.
"What about you?" she says quietly, "Do you still miss her?"
Logan faces his daughter. Life had a way of distracting them, keeping their days filled to bursting, so busy that talk of the past was infrequent. Photos of her are across all the walls, visual reminders of a different life, one they don't speak of anymore.
Logan stops and thinks. What he doesn't say is that he would have moments, turning on the shower, folding a sweater, starting the car, that tears would course down his cheeks unhindered. That he would limp through the day, hour by hour, then battle the nights with debilitating insomnia. But these things he won't share, because Piper's at an age now that asking questions about her mother might lead to other questions about her mother, ones he wasn't yet ready to address.
So he answers as simply as possible, "Of course I miss her."
And maybe it's because Piper knows Logan so well, or because she herself isn't ready to talk about these things, she picks up her pencil and leaves well enough alone.
