Ranch Manny - B.A. Tortuga Page 0,26
answer; he simply brought Brent two glasses over with the corkscrew.
“Dude, you even know what shape,” Brent teased, nodding at the white wine glasses. “Thanks. Okay, hope I don’t screw up.” A few quick twists and that cork was out and still in good shape.
He applauded, laughing at the joyous expression on Brent’s face.
“Hey, I remembered.” Brent poured them both a glass. “Come on a sit with me in the cushy chairs, huh?” He headed back to the front room, which Trace had to admit was far more comfy than the wooden kitchen chairs. Maybe he should see if he could make cushions to tie on the seats.
He settled into the overstuffed chair, snuggling right back into the cushions. The wine was bright, fruity, and totally drinkable. He was happily surprised. And cozy. Lord, he did need to breathe.
“That’s better.” Brent’s words surprised the hell out of him, but he guessed that was true.
He hadn’t realized how much he just needed to sit. He’d been running on adrenaline for so many months, he wasn’t sure he remembered how to relax. So Trace nodded. “I’ve been doing happy-making work, so I didn’t realize how much pressure I was feeling. Thank you.”
Brent nodded. “It can still be stressful, huh? And you had a lot thrown at you fast.”
“That’s part of being a teacher, I think. You jump in and swim, hard.” He’d loved it, and he thought he could learn to love this, once he figured out all the pieces, like how to avoid that one rooster, how to keep the girls from cutting their own hair, and how exactly one milked a goat without letting them kick the bucket over.
“That sounds like being a rodeo man.” Brent winked. “Though there you’re talking seconds instead of hours or days.”
“There’s a little less broken bones, a few more snotty noses, and about the same amount of poop.” Whoa. Had he just said that out loud?
Brent hooted. “No less snot, I promise. Bulls sling it like it’s no big thing.”
He started laughing, and then they were cackling together so hard he had to put his wineglass down before he spilled.
“Daddy Brent?” The words were soft, and they looked up to see Jakob. “I can’t sleep. Can I come sit with y’all?”
Brent gave him a wry grin. “Sure, kiddo.” He held out an arm.
“Y’all were laughing hard. I haven’t heard you laugh for a long time.”
Oh, how sweet and sad.
“I’ve just been real busy, kiddo. Trace is making that easier already, huh?” Brent pulled Jakob in to sit with him.
“Uh-huh. He played Mario Cart with me, did you see?”
Trace smiled over at Brent. That little boy was desperate to make someone proud.
“I did. He’s better than Curly, huh?”
“Yeah, but Curly is better at feeding chickens.”
“Dude, it was one time of tripping over that rooster! Give me ’til summer and I’ll be amazing.”
Jakob chuckled, sounding so much like Brent it was kinda weird. “I know. I was just teasing. Curly is a great cowboy, though. Did you know he was a world champion heeler?”
“That’s too cool. I don’t know a ton about rodeo, but I have been to the Austin rodeo a few times.”
“Jakob likes to watch when it’s on, so you can learn more than you need to know.” Brent’s smile was directed right at him, which did crazy things to his tummy.
“Cool. I’m all about learning.” That was the best part about working on the ranch—everything was new and different and strange. He’d never known that eggs came out of a chicken’s butt soft.
“Teacher disease,” Brent teased, and he nodded.
“You know it.”
“Did you teach kids like me?” Jakob asked, eyelids starting to get heavy.
“I did, and ones a little older.”
“Can you help me learn to read real books about cowboys?”
God, so adorable. “Yes, sir. I most certainly can.”
“Okay. I like Hank the Cowdog, but I want to read about Texas Rangers and Bill Pickett and stuff.”
Brent stroked Jakob’s hair. “Curly and Bald Harold are kinda cowboy historians. They tell a lot of tales.”
“That’s too cool, and so good for the kids. Oral historians are so rare and wonderful, you know?”
“What does oral mean?” Jakob asked, and Brent looked like he was fixin’ to swallow his tongue. Trace had dealt with way worse, though, and he could so wait Brent out and make the cowboy answer.
“Means they like to jaw rather than write things down, kiddo.”
Trace would bet Brent had a nice way with the oral cowboy tradition himself. God, now he was doing it.
“I