of my horse work.”
“So you do what you can, right? I get that. Pay the bills first, doing the best work you can.”
“That’s it. That’s why I’m taking the classes. The extension service got me started…”
“That’s cool. And it’s amazing for the kids to see. It really makes a difference.”
Brent clasped his hands in front of him, giving Trace this pleased smile. “Thanks. That means a lot, to hear someone say it.”
God, that was a glorious expression. Trace felt it all the way to his bones. “I’m glad. You’ve done so much for me. I’m glad to do something to help you.”
“Thank you.” Brent looked at his glass, seeming surprised. “Well, damn. I reckon that’s my cue to say we need to head to bed. Goats, chickens, and kids get up early.”
“Yessir.” Trace rolled up and held his hand out for Brent’s glass. “I’ll rinse these out. I need to make a glass of water for bed.”
“Thanks, man.” Brent handed over the glass, then kinda stood there, shifting from foot to foot. “Well. Thanks for listening too. It’s good to have someone here. You, I mean.”
“I think… I think, maybe, we have a mutually satisfying thing going on here.” He needed somewhere to raise a baby; Brent needed someone to help raise his own.
“I think so.” Brent came over to put a hand on his shoulder. “Definitely.” Brent gave him a little squeeze. “Night, man.”
“Night.”
Trace fixed himself a glass of water and headed to bed, telling himself the reason he still felt Brent’s hand on his shoulder was the wine.
Chapter 8
Brent headed down to the barn, needing to load up a saddle so he could head to the roping pen for the afternoon.
Not that he really had a burning urge to go roping today, but Junior Austin had asked him to come, saying there was a new feller who was looking for a horse trainer.
Brent was never one to turn a deaf ear or a blind eye or whatever to a potential job. A man needed to make a living.
Trace was in the chicken coop, the kids in this amazing playpen thing he’d set up, with the baby covered in her little play area. Trace could watch babies, the kids could get sunshine, and the birds got fed. It was the perfect way to spend an early May day, for sure.
Brent thought it was ingenious, really. No poison ivy, no little girls in the chicken coop, and no scurvy. Sun helped scurvy, right? Or was that oranges. Maybe sun was rickets…
Anyway Ringo and Mama Cass were happy to sleep out there and let the babies crawl on them.
“Here chickie-chickie! Come get your corn!”
He chuckled. Chickie. Lord. Those lady birds could be evil. Curly had them all named and spoiled and shit.
Still, between the chickens, the rabbits, and the goats, Trace was beginning to get it. The man was brave, solid, and patient as a saint, which Lord knew Brent wasn’t.
He grinned, listening to the chickens clucking and fussing. Trace was laughing at them too.
“Dad-O!” Jakob’s voice was shockingly loud, strident. “Careful! Ollie!”
“What?”
Brent looked around just in time to see Ollie, one of the ostriches, barrel toward Trace. “Shit!” He put on a burst of speed.
Trace spun around in time to see it and try to run, but he stumbled over the hens, and Ollie snatched Trace up by a couple of dreads.
“Ollie!” Brent leaped the fence and waved his arms, hooting and hollering. That big old bird hated to be confronted.
“Help! He has me!” Trace sounded utterly panicked, and Jakob stood and started waving his gimme cap furiously from the fence.
Ollie twisted and tugged, and Brent swore he heard the dreads rip from Trace’s head.
“Ollie.” Brent ran up and whapped Ollie with his own hat, slapping the ostrich right across the eyes.
The bastard backed off, fluttering away, and Trace moved to the middle of the chicken coop, holding the back of his head. Blood was dripping down over Trace’s hand, and Brent got a panicked look.
“Holy hell.” All of a sudden, Bald Harold was there, tossing a loop around Ollie. “Come on, you beast. Back to your pen.”
Brent moved to Trace’s side. “You’re bleeding.”
“Don’t scare the kids. Please. Is it bad?”
“Well, it looks like he pulled out some hair.” Brent kept his voice low, but damn. Damn. “You need stitches. You want me to look at it?”
“Maybe spray it off with the hose?”
“Lord, no.” Brent looked up when Harold came trotting back to the hen yard. “Can you hang out