The Mule Man

Chapter 1-2

Jase Keller drove slowly down the winding two-lane road, pausing often to peer at signs. The one he sought would say something about mules. The very idea seemed more ludicrous by the minute. He pressed down on the accelerator of his rental crossover in a flare of defiance. He had to be out of his mind. He knew sidewalks and crowds, the hectic pace of the modern financial world. He did not know country roads, barbwire fences, or small streams edged by big gray barked trees. And most certainly not mules.

He’d always heard they were stubborn, ill-tempered, prone to kicking, and very antisocial. If Jase was anything, it was not antisocial. He was one of the most social people he knew. So what in f*****g bloody hell was he doing in a remote corner of New Mexico looking for a place that had mules in the name and took people on pack trips? The relentless stress of his job these last few years must have blown what was left of his mind.

Just then he saw the sign and jammed on the brakes to make the sharp turn onto a narrow unpaved road that plunged off the pavement to follow one of those streams. Although the sign was dim, paint faded and the wood splintering along one edge, he could still read it. “The Mule Man—adventures on mule-back into the wilderness created by Aldo Leopold.”

That name sounded vaguely familiar, probably from a couple of courses in environmental stuff Jase had taken while he was floundering through college trying to decide what to be. He’d never planned a career in financial advising, but that was where he’d landed. Now it was a bit like having your foot in a steel jawed trap. The only escape was to chew off your foot. He was not so desperate yet—he thought. Maybe avoiding that mode of escape was the reason he was here, come to think of it.

His mini SUV bounced along a rutted track, crossed between two hay fields, circled a big barn sporting a “Hay for Sale” sign and a smaller shed or two. It ended in front of a tan adobe house shaded by a grove of huge cottonwood trees. For now, he didn’t see a mule. He shook his head, still laughing at his own folly, and parked the vehicle, swinging open the driver’s door to step out. His loafer sank into brown mud, apparently still soft from recent summer rains.

Before he could pull his foot out of the muck, a tall, lanky man emerged from the screened porch at the back of the house. “You lost?”

The man’s tone seemed just short of truculent. Was Jase at the right place? It certainly did not look like his vision of the traditional “dude ranch” or resort, not even a rustic one. When he tried to answer, he found himself stammering, something totally out of character. “I—er—I thought I saw a sign. Out on the highway. Did…Maybe I took a wrong turn. Is this the mule man’s place?”

The cowboy’s expression softened a minute degree. “Yep. I’m called the mule man. You don’t look like a guy in the market for a mule, though. They won’t fit in the back of that kiddie car you’re driving.”

“Oh no, not buy one. Just go on one of your pack trip adventures. I brought jeans and boots and all the right stuff.”

Now the other man grinned. “Well, dip me in donkey dung. A pack trip, you say. You think? Have you ever ridden at all?”

“A little. When I was a kid. I’ve been back east working since I graduated from UNM eight years ago. I just had to take a break, get out from under the twenty-four/seven stress. I’ve got ulcers and my blood pressure’s getting too high and s**t, the constant pressure is eating my lunch.”

Jase’s admission shocked him, although it was nothing short of true. Still, he did not often spill his guts that way. Must be even more stressed than he’d thought.

“What the hell kind of business are you in? I’d be lookin’ for a different job.” The other guy hiked one eyebrow and gave Jase a look conveying both pity and scorn.

“Financial stuff. It’s been weird the last few years. You can still make money, but the game has a lot of new rules.” Not used to feeling ill at ease, Jase dragged his left foot free of the mud and stepped away from his car.

Now that he really looked, the other guy was good looking in a natural, roughhewn way. No metrosexual here with styled hair, a nip or a tuck, and just the right outfit. His faded jeans fit him like an animal’s sleek hide and the sleeves of his denim short were rolled back a couple of turns over muscular tanned arms. Under the shadow of a well-used Stetson, his eyes looked ultra-blue, and when he smiled, white teeth contrasted with his sunburned face.

Jase swallowed. Oh man. This guy’s clearly all man and over two yards tall. What was he getting into here?

The other man folded his arms and stood, leaning against the gatepost on the fence around his back yard. Several dogs lounged in the shade, watching the proceedings with keen attention while they stayed quiet, under control. No barks or growls or even pacing around from them.

Damn, the guy was not going to make it easy, was he? Hell, he was supposed to be in business and act professional and host-like, wasn’t he? Jase mentally shook his head as he backpedaled and tried to pull himself together. He’d flown and then driven almost all day to get here. He was tired and hungry and starting to get aggravated.

“Hey, I wrote you and sent a check. Couldn’t find a website or anything like that, no email or even a phone number. I requested a pack trip, a week here at your ranch, a trek into the wilderness with the mules. Is it asking too much to be acknowledged and treated like a customer instead of a homeless vagrant?”

The other man had the grace to look a bit abashed. “Yeah, I think I got your letter. Things have been kind of crazy lately. I’m…Well, that was a bad idea I had a couple of years ago about doing pack trips and stuff. You must’ve seen a very old ad. I’m really not set up to deal with guests. I don’t have staff or anything like a lodge or hotel. What you see is what you get.”

He waved a hand at the house, which on closer inspection looked pretty rustic, including the weed- and grass-filled yard and the outbuildings Jase had passed. “It’s a farm, or a working kind of ranch and that’s it. I train mules and sell a few, which involves going into the mountains, so I thought maybe I could take guests and make a few extra dollars to help keep the mortgage in my name. You know?

“Thing is, I found out I suck at being a guide or a host or whatever. I do better with mules than people. You might try the real dude ranch back down the highway about five miles—you’ll see the sign. It caters to city guys wanting some western fun.”

Silence prevailed for several long seconds. Jase saw in the other man’s face when he finally relented, just before Jase started to turn around, get back into his car and leave, thinking maybe he could sue to get the money back…

“Oh hell, I can’t give you back your money. It’s spent, to be honest. If you want a roughin’ it kind of trip and a bunk in my house while we get ready, I reckon I can do that. Don’t expect any frills and don’t think I’m going to entertain you with songs and stories and gourmet dinners, though. By the way, I’m Orr Loveless.” Then he stuck out a large, work worn hand. “Have we got a deal?”

Jase grinned as he accepted the hand shake. “Hell, yeah. Glad to meet you, Orr. My name’s Jase Keller.”