Knocking Boots
The sun has already begun to slip behind the barn by the time I ride in off the trail. I don’t rush—I can hear the clamor of plates and utensils amid the rising voices calling to each other from the supper table set up outside the bunkhouse, but here at the barn it’s just the sound of my horse’s shoes on the hard-packed earth and the whine of a mosquito hovering at the back of my neck.
My boots scuff in the sand as I ease off the old mare. She whinnies, and I keep a hand on her withers to calm her. Sweat dampens her coat; I need to brush her down, bust a new bale of hay, and fill a trough with fresh water before I think about my own dinner. By the time I’m through, the other ranch hands and cowboys should have had their fill, and I’ll be able to savor a quiet moment to mys
