When quitting time rolls around Friday afternoon, I line up with the rest of the ranch hands to get paid. If Hank notices I don’t lag behind like I usually do, he doesn’t mention it. He just hands over my week’s wages, marks my name off the list he keeps, and nods at me without looking up. I grip the dollars in my hand and hurry away.
Sunset seems a long time coming. I brush down my mare twice, muck out her stall, and give her fresh hay, all the while glancing at the open window in the loft to check the color of the sky. It seems to take hours for the light to shift the shadows, but eventually the others come into the barn to saddle up and head into town. They show up in groups of two or three, sometimes more, and though they nod at me or tip their hats, they don’t invite me to join them.
