A Christmas Kiss

Chapter 2

Chapter 2

It was quite possible Asher Barlow had lost his mind. The last place he needed to be was at a livestock auction, especially during the winter, when every ounce of feed became a nugget of gold. There was no telling how long the cold days would linger and he already had plenty of mouths to feed. But Asher took a trip into town to have lunch with his friend, saw the sign, and couldn’t help it. What would it hurt to have a look?

He suspected there wouldn’t be much to see—the dead of winter wasn’t exactly the best time to seek top dollar, though it was usually the time when most unfortunate souls were dumped.

And there were a handful of sad-looking critters to be found in the drafty barns. Everything from milking goats to beef cattle and even a potbellied pig.

“Is there any point to this?” his friend Bowie Levithan asked, standing by a pen with a pair of sheep inside.

“An out of the way, no name auction is where I found Titan,” Asher responded, mentioning the premiere stallion at his ranch. The Quarter Horse had been tucked away in a poorly-lit stall, poop stains on his legs, a listless look in his eyes. Despite his outward appearance, Asher had felt drawn to him, easily parting with the funds of the meager price tag. With registration papers in hand, Asher quickly discovered his diamond in the rough, Titan’s bloodlines impeccable. Cleaned up and with some proper training, he was now Asher’s go-to ranch mount. And quite profitable on the breeding front. Did Asher expect to luck into another gem poking around the dusty fairground barns? Maybe. To Asher, every horse possessed untapped potential.

“There might be something worthwhile here, you never know.”

Bowie had wandered a bit further along. “I’ve got a donkey. You in the mood to buy a little ass?” he chuckled.

Asher rolled his eyes, bypassing a dairy cow. In the next enclosure a beyond pitiful horse stood, one back leg c****d, head hanging low. For a split second Asher feared she may have already expired, she looked that bad. Through her sad excuse of a winter coat he could make out her hip bones and her ribs, her complete lack of muscle leaving him to wonder how she even managed to stay on her feet, which also needed an overdue visit from the farrier. Her swollen stomach seemed to make up the bulk of her weight. The scrap of paper affixed to the pen bars provided very little information, not even including a guess at her age.

“Aye, what’s caught your eye?” Bowie asked, sauntering back down the aisle.

There were few other people around, and the voice of a woman bartering for a better deal on the potbellied pig carried through the space.

Bowie stepped up to Asher’s side. “Well, ain’t she a sight for sore eyes.” He gave Asher a level, knowing look. “Don’t tell me you’re planning on buying her. The last thing you need right now is a rescue. It’s already a stressful time of year for livestock, why take on such a project?”

Asher knew there was a degree of truth to what Bowie said, as his friend owned a smaller ranch operation known for its rodeo bulls. However, there was something about the mare that nagged at Asher, made it hard for him to just walk away. So he looked at the listed price and scoffed. They were asking way too much for what was basically a bag of bones.

“You’re getting her.” It was a statement, not a question.

“I can’t just walk away and leave her here,” Asher said, looking over his shoulder to see if the sale steward had finished up with the pig woman. It appeared money was exchanging hands.

Bowie cleared his throat. “Um, Ash, bud, you do realize…?”

“Yes,” he said, waving down the steward as soon as the woman pulled open the pen with the not-so-little potbellied pig. The excited squeals of the beast carried throughout the barn.

The steward, a portly man with a piggish nose and meaty hands, sauntered over. “How can I help you, gentlemen?”

“I’d like to purchase this mare,” Asher said. According to the name stitched into the steward’s blue-striped white shirt, his name was Ian Stoutly. Before he could speak, Asher added, “And the price is too much.”

“A grand, Mr. Barlow, is just chump change to a man like you,” Ian Stoutly said. He plucked the dirty trucker’s hat from his head and scratched at his forehead with grimy fingernails.

“It’ll cost me more than that for her first vet check,” Asher shot back. Growing up on the family ranch, he had learned a great deal from his grandfather and father, especially the price of horseflesh, working cowhorses being the heart of their ranch. “She’s a bag of bones and, judging by the size of her stomach, she’s got a serious case of worms,” he slipped in a lie. “I won’t pay anything more than two hundred, and even that’s pushing it. Consider the money a donation, maybe think about upgrading these facilities. They’re awful.”

Mr. Stoutly stammered, then shook his head. “Fine, take her. Better she get a chance with you than die in this place.”

Asher gave him the bail fee and turned to look at his newest herd member. She was going to need a lot of groceries and even more TLC if she was going to make it. “I haven’t got my rig with me, what about you?”

Bowie shook his head.

Asher gave the mare an appraising look. “How about I make us dinner and we skip lunch? I don’t like the idea of leaving her here any longer than necessary.”

“What exactly are you purposing?”

“We head back to my place, hook up the trailer, get a heavy blanket from the tack room, and haul her home. Once she’s settled, I’ll make you one of my famous steaks.”

Bowie rubbed at the day’s growth on his chin. “On the grill?”

“If that’s how you want it.”

“In this cold?”

“Yes or no?”

“You got beer?”

Ashe started for the exit. “Of course, what kind of rancher would I be if didn’t?”

* * * *

Close to two hours later, Asher stood in the warmth of the main barn at Sugarbush Ranch. Established in the early 1800s, the acreage had been passed down through the generations. Though the facilities changed with the times and the size of the operation—now quite large—the original cabin and barn remained, preserved for future generations. If Asher or his sister ever got around to making babies.

At last count, Sugarbush Ranch had over a thousand head of cattle and somewhere north of fifty horses, considerably larger than the twenty steers and two horses that had helped give birth to the place. Most of the livestock stayed out on the range, pastures changing with the seasons, the bitter months of winter bringing everyone closer to the heart of the ranch. When the mercury dipped too low, there were shelters for them to huddle in.

A handful of horses, however, were stabled in the barn. Mostly those used to keep the place running, but also a few with health problems and, of course, Titan. Asher feared someone might nab the stallion when the opportunity presented itself. Rustlers weren’t always just after cattle.

Now the thirty-stall barn had a new occupant, one in need of a name, but more importantly a checkup from the vet. Asher placed the call, leaning on the stall door, staring in at the mare. With any luck, she’d pull through. It was going to be dicey. Once the vet was on her way Asher stuck his cell phone back in his coat pocket.

Asher turned to let Bowie know he could head to the main house if he so desired, but the offer died on his lips. Bowie grinned, a twinkle in his eyes. “What the hell is that look for?”

“Well,” Bowie drawled, “if I didn’t know any better, I’d think you bought this little mare and her young’un with the express purpose of seeing Miss Dickens.”

“You’re out of your mind.”

“Sure, if it makes ya feel better, you keep right on telling yourself that’s the truth. But I can’t help wondering,” Bowie mused, gesturing at the mare, “what a man as well-informed as you are is doing picking out this pregnant little soul when you know nothing about her.”

“I have my reasons,” Asher countered, bothered by his friend’s words. He had no ulterior motive behind his new purchase.

At least, he didn’t think so.