The Season by Jonah Lisa Dyer

Author:Jonah Lisa Dyer
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Penguin Young Readers Group
Published: 2016-06-09T18:01:47+00:00

Hank and I stepped off the terrace and walked out across the side yard and then down the gravel road toward the barn. The air was fresh and the October sun, a butterscotch candy halfway down in the western sky, turned the tall grass shades of tangerine and marigold.

“It’s really a great place,” Hank said admiringly.

“Thanks. It was awesome growing up here.”

We heard the clatter of hooves behind us, and three dusty men rode up on horses.

“Hola, Megan!” Silvio called out, smiling warmly. A former professional bull rider the same age as Dad, Silvio was the ranch foreman, and my favorite uncle. The two others were hands, a little closer to my age.

“Silvio! Cómo está?”

“Bien, chica. Y tu?”

“Bien, gracias.” I looked at Hank. “This is my friend Hank,” I said.

Silvio reached down and they shook hands.

“Silvio Vargas.”

“Hank Waterhouse.”

“Con mucho gusto, Hank,” Silvio said, tipping his hat.

“Mucho gusto,” Hank replied, smiling.

“Mom saved you some dinner,” I said to Silvio.

“Okay. We’re gonna put the horses away, and then I’ll come to the house.”

“Great to see you!”

“Adiós!” he said to us. “Vamos, gringos,” he called to the hands, and they rode off.

Hank and I turned back.

“He seems real nice,” Hank said.

“He’s the best. Silvio’s been the ranch foreman here since before I was born.”

When we reached the house we walked through the shade trees to the north and came up to the side of the main house. He looked in through a pair of French doors.

“What’s in here?”

“That’s the study.” I opened the doors—we never locked our doors on the ranch, even at night—and we went in. The study was part of the original structure, and all the furniture in it was ancient. A mission-style desk dominated one side of the room. Behind it sat a leather office chair. There were bookshelves full of musty ledgers, and two seriously old leather chairs in front of the desk. A lot of business had been done here, back when buyers actually came out to the ranch and sat and went over prices per head and delivery schedules, and a handshake meant something. Now the ledgers had been replaced with laptops, and they just called from their cell phones.

Hank ran his fingers along the bookshelves, looked up at the old brands on the wall, then wandered over to a wall of pictures.

“The rogues’ gallery,” I said, and he laughed.

“Cool,” he said. It was cool. There were at least two hundred photographs, and they told the Aberdeen’s story. Practically all my ancestors were up there somewhere, as well as assorted foremen and hands who had worked on the ranch. There were wedding pictures and roundups, family rodeos. Lots of pictures featured bygone celebrities: Tom Landry, Neil Armstrong, Kitty Wells.

“That’s the original Angus,” I said, pointing to a black-and-white. Angus looked very stern in this picture, standing next to the barn. “And that’s his wife, Jemima.” I pointed to another.

“And who’s this?” Hank asked, pointing to a very little boy sitting on a very big horse. He had on jeans, boots, and a hat, and the stirrups had been cinched right up to the edge of the saddle.

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