Brennan woke to the feel of something warm trickling down his thigh. What in tarnation? He sat up in bed, turned and put his feet on the floor. His boxer shorts were wet. The room was spinning. The alarm clock on the nightstand read five eleven. Still dark outside.

He got up, flipped the switch on the wall and stumbled to the bathroom. For the next couple of minutes he sat on the toilet, unable to tell if he was finished or not. He wobbled as he stood, took his boxer shorts off and hung them over the edge of the bathtub. He removed the washcloth hanging on the chrome ring by the sink, dampened it and cleaned himself as best he could. Then he walked back to the bedroom, got a clean pair of shorts from the old, walnut dresser standing against the wall and put them on. His hands were trembling. Goosebumps all over.

He walked back to the bed where a damp spot on the sheets and the scent of urine lingered. “Damned fool,” he muttered. “What da ell’s wong wid you?” His jaw felt stiff and tight. Tongue too. As though they didn’t want to cooperate with what his brain was telling them to do. He walked to the opposite side of the bed and laid down, pulled the covers up under his chin and fell asleep.

When he woke again the alarm clock read eleven twenty-six. Mid-morning. The sun high in the sky. His head throbbed. He crawled out of bed, used the bathroom again, washed his face and hands. He opened the medicine cabinet, grabbed a bottle of aspirin and swallowed a couple, then staggered to the day-old shirt and pair of jeans lying on the old steamer trunk at the foot of the bed. He picked them up, walked around the bed and lowered himself slowly onto it to put them on. As he attempted to snap the shirt’s buttons, his fingers refused to work like they were supposed to, all stiff and trembly. When finished, he rose and tried to step into the jeans. Same problem again. His legs shuddered until he had no choice but to lean against the dresser, pulling on first one leg and then the other.

Weak all over. Must’ve caught a bug somewhere. Probably the flu. Hopefully not covid. Either way, it was nothing Doc Briar couldn’t take care of. He’d give him a call just as soon as morning chores were finished. Pushing off the dresser, he made his way to the kitchen.

He began reheating what was left of a pot of coffee on the stove, then walked over and opened the refrigerator. Pulled out a carton of eggs and some bacon and set them on the counter. He took a loaf of bread from the top of the refrigerator and set that on the counter too. Then he stood there looking at it all, the eggs, bacon and bread, until his stomach rose in his throat, and he retched into the sink. It was the damnedest thing, like he’d just drunk a gallon of spoilt milk.

When he was finished putting all the food back where he’d gotten it, he got a glass from the cabinet, filled it with water and took a big gulp. Or tried to. Hard to swallow. Some of it dribbled out of his mouth, down his chin. He sipped a little more, then stepped into the little enclosed porch off the back of the house. He plopped down on the pine bench there, pulled his boots on and walked outside. Rusty, that good old hunting dog, rose from his place on the cistern to greet him, his big, floppy tail swinging to and fro.

The day was hot, the sun glaring in a pale, cloudless sky. Whenever Brennan looked up his head started pounding. Better to keep his eyes on the ground. Each step created a tiny swirl of dust around the toe of his boots. An odd scent, like charred flesh, filled his nostrils. Somewhere in the pasture, down by the ponds, the Herefords and Black Baldies bawled.

When he got to the aged, red barn, he rolled the door back and stepped inside. Bear, the roan quarter horse, whinnied at the sight of him, his intense brown eyes peering at him from the shadows. “Sawwy I’m late, Beaw.” Mouth still wasn’t working. He opened it as far as it would go, rolled his head back and forth to relieve the stiffness in his neck. He walked to the back of the barn where bales of alfalfa were stacked neatly against the wall, tore a chunk off one, then walked back and dropped it into Bear’s manger. Sitting on the manger beside him, he waited patiently while the horse ate.

When the animal was finished, he led him from the stable, drew a halter over his head and threw a blanket and saddle onto his back. Reaching underneath, he cinched the saddle as tight as he could, then grasped the reins with a calloused hand and led him outside. They walked around to the back of the barn where a barbed wire fence stretched across the land.

Ahead of them, acres of coarse yellow brome and prairie grass rolled to the horizon. Scattered trees and ponds blinked in the sunlight. Brennan opened a narrow gate, led the horse through and closed it.  He reached up, grabbed the saddle horn and tried to put the toe of his dusty boot into the stirrup. It glanced off twice before landing where it was supposed to go. Finally, he pulled himself up and swung his leg over the saddle.

He tapped Bear’s barrel sides with his heels, and the animal plodded forward, following a worn path running along the fence line. Grasshoppers took flight ahead of them, clicking as they disappeared into the weeds.

The sun beat down like an ember in the sky, and Brennan’s thinning scalp began to sting. “I foe got my hat again, Beaw,” he said. The world seemed to shift and sway, and he suddenly felt spent, like another minute in the saddle would kill him. When the cattle caught sight of him, they bawled some more, lowering their heads and plodding toward him.

No air moved, and Brennan felt like he was suffocating. Like what little breath he was taking in wasn’t making it to his lungs. He leaned forward and puked again. Saw a flash of white like lightning, and the world went dark.

When he opened his eyes again, he was slumped over the saddle, his head resting on Bear’s neck. Arms hanging down limply. Flies buzzing over the spatter of vomit running down the horse’s shoulder. The reins dragging in the dirt beneath him. He could barely lift his head. “Go home, Beaw,” he grunted. “Tay me home.”

He winced, fought his way through the fog and darkness and opened his eyes. He was in a bed. A green room with fluorescent lights on the ceiling, monitors blinking and beeping around him. A chrome rack with a drip bag and an IV running to the back of his hand. A hospital. It felt like someone had stuffed a dirt clod in his mouth. Tasted that way too. He looked around.

A woman sitting in a chair by the bed got up. Scrawny as a runt pup. Gaunt with dark circles under her eyes. Wearing a gray tank top and jeans. Smelling like a cigarette. His daughter, Chloe. Thirty-six years old and looking every bit of fifty. She grasped the bed rail and looked down at him. “Hi Daddy. It’s me. How’re you feeling?”

Brennan opened his mouth to talk, but when he did all that came out was a low and guttural noise. “Ahhgal.” He glared at her.

She reached out and patted his boney shoulder. “Don’t try to talk. You had a stroke. The Brozek brothers came by to return your chainsaw, saw your horse saddled in the pasture without a rider, walked over and found you lying in the weeds. They’re the ones who called the ambulance.”

God almighty. A stroke. Of all the damned things to have happen. Explained why he felt so crappy that morning.

“Do you understand what I’m saying, Daddy?”

Of course he understood what she was saying. Did she think he was stupid?

“The doctor says it might be a while before you’re back on your feet again.”

He blinked and blinked again. What about the cattle? Who was going to feed them? Take care of them? Watch out for them? His heart began to pound before he caught himself, stopped and took a deep breath. Easy Old Man. Need to think this through before getting all worked up. The herd would be fine. The ponds were spring fed, pumping water year-round, and there was plenty of brome in the pasture they could eat. It was Bear and the rest of the livestock, Rusty and the chickens, that couldn’t wait. He’d have to—

“That’s why Thor and I are here. We’re going to stay with you until you’re able to manage again.”

What’d she say?

She turned and motioned to someone behind her. For the first time Brennan noticed the gangly teenager standing behind her in one corner of the room. He pushed himself off the wall and plodded over. Smiling, she put her hand on his back. “You remember Thor, don’t you Daddy?”

He looked at the boy. His grandson. It’d been at least ten years since he’d last seen him, that time he’d run into them at the mall in Wichita. The kid would’ve been about six then. He’d changed some. His hair was darker, and he’d grown considerably, taller than his mother these days. Definitely had her pale green eyes. And his grandmother’s. Thor. What the hell kind of a name was that to call your child?

“He’s on summer break now, so he agreed to come out and help me take care of you. Wasn’t that nice of him?”

The boy stared at him as though he’d never seen a man lying in a bed before. Like he’d just stumbled onto a nudist colony and didn’t know what to do with himself. As soon as he was able, he’d tell them they’d both have to leave. He didn’t want, or need, them there. The quicker they realized that the better it’d be for all of them.

His mouth was dry. His tongue swollen. He saw a glass of water sitting on the tray beside the bed, tried to reach for it but couldn’t. His arm was too heavy. Like it was made of lead. He could barely get his head off the pillow.

“You shouldn’t try to move, Daddy. If you need something Thor or I’ll get it for you.” She took the cup of water from the tray, slid her hand under his head and lifted it while pressing the cup against his lips.

Who the hell had called her to be there anyway? He’d been just fine all these years without her. No need to change now. He clamped his mouth shut and turned away.

She sighed. “So that’s how it’s going to be. I guess some things never change. Alright. Fine. You get thirsty enough you’ll drink.”

He wouldn’t look at her anymore. Didn’t want to. Outside the window, the silver maples were releasing their twirly green leaves to spin lazily in the air. On the street beneath them, cars passed back and forth, flashes of sunlight exploding off their windshields.

“If it’s thinking about that damned ranch that’s got you in such a bad mood you can just relax. Clayton Brozek said he’d be happy to check on things while you’re here.”

If Brennan could’ve cussed he would’ve. Told her he damned well didn’t need her or Thor or the Brozek brothers sticking their nose into his business. Or anyone else for that matter. He’d get by just like he always had. On his own. His right hand curled into a fist. At least there was that. He could still make a fist.