Jenna's Cowboy (20 page)
“Pretty good, huh?” Nate ate most of it and drank a little coffee. Jenna gave Zach a few more bites of her doughnut before Nate slipped him the last little bit of his.
Zach kept trying to turn around to look at the cotton stripper. “What’s that?”
Nate set his coffee cup out of the way and picked him up so he could see it better. “That’s a cotton stripper. It scoops up all that fluffy white cotton so we don’t have to go along and do it by hand.”
“I don’t see how anybody could have picked all this without machinery,” said Jenna. “It would take forever.”
“Not as long as that.” Nate’s dad smiled and drank a sip of coffee. “We always hired good hands that worked for us every year. Some lived around here and some were migrant workers, mostly from Mexico. Some legal, some not.”
Jenna bent down and inspected an open boll. “Those sharp points on the base look like they would cut your hand.”
“They can if you aren’t careful. That’s called a burr. It’s what’s left of the seed pod after it opens. In places where they actually pick the cotton—pluck it from the burr—people suffered a lot when they did it by hand, even though the cotton practically fell out of it. In West Texas, it’s too windy to grow that type of cotton, so we use a variety that clings to the boll. The stripper pulls off the whole thing.”
He gazed out across the farm, a hint of nostalgia on his countenance. “Sometimes we had thirty workers out there, bent over the rows, filling the long white canvas sacks as fast as they could. They got paid by the pound, not by the hour. When I was ten, Daddy started letting me drive the tractor and pull the trailer out to the field. But he spent the day out there too. He had to weigh the full sacks. I couldn’t do it because they often weighed about a hundred pounds. A good worker would pull 250 to 275 pounds in a long day.”
“How did you weigh them?”
Nate thought Jenna was interested in the history, but he had a feeling she knew she was nurturing his father’s soul by asking him to share his memories. She had a knack for seeing the need in people’s hearts. He wondered if she saw into his. Part of him wanted her to. But another part of him was terrified of what she would discover.
“We had a scale rigged up on some braces at the end of the trailer. Daddy would lift that big heavy sack up and over the hook on the scale, letting it hang free. Part of the scale slid down with the weight of the cotton. Whatever number it stopped on told us how much had been picked.
“Then my dad would empty the bag in the trailer, and I’d climb up in there and stomp it down so we could put more in. The general idea is the same as the module builder, only it packs the cotton a whole lot tighter than a kid or even a grown man could. It has a big bar that presses on the cotton. We used our feet. School closed down for a week or two in the fall so the kids could help in the fields. Of course, for the town kids it was another vacation.”
“I grew up on a farm too,” said Nate’s mom. “But it was smaller than this one. I got to tromp cotton as well. It was fun to jump up and down on it. My mother was a nurse and often worked the three-to-eleven shift at the hospital. When my brother and I were too young to stay home by ourselves, we’d go to the gin with Daddy in the evening. We’d sit in the gin office doing our homework. If there were a lot of trailers ahead of us, we’d have a long wait. I fell asleep curled up on the chairs more times than I can remember.”
Nate’s dad picked up the story. “Sometimes there would be a dozen or more trailers lined up in the evening. Trailers only held a single bale, and many farmers only had one—”
“Like my dad,” said Chris.
“So they had to make sure the load was ginned, and the trailer freed up to use again the next morning. When we switched to mechanical strippers, we had to buy bigger trailers.”
There was a note of pride in his dad’s voice that came from following in a long line of Langley footsteps. Nate’s great-grandparents had homesteaded the farm in 1908, and every generation since had lived there and raised cotton—or attempted to—through good times and bad. It was a good legacy to have, to continue.
“How did they get it out of the trailer?” Jenna helped Zach down off the pickup so he could walk around. “Stay close.”
“With suction.” Nate’s dad grinned. “Picture a big metal tube attached to a giant vacuum cleaner. A man would climb into the trailer and guide the tube around it until all the cotton was sucked up into the gin. It was noisy. You couldn’t hear anybody if they tried to talk. And it was dangerous. A man could get hurt real bad if he slipped. Then the cotton would go through all kinds of brushes, separators, dryers, and eventually wind up in a bale that weighed five to six hundred pounds.
“The modules make it easier these days. They’re picked up by a big truck and stored on the lot at the gin until they’re processed. The newest strippers have a small module builder included. It compresses the cotton, forms it into a big roll, wraps it to protect it from the weather, and spits it out in the field. It can be hauled to the gin when it’s convenient. Most of the gins are adding the machines to handle that kind of module as well as the big ones. The new stripper is expensive, but it’s the only equipment you need. Plus it only takes one man to do the job that requires three now. It’s the way of the future.”
Nate didn’t know how soon the future would come to them. Not this year. They’d need several good crops to make purchasing a new stripper feasible.
His dad turned to him. “Why don’t you take Zach on the stripper and show him how it works. I’ll meet you with the boll buggy, and we can switch out. He can ride back here in the tractor with you.”
Nate noticed a spark of apprehension in Jenna’s eyes. “It’s safe. We’ll be enclosed in the cab on the stripper and then in one on the tractor. I can run them both with him on my lap.” Without thinking about his parents’ presence, he caught her hand. “I’ll keep him safe, sweetheart.”
“I know you will. And he’ll love it. Go ahead. But you know my dad and brothers will rib us both about trying to turn him into a farmer instead of a cowboy.”
“No reason he can’t be both.” Nate caught up with Zach, who was gingerly touching the fluffy cotton in a boll down the row. He knelt down beside him. “Do you want to go ride in the cotton stripper with me?”
Zach raised his head and stared at the big machine, his expression serious and thoughtful. “Yeah,” he said finally.
Nate picked him up and walked over to the stripper, climbing inside and settling Zach on his lap. “You have to stay right here and don’t touch anything unless I tell you that you can, okay?”
The little boy nodded, clearly fascinated by all the gauges, buttons, levers, and knobs.
“It’s going to be noisy, kind of like your papa’s tractor.”
“Okay.” He sounded a little nervous.
Nate started the engine and felt Zach’s fingers grip his shirt sleeve. “Are you all right, son?”
The term was commonly used in Texas when a man talked to a younger male or even one his own age. It shouldn’t have caused the sharp stab of longing in Nate’s heart or the sudden lump in his throat.
As he maneuvered the controls and set the stripper in motion, he barely noticed Zach nod his head. A few minutes later, the little boy stretched his neck to see the front of the stripper, then twisted around to watch the cotton shoot into the basket and laughed in delight.
Please, Jesus, I want him to be my son
.
Jenna moved into her grandparents’ house later in the week, so she’d only taken Zach to the farm once more to watch Nate and his parents work in the field. But that hadn’t stopped her son from asking about the cotton stripper and the boll buggy half a dozen times a day. Or from pestering his grandfather in his sweet little way—“Papa, we go tractor?”—until her dad broke down and took him for a ride.
During the transition to the new house, they’d eaten with her folks as usual. It didn’t appear that the tradition would change much anytime soon, unless Zach’s tiptoeing into the terrible twos became a full-blown assault. He did pretty well most of the time but had a couple of meltdowns when it was time for them to go home.
Jenna worried that she was damaging her son emotionally by taking him out of his familiar and secure environment. Had moving to a house of their own been a mistake? Her mom had reassured her that his behavior was typical for his age, and that he wasn’t nearly as bad as she or her brothers had been.
Within a week, he’d pretty well adjusted to sleeping in a different place. He seemed to realize that much of their previous routine was the same. She spent time at the ranch house working on the books and keeping the Callahan Ranch website up to date. Zach had gone to day care on the mornings she worked at the mission as usual. She could keep him with her without any trouble, but he loved playing with his friends, most of whom were a year or two older than he was. Being the only little kid at the ranch, he needed more opportunities than Sunday school to be with other children.
A few minutes before noon on Thursday, they moseyed down the road to join the family for dinner. Noting Nate’s truck parked out front, she walked a little faster. Zach spotted it too, and broke into a run. Nate had been riding pasture on a far corner of the ranch since Monday, so they hadn’t seen him.
Jogging after Zach, she caught up with him at the porch steps. He held on to the lower railing beside the steps and walked up all by himself, something she still marveled at. She was proud of his accomplishments, but her baby was growing up too fast.
When they walked through the front door, she noticed Chance sprawled out on the couch, dozing. She touched Zach on the shoulder, stopping him, and knelt down. “Be real quiet,” she whispered. “Uncle Chance is asleep.”
Zach studied his uncle before he walked very quietly behind the red leather sofa, halting at the end where Chance’s head rested on a Navajo patterned pillow propped against the arm. Her folks stepped out of the kitchen and stopped. When Jenna started to go after Zach, her mom grinned and shook her head. They waited to see what he would do.
Zach eased around the end of the couch until his face was right in front of Chance’s. He breathed on him for a full minute. Chance’s lip twitched, but he didn’t open his eyes. Zach leaned a little closer, resting his forearms on the sofa cushion. “What you doin’?”
Chance kept his eyes closed. “I’m sleeping.”
“No, you talking.”
Chance laughed and hauled him up on his chest in a hug. “Hi, squirt. I can’t fool you, can I?”
Zach shook his head. He wiggled around until he was sitting up. “You drive bulldozer?”
“I did. I moved a whole bunch of dirt around this morning. You’ll have to come out to the job site and check it out. We’re building a new house.”
“You go to work?” Zach climbed down with a little help.
Chance held on to him until his feet were firmly on the floor, then he sat up. “After dinner. Maybe your mom will bring you out there so you can see it.”
Zach turned to Jenna. “You go to work?”
“How about we do that tomorrow morning?” She looked at her brother. “If you’ll still be using the dozer then.”
“I will.”
The little boy swung around to face Chance. “Okay, I go to work too.”
“Tomorrow.”
Zach considered it, almost pouted, then nodded. “’Morrow.”
Will and Nate strolled in from the patio, and Jenna’s heartbeat speeded up. She’d missed him. His gaze met hers, and warmth filled his eyes. Seconds later, tension tightened his face. Had he and Will been discussing something that upset him?
Chance stood and stretched while Jenna’s mom related how Zach had awakened him. As the others laughed, Nate attempted a half-hearted smile. Something wasn’t right.
“Sis, I keep tellin’ you that Chance is a bad influence on Zach.” Will slanted a glance at his brother. “Not only is he lazy, sleeping away half the morning, but he wants to turn him into a contractor instead of a cowboy. He’s filling that child’s head with thoughts of driving bulldozers, backhoes, and cement trucks.”
“Hey, it’s not my machinery the kid’s been jabberin’ about all week. No, sir.” Chance sidled away from the coffee table and moved into an open area facing Will and Nate. “That boy is excited about cotton strippers and tractors and boll buggies. If you’re going to blame somebody for corrupting him, blame Nate.” Chance grinned at Nate.
He didn’t smile back. A hard glint flashed through his silver eyes before they darkened to a thunderous blue.
But Chance didn’t notice. No one seemed to but Jenna. A spark of mother’s intuition—or a nudge from the Lord— prompted her to scoot around and pick up Zach. She moved behind one of the sofas. “So what’s for dinner?”
Either no one heard her or they chose to ignore such a dumb question. Anyone who’d ever eaten Ramona’s spaghetti knew that’s what they were having. The distinctive aroma filled the whole house.
Chance shook his head. “Luring him over to your place with rides on the cotton stripper or taking him on the tractor and towing the boll buggy. Showin’ him how to squish all that purty fluffy cotton into a big hard lump. It’s sad, just sad.”
“Knock it off, Chance.” Nate flexed his fingers, but he kept his hands at his sides. He shifted his legs, one foot slightly in front of the other. His jaw tightened and his face grew flushed.
Jenna decided her whole family had suddenly become obtuse. “Chance, let it go,” she said softly.
Both her brothers sent her a questioning glance, but when they were in tease mode, they were hard to stop.
“Yes, sir. It’s a downright shame that you’re trying to turn that boy into a sodbuster. ” Chance started forward, extending his hand as if he might pat Nate on the shoulder to emphasize his point. “A tractor wrangler. A pumpkin rol—”
In a fluid movement, Nate pushed Chance’s arm aside, caught him mid-step with one leg, and swept his feet out from under him. One second her brother was standing up laughing; the next he was flat on his back on the floor. With a snarl, Nate dropped to one knee, looming above Chance.
“Nate!” Jenna furiously tried to think of a way to stop him, but how? What would he do? Ramona and Ace came running from the kitchen, halting in the dining room.
