The Rancher

(Please click on the title for a reading aloud by the author.)

The edge of summer’s heat cut into me. This particular Sunday everything was plain to see in the intense sunlight in the Wyoming town. I don’t remember what town it was, but it was little more than a crossroads and out in the middle of rangeland with grasses robust at the height of their season. It was grass as far as the eye could see in every direction. There was a modest restaurant with lot’s of vehicles in the dirt parking lot and it was about noon. I was hungry and pulled in, I was riding the BMW.

The dining room was bustling with activity. Ranching families, all dressed and buffed up were out for Sunday dinner after church. These people are big and strong, the products of hard outdoor work and life. They are conservative in their manner and thinking. The hostess lead me to a table. My outfit – a tight fitting black leather suit – and long red hair tied back in a pony tail got attention. People were curious and here they were more than a little wary. I minded my manners as did they. I had the Sunday special, a small steak with French fried potatoes and house salad. The salad came in a small pressed wood bowl, the iceberg lettuce a little limp, with a pebble of a cherry tomato on top. There was a cellophane packet of two saltines on the side. I had ranch dressing. The steak was delicious and so were the potatoes.

Men and women were giving me cautious glances. Children, mostly boys who were getting fidgety swooped by giving me a good looking over. They smiled. One boy said, “cool helmet,” but kept moving. I ate my lunch, put a tip on the table, paid my bill and left. It was good to get outside again.

Standing by the motorcycle I was studying the map. A Chevy Impala rolled onto the lot from behind with some authority and pulled up next to me. I’m guessing it was a late 60’s model, four door with two tone paint. It was turquoise and white and was in beautiful original condition. The passenger, a man, got out of the car. He was elderly and also in beautiful original condition. He towered over me, handsome and genuine. He wore a light grey Stetson and grey flannel suit with western details, brown leather trim around the pockets. He had on a white shirt with bolo tie, and sensible brown cowboy boots.

He had recognized the bright yellow and red plate on the BMW. In a slow friendly manner he asked, “You come all the way from New Mexico on that?”

“Yes sir.” I said.

“Well, that’s a B-M-W… sure is a beauty.” He said as he eyed over the bike.

His wife got out of the car and had walked around to the front of it. She was large and plump and wore a cotton dress in a modest floral print. Her silver hair was permed in small tight curls. She was smiling and there was no judgment, no rush.

“Thank you.” I said. “Gosh, and your Chevy. It’s in great condition.”

The old man’s face lit up. “This is my wife’s car. Had it since new.” He paused, choosing his words deliberately. “She takes good care of the both of us.”

Gordon Bunker