l e g a c y

“Jesus Christ.” Something about the thought of Jim Ward walking around in his underwear, clearly disoriented and out of his damn mind, is incredibly jarring. Liza may not like the way her father treats her nor does she agree with half the shit he says, but she loves her father. He’s always been a strong anchor in their family, a man she’s admired for her entire life and truthfully, she may have accidentally ended up becoming a little too much like him. So to witness him the way he is now, the way he has been the last few months since she’s been home, is enough to keep a pit lodged in Liza’s throat that she constantly has to try and push down.

She doesn’t even respond to Thatcher, not entirely sure what to say when it comes to their father and his ailments. Liza isn’t the sentimental type and she’s got no words of sympathy for her brother, no sorry to give for not being here sooner. Instead she just kicks off her shoes and situates herself onto the end of the porch swing where he’d made room for her, tucking her legs underneath herself as she settles in. It’s Liza’s way of letting her guard down, because she wouldn’t go and get this comfortable in front of almost anyone else, but the comfort of her brother is enough to keep her usual antics at bay.

So she’ll sit here and smoke his pot with him, trying to forget yet another catastrophic family dinner on the back porch like they’re teenagers again. It’s nights like these that make her nostalgic for her old life here and long for the city at the same time. “Tastes like dirt and I’m about as high as you are straight.” Translation: not very. Still, Liza takes another hit, gently passing it back over this time. “Dad know you’re doing this?”

-

He’s fine most days. That’s the line he feeds everyone who asks about his father. Somedays it’s because he really is fine, others it’s because he knows his father wouldn’t want everyone in town knowing what state he’s really in. When he tells Ari that Jim is okay, it’s because he doesn’t want her to worry. Most of the time though, it’s just because he’s too tired to talk about it. For Liza though? She gets the truth of it. As soft as he can make it, but still the truth. “It’s not lookin’ good, Lizard.”

Her accusation catches him off guard, mid inhale. His throat tightens and thick smoke hits his lungs too fast. And before he knows it, Thatcher is doubled over seized by a coughing fit. “Don’t,” he chokes out, alarm clear in his voice. “Just don’t.” How Liza knew something that Thatcher has never once admitted to out loud, Thatcher will never know. A magazine tucked under his bed, discovered by a snooping sister? An app alert on his phone with an icon she recognized? Maybe she could just tell that there was something more they had in common than their last name. 

It has always made Thatcher feel closer to her, even if he’ll never admit to it. But it’s also made him just a little terrified of her. “Whatever you think I am, keep it to yourself.” He wants it to sound like a command, but between the anxiety in his chest and the smoke in his lungs, he knows he sounds like he’s begging. “Sorry it’s not as good as whatever wild shit they got in the city. Out here we just gotta make do with what we got.” Hopefully it’s clear to Liza that he’s not just talking about the pot. 

“Besides, you took one hit. You gotta give it a minute. I know you’re not new to this.”

WHERE: Ward Ranch WITH: @thatchward​

It’s still astonishing to him how the once intimidating Ward Ranch now feels like something more like a second home for Gabe. Hell, it practically is, considering the number of hours he’s spent on the property. Everything about it feels familiar, from the very ground itself to the people who’ve made the ranch the powerhouse that it is. And then there’s Thatcher, the man Gabe still views as the older brother he never had and arguably the main reason he’s made it this far in life. While it had frequently been the source of their arguments over the years, there was a calmness in Thatcher that had somehow spoken to the wildness in Gabe and tempered it into something useful. Without him, Gabe didn’t want to know how he would have turned out. Marching up to his doorstep with a crate of Zodiac’s usual brews (and a couple jars of off-the-books moonshine) cradled under his arm, Gabe raises a fist and knocks on his friend’s door, “Thatch?” He calls out before knocking again, “Where ya at? I come bearin’ gifts.”

-

It’s not every day that Thatch is startled by a knock at his door. But the sound of glass rattling in its frame has him bolting upright. He’d had a long day, put in some long hours and he was half asleep on his couch before the sun went town. The show he’d been watching had stopped and when Thatch gathered his bearings he was met with Netflix’s silent judgement in the form of a condescending question that he’s never figured out how to turn off. 

The knock is followed by a familiar voice. Thatch drops his feet to the ground and stretches his arms above his head, cracking what feels like every joint in his back. He tells himself that he’s got to stop sleeping here but he won’t remember again until next time he wakes up feeling like his body has been twisted like a wet towel.

“Good,” he says when he opens the door for Gabe. “’least you knew I wasn’t gonna let you in for free.”

saturday, june  18th, 2022. 5.08pm   at the north side of benton lake , with  thatcher ward.

     The view of the lake calms Fiore as it acts as a mirror, never showing exactly what is below, but converting it to an image so beautifully smudged, rippled, and broken. The surface water forever guarded from the winds because of the crown of lush hills around. At the edge where the land and and water meet is carried right on as a perfect reflection. Looking up into the sky and down into the water was just the same. Eight months, Fiore has been residing in Great Falls and she didn’t know this lake existed until a customer told her about it.  

     The sight is breathtaking. 

     The only sound that Fiore is focused on is the skipping of rocks over gentle water - even the lullaby that is humming through her own soft lips aren’t exactly captured. Espically since it’s a tune she’s heard her mother sing a thousand times over when she was just a little girl. Suspended in serenity and deep inhales, Fiore is able to reflect and relax. ── That is until she hears someone or something from behind. She can’t tell if whatever it is behind her is to the left or right but she doesn’t turn around slowly to figure it out. Instead, out of complete impulse, Fiore whips around and throws the rock that she was about to skip on the water toward wherever the sound had come from. Though, as she throws the rock, she realizes it’s a a person, but it’s too late. The rock has already slipped from her hand, but thankfully, it narrowly misses the stranger who seemed to have come out of nowhere. 

     ❝ Dio mio! ( oh, my god! ) ❞ Fiore gasps, covering ‘ O ’ shaped lips with both hands while looking at the newcomer in surprise. ❝ Mi dispiace tanto! ( i’m so sorry! ). I’m so, so sorry. ❞ Removing warm palms of her face and going towards the stranger with careful steps. ❝ You scared me. ❞ She admits, now laughing lightly at the situation at hand, albeit, even a little awkward from thorough embarrassment. Fiore can’t believe she’s just thrown a rock a someone. She thinks about to the redhead who had done the same thing to a teenager the week prior. Is she already catching onto Great Falls mannerisms? Possibly. That probably isn’t the greatest habit to be picking up, though … ❝ I thought you might have been a bear. Or ─ Or one of those mountain cats. ❞

-

The secret stash of Marijuana crops are tucked away in far off and mostly forgotten section of his father’s land. The plant had been legal to buy and sell in Montana for a few years now, but growing it is still a murky area and Thatcher preferred to keep this part of his gardening hobby to himself. He doesn’t make the drive out here often, only when his own stash needs a little replenishing or if a friend in the know asks for a little restock. 

He’s prepared for any number of animals lurking on the property--snakes slithering through the tall grass or a bob cat on the prowl for rodents. What he isn’t prepared for is the rock that comes full speed for his head.

“Shit!,” he says, thankful for the poor aim of his assailant, who turns out to be a young woman. He tucks his clippings in the back pocket of his jeans as inconspicuously as he can. “Don’t know how much good a rock’s gonna do you against a bear. Likely it’d just piss it off. Either way, you gotta work on your aim.”

Thatcher steps closer to her, dragging the back of his long flannel sleeve across his forehead. “What are you doing out here?” 

You should eat more than just an apple for breakfast. That sentence irked her, and with her back turned towards her father, she couldn’t help the eye roll that followed after his words. It’s not like you’ve ever cared before, about what I ate for breakfast. Ari thought as she poured herself a cup of coffee. If it hadn’t been for her mother, who so desperately wanted her daughter to have somewhat of a relationship with her father - Ari would have moved back to Wyoming eight months ago. But, Thatch was trying and so she decided that she should at least attempt to try at a somewhat normal conversation at breakfast. 

“Um, okay yeah.” Ari nodded and opened the cabinet for a plate to put her eggs and bacon on. After filling her plate, she moved to the table and sat across from her father. Despite being roommates for the last eight months, it was still so hard to have a conversation. Perhaps it was because neither of them actually knew who the other was deep down. “I talked to mom last night. I think she and Brian might try and visit next month.” She said as she took a bite from a bacon strip. “Probably stay in town for a couple of days. Nothing is really set in stone.” Pausing to take a sip out of her mug. “How is Jim doing? I haven’t seen him the past couple of family dinners.” 

-

Getting Ari to sit down with him at the table feels like an achievement. He does his best to contain any expression that would give it away, for fear that any exuberant expression will ruin the moment. Instead he simply scratches a tally for in the small victory column of his internal score board. It’s nestled between “convincing her to stay with him instead of dropping first and last on a crappy apartment just to get out from under his roof” and “the stilted good night he’d gotten a few evenings ago when she’d gotten home from work and found him reading on the couch.” Okay, maybe the small victories sound a little pathetic, but sometimes they feel like all he’s got.

“Yeah? How’re they doing?” Thatcher takes a sip of his coffee to hide any emotion that might cross his face at the mention of his ex-wife and her husband. He’s not bitter about it. Brian has always been a good man and a good parent in his absence. “Surprised they’re not begging you to come home.” No, bitter’s not the word for it. It’s just hard to shake a man’s hand knowing he’s loving the love of your life better than you were ever capable of. “Whenever they decide to come, let ‘em know we’ve got plenty of room for ‘em here.” It was an offer that was more obligatory than genuine. And one he knew they would decline.

It’s amusing to him that Ari call’s her grandfather Jim, rather than any of the other variations of a familial name. Mostly because he can’t remember the last time he called father by anything but his name. But then it makes him wonder what she calls him and that’s a path he’d rather not go down. “Jim’s fine,” he reassures her even though they both know that’s not exactly the truth of it. “He just gets tired early. And, truth be told, it’s either him or your Aunt Liza sticking out the whole meal. Believe it or not, I prefer Liza’s company.”

Liza really had hope that tonight might be the night she gets through an entire family dinner in peace. They’d managed to go through the motions, say a prayer and she’d even held her tongue when the mashed potatoes came out looking more like grits or a yeast infection than anything edible, and dinner had almost been finished. Almost. Then Jim Ward opened his misogynistic fucking mouth and Liza, who’d been itching to get the hell out of there anyway, shoved her chair away and slammed the back door behind her without even a word of argument. At this point, she’s too tired of this bullshit to even start a fight.

She hadn’t even realized Thatcher slipped out before her until she hears his laughter from the swing behind her, and whips around when he asks her what their father said this time that’s got her all riled up. Liza may think her golden child of a brother can’t be trusted about any truly serious family business, but there’s a bond they all have when it comes to Jimmy’s grating comments. “You really shouldn’t be out in them stables in a dress, Lizzie, your mother’d have a fit if she saw you.” Her Jim Ward impression is pretty good if nothing else, she’s got his low, gravelly voice and twang down pat. “Like I’m out there in the fucking dust and dirt stepping over horse shit because I wanna be. Jesus fucking Christ. Fuck!” Her last profanity is emphasized by a kick to the old railing on the porch, one that hurts her foot more than does any real damage to the house and she mumbles a swift ‘goddamnit’ under her breath before plucking the joint right from her brother’s fingers. 

At this point, it’d probably take the world’s largest blunt to get Liza to chill the hell out even a little bit, but fuck if Thatch gets to have all the fun while she’s reeling over their father’s stupid comments. She takes a hit, letting it sink into her lungs before coughing a few times as she blows out the smoke and flicks the joint back at Thatcher’s chest, raising an eyebrow while she looks at him. “Since when do you smoke pot?”

-

He barely catches the joint she thrusts at him before it sears a hole in his shirt. Somethings never change. No matter how long Liza is away, it’s comforting to know that she’ll always return to them like this. Bursting with a righteous anger that he’s forgotten how to access long ago. The theatrics, a slew of curses and a swift kick to a very solid slat of wood, are more amusing now than when they’re directed at him. Thatcher knows he shouldn’t laugh, or agree with his father. So he does his best to do both silently, with a straight face that gives off at least a little sympathy.

This is the version of his sister that he likes the most. When their shared frustration can be directed at a common enemy instead of each other. “Next time he says that to you,” he says, because there will be a next time, “feel free to remind him that last month I caught him out in the barn in nothing but a pair of briefs and one sock. I think mom would have a bigger fit about that, don’t you?” He should feel more guilty than he does about disclosing that information. Part of his job should be preserving the old man’s dignity for as long as he can. So he adds, in a somber tone after hitting his joint, “some of the meds make him real loopy.” 

Thatch scoots to one end of the porch swing, making room for Liza to sit. “You like it?” He passes the pot in question back to her, happy for something lighter to talk about. “I got a few crops on the back part of the land. Not tryin’a sell it or anything. Just some for personal use for nights like this. Seems like a good idea to have it on hand. Don’t tell anyone. It’s top secret.”

He had been warned pretty early on that New Hands got the shit jobs. That was, more often than not, a literal statement; he’s shoveled more poop in his life time than anyone ever really would’ve imagined they would have to. But Ryder was never one to complain about it. No matter how gross his tasks were, this was Ryder’s dream job. Working with animals, with a group of people that he enjoyed spending most of his time with. Things could be worse. But, because of how low he was in the hierarchy of Ward Ranch, Ryder got stuck helping Thatcher transfer feed bags. 

It wasn’t the hardest job, but the dull ache already gathering in his lower back proved this particular task would be sticking with him for a few days. But he enjoyed Thatcher’s company, plus he was kind of Ryder’s boss, so he wasn’t about to start complaining. Once the last bag was on the pile, Ryder stretched his arms over his head, swiveling his body around until every stiff part of him popped. Glancing over at Thatcher, the younger man took one of the cans with a grateful nod, Ryder popped the tab and leaned his elbow against the old pick up truck. “Thanks man,” he said, taking a swig before looking out at the ranch grounds around them. “Did you end up actually enjoying yourself at the fair or did you just work the entire time?”

-

If there’s one thing Thatch is going to take pride in, it’s his ability to do the same work as everyone else on the Ranch. If something needed done, Thatch could do it just as easily as the people his father employs. And he’s never been one to shy away from getting out along side them and getting his hands dirty. Even if his back is screaming at him to pack it in and let the ranch hands take over the manual labor part.

He takes a swig of beer, the can dripping from condensation down the front of his shirt. Though, it’s not like you could differentiate between that and the dark v of sweat that pooled down the front of his ratty t-shirt. “I always have a good time at shit like that,” he says, and he means it. “That kinda community stuff is what makes livin’ in a place like this worth it. You know your neighbors and your neighbors neighbors. All that stuff.” To someone outside, the ‘everybody knows everybody’ expectation of small town life might seem daunting. But now that he’s too old to have people snitching to his dad because they caught him and some buddies drinking a six pack of Budweiser on the middle school playground, he’s come to appreciate it.

“What about you? Spend some time with anyone special?” It strikes him as a very uncool dad thing to ask. The kind of thing he’d ask his daughter and immediately be met with an eye roll and probably a groan. Not to mention probably an HR violation in any proper corporate job--but he can’t help if he’s a little nosey.

There is a strategy to all of this. For maintaining his sanity when his entire family insists on being in the same room together. Jimmy’s dining room made to seat more than one generation of Wards under the same roof starts to feel awfully cramped when Jimmy’s in a mood to pick a fight. And, of course, tonight he is. Every night, it seems, Jimmy comes to dinner disguised as a frail old man but underneath that act, is still the same old bastard who knows which buttons to push to get a reaction out of each one of his kids.

Thatcher’s learned not to play these games. He volunteers to cook so he doesn’t have to wait around for dinner. He pretends not to hear his father when conversation gets directed at him. And, most importantly, he claims his seat near the exist and keeps quiet so no one notices when he slips out for a smoke break.

The temperature dropped when the sun went down. It’s not cold, but there’s enough of a breeze to feel nice when it blows through the back porch of his father’s house. In the swing mounted overhead, Thatcher exhales a cloud of smoke as gently rocks the swing back and forth. And just when he’s finally feeling a fresh sense of ease, the screen door slams against the exterior wall and Liza storms out. Thatcher just grins, a puff of laughter escaping him. 

“I think this is a record for you,” he pretends to check a watch he isn’t wearing. “Last time I don’t think you made it past the ‘everyone hold hands and pray’ part. We’d at least passed around the steaks before I slipped out.” Thatcher leans forward and offers the slender joint to his sister. 

This was his first job on the ranch. Pick up one sack of feed from the pile, and carry it to the other pile. Yep. Thatcher Ward has been hauling sacks on his father’s ranch since he wasn’t much larger than the sacks themselves. He didn’t appreciate it then. The grueling days and aching muscles. But, at his age, being able to stack two high over one shoulder is an accomplishment. Thanks for keeping him in shape, Dad.

He lets his load drop beside the rest. It’s too hot out here for this shit. Global warming is kicking his ass, in shape or not. Thatcher wipes the sweat off his face with the hem of his t-shirt. “That’s the last of it,” he tells Ryder as he moves back to the bed of his truck, slamming the tailgate closed hard enough for the nearly ancient latch to catch. From the side, he pops open the right side of his tool box. The side that’s less a tool box and more a cooler. Beer, water, and rapidly melting ice slosh around inside. He takes two cans, offers one of the farm hand. “You earned it.”

location: ward ranch availability: closed | @thatchward​

It was not often that June found herself on Ward ranch. Unfortunately, due to the ongoing feud between Jim Ward and her grandpa, they weren’t exactly doing business with each other. The dispute was rather petty in her mind. That little patch of land would not make a lick of difference to either ranch, but it was not like she could say anything about it. It also did not stop her from talking to or befriending anyone on the Ward side of things. One of which had her pulling up in front of one of the Ward’s houses that morning, hoping to catch her friend before she went off to work. 

The young Hawthorne hopped out of her truck and was about to make her way up to the door when she spotted Thatcher outside. “Hey there, Mr. Ward.” She greeted, a hand stretched upward for a quick wave. The same hand cupped above her eyes to make a shield from the morning sun. “Is Ari home? I was at the feed shop picking up some special pellets for one of our colts and I found this cute little horse keychain.” She held up the small paper bag in her other hand with a shake, as if he could see what was inside. “Anyways, I was hoping to catch her before she was off to work.”

-

Thatcher wouldn’t say he is afraid of heights. That’s a little on the dramatic side. We’ll call it, extremely averse to heights. But the flashing on the side of the house was looking a little rough after the last storm and he’d been putting off replacing it long enough. And we know what you’re thinking. Just hire someone. Not an option. Jimmy Ward may not know what decade it is half the time these days, but he’s got a sixth sense for picking up reasons to hound Thatcher about any given decision he makes And hiring someone to do work he can do with “two perfectly good hands,” as Jimmy would put it, is out of the question.

So up the ladder he goes, despite the quickening of his pulse with every wrung he ascends.

When he hears tires crunch their way up his driveway, he’s hammering in the last nail and relief is already settling in. When his feet hit the ground, Thatcher thinks he might kiss it if it hadn’t been for June standing in front of him, calling him Mr. Ward. He’s not assertive enough to insist that she call him Thatcher. Nor is he dorky enough to hit her with any variation of “Mr. Ward is my father and his father before him and his father before him and his--” well, you get the idea. Instead, he settles for a “’mornin’ Miss Hawthorn,” as he wipes sweat from his brow with the back of his hand. 

“Sorry. You just missed her.” It’s amusing to him that June and Ari are as close as they are. Their grandfathers had been intent to keep up the Hatfield and McCoy routine, but it seems to have tampered down through the generations. “Left in a hurry this morning. Don’t know if she was runnin’ late or just dying to get out of the house.” Away from another breakfast peace offering, just like every morning. He lets the statement linger a little too long, he realizes a little too late. “How’s the family? Granddad doin’ okay?”

@thatchward​

Location: Breakfast table 

It was never the easiest thing in the world to have a conversation with her father, considering aside from the awkward small talk they had about their day, and the weather - that was pretty much the extent of their conversations. Even after eight months of living in the same household, it felt as though it was a struggle to talk about anything deep - not that Ari was ready to discuss his lack of parenting.  However, she talked to her mother almost daily - no shocker there, considering her mother was the one who raised her. Just after she hung up the phone she walked into the dining room to see her father already seated at the table eating breakfast. 

Ari silently cursed herself for not being earlier, not that she didn’t want to see or speak to Thatch - mornings were just easier if she were in and out before work. “Morning.” She said as she grabbed an apple off the table, before heading towards the fridge to grab her lunchbox for work. “I’ll probably be home from work late tonight.” 

-

Thatcher works too much. He’s always worked too much, and he’ll probably be working too much when he kicks the bucket. He’d gone to bed last night with a spread of papers left on the dinner table because sometime after midnight all the letters and all the numbers started slipping out of place, blurring at their edges, losing all their meaning. And, promptly at 7am (and a few snoozes) he’d gotten out of bed, cooked some breakfast, and now he’s at it again. 

At first when Ari walks into the room, he looks up, offers her a smile, and casts his eyes back down at his work. But he’s trying to be better about this. He’s trying to give her his full attention in a way that he never did when should have. “Good morning.” Thatcher lays the paper in his hand facedown on the table, less temptation to let it pull his attention away. 

“You should eat more than just an apple for breakfast. There’s eggs and bacon in the skillet in the oven.” He’d left in on low to keep it warm. Thatcher lifts his mug so she can see it. “Coffee’s fresh too.” It’s been eight months of this uncomfortable dance they do around each other. Thatcher’s trying his best but he doesn’t know how to be a father any more than Ari knows how to be his daughter. “I’ll even make you some pancakes if you’re not in too big a hurry.”

CLOSED — @thatchward​ SETTING — ward ranch, family dinner

Becky isn’t sure she is ever going to get used to these family dinners. They’re awkward and tense and sometimes she thinks she would rather eat glass than sit around a big table and pretend that this is her family, rather than a group of glorified strangers. At least it’s gotten more bearable since Ari had moved onto the property, but maybe that’s just because misery loves company and a selfish part of Rebecca finds comfort in the fact that her cousin and uncle seem to stumble just as much as her and Buck do in their relationship. Still, it’s weird and Becky never knows what to do with herself in these stretches of time between arriving and actually eating. Her fingers drum against her thighs, the denim rough beneath her finger tips. She thinks about sneaking out to the bunk house and asking Ryder to shove something in her eye to get her out of this, a trip to the emergency room sure to be less awkward than this forced proximity with her uncle. Another beat passes and she feels like the silence is going to swallow her whole. “Jim comin’ down tonight?” She breaks it and asks, knowing that her grandfather’s presence at dinner has been 50/50 since his health began declining. “Liza said he wasn’t doin’ great last weekend.” But there are ups and downs. One minute it seems like he’s on deaths doorstep and the next she’ll catch sight of him out riding one of the horses like nothing is wrong with him at all so she never really knows whether or not to expect him.

-

Family dinners is a new-ish tradition for the family that had gone by the wayside when the Ward siblings grew up and apart from one another. They had moved on to their own families. Families that they had also grown away apart from in the intervening years. But Jim Ward’s long lost daughter had returned form the big city and that had been enough to prompt the old man to drag them through the nostalgia of how things used to be. When they were kids, when their mom was alive. Before they were damaged with kids they were damaging in turn. 

Thatch, ever the introvert of the family, is more than happy to take over the cooking duties in his father’s kitchen. It lets him avoid the small talk and the awkward silences shared between two siblings, a niece, and a daughter--none of which seem to like him all that much a lot of the time, anyway. He flips a sirloin over in its cast iron bed of melted butter, crushed garlic, and rosemary. “I don’t think he’s gonna make it down tonight, Beck. He wouldn’t be talked out of spending the weekend at the festival and he’s paying for it today.” The old man just doesn’t have as much energy as he used to. One night out and his body spends the rest of the week trying to restore what it’s lost. 

He turns away from the stove, pointing his steak tongs at the sink. A colander filled with russet potatoes awaits. “Rule of the kitchen is if you’re gonna hang out in here to avoid your dad, you’re gonna get out to work. You wanna chop those into quarters for me? Knife’s in the block over by the pantry.”

matias couldn’t help but agree with thatch. why have a kid deal with the unreasonably upset mother when they could barely wipe their own asses correctly. taking in another drag of his cigarette, matias blew it away from the man. 

noticing thatch patting around his person, matias instantly knew what he was looking for. even before the man asked, matias had his trusted zippo lighter handed out to him. years of experience and smoking with others - he could read the signs without looking. “nah, really i think they stay regular ‘cause the drinks are cheap, environment is good, pool is always going and, it does help i hired some good lookin’ women to keep the guys around.”

“Thanks,” he says, “must’a left mine in the truck.” He lights his cigarette and hands the zippo back to its proper owner. “Yeah, well, I’ve certainly never head of any lovely ladies being bad for business.” Still, he’s sure the drinks do most of the heavy lifting. “Maybe that’s who I should’a gotten to work the petting zoo instead’a these kids, hm?”

He knew exactly where his brother would be, considering this was what he had been doing for a little while now. And Buck tried to show his support, as much as Thatch would let him, around the petting zoo. Being around these types of animals, of course wasn’t new to him. He had started riding on a sheep when he was five, he knew how a lot of those sized animals worked. As his brother spoke, Buck gave him a nod. 

 “That billy goat over there’s got my eye, he’s my contender.” As per usual, he wasn’t agreeing with his brother but anytime they could have a lighthearted conversation, he was going to take it. “I dunno why, but he’s givin’ me those vibes.” What vibes? He wasn’t sure. “Chicken fights are overrated anyways. You anticipating a lot of kids this year?” 

-

“Don’t start underestimatin’ the runt of the litter.” Thatcher watches the smallest goat in the heard, a tan little doe speckled with white like paint splatter. “She hit’s ‘em low every time and it still takes ‘em by surprise.” By now he’s usually got a decent sense of their personalities but he hasn’t hah as much a hand at raising this years fresh batch of kids and calfs. This small showing of farm animals aren’t the prize of the Ward Ranch, but Thatcher has taken a liking to raising them, bringing a new round of offspring to the festival every year. Call it a hobby, call it a passion, either way Thatch hasn’t had as much time for it ever since their dad got sick. A lot of the work has been offloaded to other farm hands and hired help. 

Thatcher offers his brother a cigarette when he pulls one out for himself. Better get it in before the families start showing up. “Same as every year,” he shrugs. “Kids always get a kick outta the zoo. You workin’ on something or just showin’ up for a good time?”

Hayley has always loved animals, although she has never been able to have one of her own. The brunette usually tends to frequent petting zoos or local animal shelters as a result, imagining what it would be like to have one as a pet of her own before then ultimately shattering her own dream once she leaves said location. One of the reasons she’s been unable to have one of her own is because she knows she would fail to keep them alive, she has always been the irresponsible one out of her siblings, it truly is a curse.

If she wasn’t so busy with work, she would have probably volunteered to work the petting zoo this year, but she just had to live with the fact that that’ll probably never be so for now. She’d much rather enjoy her time here at the petting zoo, rather than work anyway, no matter how much time she would love to spend with the animals.

Once the petting zoo opens, she is quick to be the first through the door, even if she has to push some little kids out of the way. No one would care if a few kids suddenly got hurt because of her, would they? It’s not like she would tell anyone it was her fault anyway, blaming whatever kid was beside her instead. “Do they usually fight like that?” She asked, genuinely curious, a small chuckle escaping her lips. “It’s fine, don’t worry about it, I’d probably do the same thing if I was in your shoes.”

-

Thatch waits for a crowd to gather before he kicks the gate open and lets the kids pile in, delightedly cheering while their parents slide to the periphery of the pin. Well, mostly children. A lot of children and one distinctly adult Decker. “I feel like I shouldn’t have to tell you not to shove the kids,” he says, making his voice stern as if he’s scolding a child. “Frankly, you’re lucky I’m the only one who noticed. These moms’ll come for your head if little Jimmy or Tommy skins a knee.” 

It was difficult to tell in times like these, but hand to heart — Keziah was a grown woman. Or at least, grown in size, but young at heart. She was far too eager for something as simple as a petting zoo, but the moment she heard the distant call of a baby goat, she was there. It took a grand total of a millisecond to decide she wanted to get up close and personal with some adorable farm animals. If there was one thing that reaffirmed her decision to move to Great Falls, it would be this very moment, fawning over the petting zoo.

Her approach, albeit silent, was not subtle. Each movement that brought her closer, also elicited an unmissable squeal from her lips. Her attention roamed over the pen, eyeing each one with adoration and attentiveness, crouching enough to reach her hand past the enclosure with a wide grin. Cocking her head towards the voice, she nodded, a laugh following, “Honestly? Yeah. I’m kinda surprised I haven’t witnessed a chicken fight of some sort yet — is that not really a thing?” Returning her focus to the petting zoo, she continued to encourage the attention of whatever animal she could, though, not before adding, “I guess those big ol’ Hollywood movies lied to me.”

-

The rapidly approaching young woman looks like she’d jump over the fence and right between the fighting goats if he wasn’t standing there. That’s the kind of excitement he likes to see! “We try not to engage in outright animal abuse around these parts,” he informs her. Thatcher pushes himself upright and the gate makes a creaking noise as if it’s happy to be rid of his weight. Which is, frankly, disrespectful. Thatcher Ward is in the best shape of his life.

The day had barely begun and Lorianne is already preparing for the abundance of emotions she’ll feel for the day. When it came to events like this, she always had to brace for impact, mostly due to underlying insecurities that endlessly threatened to dampen most of her experiences. She decides to breakaway for a moment, wandering about the grounds on her own. She stops at the petting zoo, watching the animals roam. She spots Thatcher from a distance, carrying a large bag just over his shoulder. Lori thinks to offer help but refrains, keeping herself behind the closed gate of the zoo. 

“Hey, strong man.” She teases, motioning to the pile of pet feed he’s just provided for the animals. Her eyes watch as they all scatter around, getting their meal for the day. She hasn’t always been an animal person. In truth, she still wasn’t. The only animal that held a spot in her heart were horses. But she had to admit, even to just herself, that the goats were cuter than she anticipated. “What’re you betting on, exactly? Which one will win their little goat duel?” The woman questions with a light laugh, nodding to the pen of animals before them. It was refreshing to see at least one person here starting to have a good time. It seems most Great Falls natives didn’t enjoy the festivities as much as they should, Lorianne included. Perhaps it simply brought back memories she missed dearly. Being young and dumb, having nothing to do but grow and make mistakes. “You look like you’re havin’ fun. It’s nice to see. I think everyone’s taken some kind of grumpy pill today.”

“They’ve been at it ever since we got ‘em here,” he tells her. Thatch stands up straight and rakes his fingers back through his hair, sweat tangled in every strand. He definitely needs to go home and get changed before more people start showing up. “At least they’re getting their energy out now. Hopefully I won’t have to answer to any angry parents wanting to know why a goat knocked their five year old flat on its ass.” He knows it’s inevitable. Happens every year. 

“thought you meant that little freckled shit over there.” babe’s chin juts sideways as she raises herself onto the bottom rung of the fence, gesturing towards a skinny little boy she’d picked out from behind her aviators.

“it’s not a bad idea.” she shrugs, draping her arms over the top of the fence and casting her eyes around the assembled zoo. “bettin’ on fightin’ kids, i mean. it’d bring in more money than goats.”

when the shaggy-haired pony the crew had named hendrix trots by, she extends an arm to give him a couple comforting thumps.

“how’s jimmy doing?” babe had come over to check on the performance of the new kid, but she’d considered the extra beer she extended towards thatch, already cracked of its top, as imperative as the check-in. “figured you might want this.”

“I meant we’d let the goats fight. Those kids,” he tells her, gesturing towards the two baby goats who have no taken to ramming their heads into one another with all the force their tiny bodies can muster. “Though, taking bets on the human kids might be less likely to get me fired from the Ag Commission.” The Commissioner of Livestock gig is little more than a title and a meager paycheck that he’d been nominated for by an old family friend in his thirties. But it keeps him active in the community, so he’d rather not let it slip away because he proposed an animal fight at the county fair. “People get real soft when you start bringing animals into the mix.”

He accepts the beer, taking it like a peace offering for now. He’s never been outright hostile towards Babe. Thatcher’s resentment has always taken the form of a jagged glacier. Just ask his siblings. “Jim’s fine,” he answers, examining the beer as if he’s trying to decide if he’ll actually drink it. “Same as always.” This used to be his job before he got too busy, too old, to disinterested. And before that, they did it together. Maybe he’s feeling a little sentimental about that. Not that he’ll admit it. Not that he’ll share it with her. “What? You wanna know if he’s comin’ out? You’re welcome to give him a call.”