Strange Fellow
Joanna
Thunder splits the sky so close it rattles my bones, the sound rolling over the land like some kind of monster. Rain lashes down in hard, slanted sheets, driven sideways by the wind, soaking me through in seconds. Chaco shifts beneath me, uneasy, his ears flicking back as lightning flashes again, turning the world stark white for a heartbeat before plunging it back into darkness.
“Easy,” I murmur, leaning forward, running one hand over his mane.
The goats are everywhere, scattered shapes moving in panicked bursts, bleating sharp and wild as the storm bears down on us. They don’t understand thunder. They don’t understand lightning. They only know fear, and fear makes them run in all the wrong directions.
“Go on,” I call to the dogs, raising my voice over the wind. Margot darts left, Huck swings wide, and Lady streaks ahead, all three of them soaked and slick with rain but moving fast, instincts sharp even in the chaos. I guide Chaco toward the far fence line, trying to funnel the goats back toward the barn, my heart pounding harder with every flash of lightning.
Another thunderclap cracks so loud it feels like the sky has split open. Chaco spooks, jumping sideways, and I nearly lose my seat. I clamp my legs down, my breath tearing out of me.
“Don’t,” I whisper. “Please don’t.”
The barn looms ahead, a dark shape barely visible through the rain, its doors yawning open with a promise of safety. If I can just get them inside…. If I can just keep everyone moving….
Lightning strikes again, and this time, it hits far too close. A blinding flash explodes to my right, followed by a sound like the earth itself snapping in half. Heat washes over me an instant later. I turn just in time to see a tree near the yard erupt, flames licking up its trunk even as rain pours down around it.
“Oh, God! Help me!”
Fire and water at the same time. Wind whipping sparks sideways. The goats scatter again, shrieking, bolting away from the sudden light and noise. One breaks toward the burning tree, and my chest tightens painfully.
“No, no, no!”
I dig my heels in, turning Chaco hard, shouting to the dogs. Margot veers instantly, cutting the goat off. Huck skids in the mud, nearly goes down, and scrambles back up. Lady snaps and darts, driving the herd back together by inches.
Another gust of wind tears through the pasture, nearly ripping me sideways out of the saddle. Branches whip overhead. Something cracks and falls behind us, heavy enough to make the ground shudder.
This is stupid! a voice in my head screams. This is how people get killed, but the goats are still out here, and they’re my responsibility. I’m the only one standing between them and real danger.
Lightning flashes again, so bright it turns the rain into needles of silver. For a split second, I see everything: the goats’ wide eyes, the churned mud, the fire chewing its way up the tree, and then just as quickly, darkness slams back around.
My hands shake on the reins. I wish—God, I wish—there were someone here to help me.
I wish there were someone to ride the far side, to watch my back, and to shout over the storm and tell me where to go next when I’m not sure of which direction is best. I swallow hard, my throat burning, and push the thought away because wishing doesn’t get goats into barns.
“Go!” I shout, my voice raw. “Move!”
We drive them forward in a ragged wave. One by one, then two, then three at a time, the goats funnel into the barn, hooves clattering on wood, bodies pressing together in terrified relief. I don’t breathe properly until the last one disappears inside.
Another thunderclap booms overhead. Chaco sidesteps again, his muscles tight and his sides heaving. I slide down from the saddle on unsteady legs, splashing into mud, and slam the barn doors shut with all my strength. The sound echoes, final and solid.
For a moment, I just stand there in the dark, rain plastering my hair to my face, chest rising and falling too fast. The dogs crowd close, wet bodies pressing into my legs, seeking reassurance I barely have to give.
“You’re okay,” I whisper, more to myself than to them. “We’re okay.”
But the words don’t feel entirely true. I lean my forehead against the barn door. I miss my mother tonight. I miss her calm voice and the way she always knew what to do when things went wrong. I miss my father, and the certainty that nothing could touch me if he was nearby.
The storm rages on, lightning flashing, thunder rolling, the fire in the tree being washed away by the rain. Standing here in the dark, soaked and shaking, I feel how lonely this life can be and how heavy it is to carry everything myself.
I straighten slowly, wiping rain from my face. At least now the animals are safe. That has to be enough for tonight.
But as another bolt of lightning splits the sky, I can’t help wishing, just for tonight, that I didn’t have to face storms like this alone.
Morning light ripples over the Jornada like a blessing I’m not sure I deserve. It’s thin and pale, more gold than gray, but it’s enough to make even the dust shimmer as I ride the fence line with my three dogs loping ahead, marveling at how quickly the desert sun can dry up the mud and turn it into powdery dirt. Margot runs closest, her black ears bouncing with each stride, glancing back every few seconds to make sure I’m still there like she always does. I swear that dog can always tell when I’m worried.
I dismount Chaco at the first broken stretch of fence. The storm last night with its crazy wind must’ve loosened the rails, or it could’ve been a stubborn steer leaning too hard. Either way, it’s another thing to fix and another chore that steals time I don’t have. My gloves scrape against the rough cedar posts as I lift the splintered rail into place, the wood heavy in my arms. My fingers ache from gripping it, and my shoulders burn from lifting and nailing it back into place. Every minute spent here is a minute I’m not checking the cattle, patching another hole, or trying to figure out how to raise the money I owe for supplies and taxes.
The sun rises higher, and my shirt clings to my back with sweat by the time I get the fence mended. I straighten and watch a lone buzzard circle overhead. “I’m working on it,” I mutter to the sky, though I doubt God or the birds give a damn that I owe money to half the valley.
I think about the supplies from town and the cattle doctor’s tinctures I still owe money for. I think about the property taxes, which are so high it feels as if the government wants to drive every rancher off the land. I go over the numbers in my head again and again as I walk back to my horse, and each sum seems higher than the last, pressing down on my shoulders and making me tired before I even swing back into the saddle.
Margot sits beside Chaco, her tongue out, looking up at me. She nudges my leg with her nose like she can push comfort into me.
“I know, ol’ girl,” I say, reaching down and rubbing her head. “Worrying won’t fix a fence or pay a debt, will it?”
We keep moving. There’s always another post leaning, another stretch sagging. Huck and Lady trail after a jackrabbit, disappearing and reappearing in the brush, their tails wagging. But Margot stays glued to me. She’s the best dog I’ve ever trained and the best companion I’ve ever had.
By midday, my shoulders ache, and dirt cakes my face, throat, and arms. All morning, I’ve been thinking I should sell off a few acres. After all, pride won’t save the ranch, and neither will memories.
My father’s voice seems to follow me everywhere I go. “A rancher holds what they can and fights for the rest.” He’s been gone for years, but I still hear his words, and I know he’s right.
I pause at the top of a rise overlooking the valley. Far in the distance, sits Mesilla a far off shimmer, blurred by the heat. Then, Margot pricks her ears, and before I can ask what she sees, she takes off down the slope. She barks sharply, one of her warning calls, but not the panicked kind. She sounds more curious than alarmed, and Huck and Lady race after her, yipping.
“Margot!” I call, but she’s gone, swallowed by mesquite and sunbaked scrub.
A minute later, Margot trots toward me proudly, tail high, guiding a black-and-white dog unlike any I’ve ever seen. He isn’t skinny or weathered; his coat is sleek, and his frame is lean and athletic in a way that doesn’t match any ranch dog or hound around these parts. There’s a refined look to him, as if he were bred for a purpose I can’t quite name, and his eyes move over the land with a sharp, intelligent focus that feels out of place in this dusty country.
Margot nudges him forward with the easy confidence of a dog introducing a friend she trusts. The newcomer steps closer, studying me with curiosity rather than fear.
I dismount and take one slow step toward the strange dog, but he turns before I can reach out a hand. Without hesitation, he pads back the way he came, glancing over his shoulder as if making sure I’m following. Margot gives a short bark and trots after him, so I jump back on Chaco and move downhill through the brush.
The dog leads with purpose, weaving through tall brush and creosote bushes, pausing only long enough to make sure I’m still behind him.
The sun grows hotter on my shoulders as we descend into a shallow swale tucked between two rocky ridges. At first, I don’t see anything unusual. Then, I spot a splash of red against the brown and green. A man in a red shirt lies half-hidden in the shade of a cedar, stretched out on his back like he was simply dropped from the sky.
I stop short.
He’s young, maybe near my age, with a handsome face, and sandy brown hair cut short by a hand more skilled than anyone I know in these parts. His clothes are even more strange than his dog. The fabric looks sturdy but woven tight and smooth, not wool or rough cotton. His boots have a shine to them I’ve never seen on working leather. Beside him on the ground sits a pack made of some material I can’t name, with buckles and stitching too precise to be done by hand, but it’s the rifle that steals my breath.
The metal gleams unnaturally bright in the sunlight. The barrel is sleek, without the usual heaviness of wear, and the stock is shaped with a precision no gunsmith I know could produce. It looks new in a way nothing stays new out here. Not for long. Not with this dust and heat.
“What in God’s name…” I whisper.
Margot approaches the man carefully, sniffing his hand, her tail giving a cautious wag. The black and white dog sits beside his shoulder, his posture protective but calm, as if guarding him.
I kneel a couple of feet away and see his chest moving. Well, he’s alive, then. I notice his face is attractive in a way that makes me look twice, even with his eyes closed. One sleeve is torn, and there’s dried blood along his right leg, but it’s not enough to explain why he’s sprawled senseless out here in the middle of nowhere.
I reach toward his shoulder, meaning to shake him awake, fingers hovering just above his shirt, but something in my gut screams caution.
A man with strange clothes, an even stranger rifle, and a dog like this one didn’t walk here from town. He didn’t come from any ranch I know, and if he wakes confused, injured, and dangerous, I don’t want to be alone with him when he does.
I stand slowly, brushing sand off my hands. “All right,” I say to Margot, though my voice is barely above a whisper. “We’ll go get help.”
Andy might complain, but he’s strong, level-headed, and good with strangers.
I take one last look at the unconscious man, mount my horse, and turn Chaco back toward the rise, gathering Margot, Huck, and Lady with a sharp whistle. The strange black and white dog follows us, too.
I ride hard back toward the ranch, the dogs pacing at my horse’s heels. Andy is in the barn, mending tack, when I pull up short enough to kick soil over his boots.
He squints up at me. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
“Not a ghost,” I say, short of breath, “but something close. I need your help.”
Andy doesn’t ask questions. He grabs his rifle, swings onto his mare, and falls in beside me as I turn back toward the ridge. “All right,” he says finally, nudging his horse up to a trot. “Tell me what’s happened, and who’s this dog?”
“There’s a man out here on Sawyer land. He’s hurt, has on bright clothes I’ve never seen, and a very strange-looking rifle.”
By the time we crest the slope again, I can see the cedar where the man’s lying, but he’s no longer unconscious.
He’s awake, seated against the trunk, drinking from a canteen unlike any I’ve ever known. His wounded leg is wrapped tightly in white bandages that look clean and evenly cut, nothing like the rough cloth strips we keep in the tack room. His strange pack is on his back, his arms looped through its straps.
Margot reaches him first, tail wagging, and the stranger’s dog trots proudly at her side. The man looks up as Andy and I approach.
“You found help,” he murmurs to his dog and then turns his attention to us. “Howdy. My name’s Jake Rawlins, and this here is Ace.”
I swallow, suddenly aware of how grimy and windblown I must look. “I’m Joanna Calloway,” I say. “This is my friend Andy.”
Jake nods politely, but his eyes dart around, taking in the land, the dogs, and the horses, as if trying to make sense of it all.
I clear my throat. “Are you a family member or friend of Chase Sawyer?”
Jake shakes his head. “No, ma’am. Don’t know the name.”
“Well,” I say, an uneasy prickle working down my spine, “you’re on his land.”
Jake looks confused. “I… don’t know how I got here.” His hand tightens around the strange canteen. “I was out camping with my friends when a storm blew up fast. Lightning struck near us.” He gestures to the bandage. “I think my leg got struck by lightning. Then everything went white. When I woke up, my friends, their dogs, and our camp were gone. I’ve been walking all night. Must’ve passed out.”
Andy and I exchange a sideways glance. Getting struck by lightning could kill a man. This Jake Rawlins must be a tough ol’ boy.
“You’re in no shape to stay out here,” I say. “You need to rest, and we need to take a better look at that leg.”
Jake hesitates but then nods. “I’d appreciate that very much, if you don’t mind.”
Andy dismounts and hands over his reins. “Go on. You can ride my horse. You know how to ride?”
Jake nods, gathers his belongings, and then climbs into the saddle awkwardly, wincing but managing to mount. Ace circles once, then falls into step beside him as naturally as if he’s done it a thousand times.
Andy climbs onto Chaco behind me, and I lead the way, the dogs trotting behind, the three of us and two horses moving slowly down the trail toward home.
When we reach my house, I guide Jake into the spare room, keeping one hand near his elbow in case his injured leg gives out. Andy stays close behind us, ready to help if I need it, but Jake forces himself forward with a stubbornness that makes me think he’s used to pushing through pain. I pull the quilt back and gesture for him to sit. The moment he lowers himself onto the mattress, he mumbles a soft thank you, his eyes already heavy, and before I can tell him he’s welcome to rest as long as he needs, he’s already drifting back to sleep.
Ace slips into the room a moment later, his claws clacking against the floorboards. He noses at the side of the bed, checking on his partner with a quiet, worried whine. I crouch beside him and stroke the fur between his ears. “Come on, boy,” I murmur, guiding him gently toward the door so Jake can sleep.
His dog follows me to the kitchen, where I fill a bowl with water and set it in front of him. He drinks as I put some dog scraps into another dish, and as he eats, my dogs approach, cautious but curious. They know Ace isn’t a threat.
Andy leans against the counter, his hat in his hands, turning it in slow circles. I can tell he’s trying to decide how to phrase whatever he’s thinking. “So,” he says finally, “that’s a strange fellow. I wonder where he’s from.”
“I guess we’ll find out when he wakes up.”
Andy nods but doesn’t look reassured. “You believe what he said? That he and his friends made camp, and he got hit by lightning? Which made his friends disappear? Joanna… his clothes… and that rifle—I've never seen a rifle like that. And that damn bag of his has more straps than a harness.”
“I know,” I say quietly. “But I don’t think he’s lying. Whatever happened out there, he’s confused—and maybe a little scared. He tried to hide it, but I could tell.”
Andy studies me for a long moment, the way he does when he’s weighing all the possibilities. “People who are confused and scared can be trouble,” he says, not accusingly, just stating the truth we both know.
“I’m aware,” I tell him. “We’ll keep an eye on him. If he turns out to be a problem, we’ll deal with it, but I’m not turning away a man who can barely keep his eyes open.”
He hesitates and then nods. “All right. I’ll stay close by. Yell if anything feels off.”
“I will,” I promise.
The screen door shuts behind him, and I stay in the kitchen, glancing toward the spare room. Mr. Rawlins is asleep, but I can’t stop thinking about him. Who is he, and how did he end up here?