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Reconciled from Heartache

By Cindy M. Amos

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Aley Halstead maneuvered the agency truck down the narrow tree-lined lane headed into the heart of rural nowhere. Crosswise for this particular client’s visit, she’d have to bluff her way through and cut the inspection short. From rumors around the conservation office, this new landowner lacked any ranching experience at all. The assignment fell to her as low person in the hierarchy at the Emporia office. To quell her exasperation, she checked her hair in the mirror.
The tree canopy gave way to the open prairie as the land rose toward an unimpressive hill. Lyon County had its share of grandeur as a chink in the Flint Hills, safeguarding what remained of the midcontinent’s tallgrass prairie. She loved the grass-covered slopes, chopped occasionally by limestone outcrops that bore the hard chert which lent the formation its flinty name. She felt less inclined toward the all-male office staff with whom she currently worked.
A modest farmhouse appeared to the right, so she eased the truck forward and began to assess the dated ranching operation. Signs of dereliction glared at every turn, especially the sagging outbuildings. Built in sturdy cottage style, the little residence still possessed an air of primness. A simple coat of white paint would perk up the exterior with a brushstroke. Upon second glance, she hoped to avoid falling through the porch planks when she knocked on the front door.
She parked the truck out in the open, not knowing which direction they would head out to assess the current pasture conditions. Her plan to make suggestions for management improvements depended on whether the land qualified for any federal programs for added enhancements. As she slid from the cab, she chuckled at being regarded as a heartless regulator. Despising that tough-guy approach, she would cling to her determination to make a difference for natural resources. After all, Christian stewardship included range management. Here in Kansas, it represented the only kind of conservation work available. So stuck in Lyon County. But maybe not for long. A turkey vulture circled overhead casting a shadow on the ground.
In steps, a hollow thud resonated from a nearby grain silo. She halted, thinking she may have caught the resident rancher out doing chores. The next thump came accompanied by a protesting growl. She headed south to investigate what kind of creature might be cornered by an innocuous storage bin. A guilty ladder soon caught her attention, fallen to one side.
“God, please,” a man shouted. “Let me out of here.” Another thud chased the plea.
Aley tucked her notepad into her shirt pocket and tried to tamp down the teasing grin that his predicament had birthed. Mr. Know Nothing would now become fodder for her first improvement recommendation, as soon as she unlatched him from the imprisoning situation at hand. “Mr. Warren? Is that you in there?”
Something shifted inside the metal cylinder and produced a scraping sound. “Yes, it’s me. I’ve been trapped in here for hours. Please, can you release the door from the outside?”
She put both hands on the rust-encrusted lever and hung some weight on the far end, forcing it to comply. A grating scrape indicated progress as the latch dropped down until it clicked free. Shoved from inside, the rough-edged door almost scraped her cheek as it swung open in haste. With little time to react, she managed to free her hands as a man’s torso came lunging through the opening to clamp her in a breath-stealing embrace.
“Thank you, Lord,” the rancher muttered through her hair.
A prisoner, Aley refused to react to his touch even the slightest bit. She held her hands in the air, not knowing what to do. She’d never become part of the land assessment before. This represented new ground—and it held a certain tactile element despite the corrugated metal edge cutting into her midsection. The whole scene clearly extended beyond department policy.
“I’m so thirsty. Please, could you help me out of here?” He pulled back and looked at her from close range, his gaze still wild from the entrapment episode.
Only when he rested his hands on the opening did she notice his fingertips. Raw and bloody, they spoke of longsuffering and dire attempts at self-rescue. Moved with a tinge of compassion, a lump formed in her throat. “Stand aside, Mr. Warren. I’ll drop several of these landscape timbers into the granary, so you can use them for steps.”
He blinked as if not understanding. “Call me Hake.”
She stood and lifted the first wood block. Once hoisted to the door, she allowed him to take hold. “I’m Aley Halstead from the Natural Resources Department. We have an appointment this morning to see if your land qualifies for our EQIP program.”
His mouth hung open for a few awkward seconds. In recovery, he snatched the block and settled it by his feet. When he appeared back in the doorway, he gave her a searching look. “Not Al Halstead like the phone message implied?”
She gave him a temperate smile and let it fade. “That’s a little trick the staff enjoys playing on me back at the conservation office. It’s a real men’s club…except for me. Let me get you one more block, and then I think we can try clearing the doorway.” She scrambled for the wooden chock to make good on the promise. Still off-balance from the hug, she didn’t know what to make of this guy. She plunked the block on the door’s edge and held it for the transfer.
“Guess I’m going to be a wreck for your tour. Maybe I should just reschedule.” He took possession of the block and lowered it onto the other. When he stood on the stack, it teetered.
Aley reached through the opening and caught his shoulders for steadying. “No need to reschedule since I’m already out here. What if we take a half-hour break to turn into fully functional human beings again? I think those fingertips of yours might need some first aid.”
He hovered over the rim before lifting one leg to escape. “Well, if you’re offering, then I’m accepting.” Despite his wounded state, a tiny grin tugged at his cheek.
With his boyish good looks ramping up in such proximity, Aley had no way out. She gave his shoulders a tug and brought him through the opening. Airborne for only seconds, the added weight drove her straight to the ground. Though guarded by his shoulder at the last second, the tumble still knocked the air from her lungs.
Hake rolled to one side, his arms splayed in the spring-green grass. “How was that for making a strong first impression, Ms. Halstead?”
She drew a deep breath and contemplated how honest to be. “Regulators don’t usually receive hugs on these determination site visits.” She inhaled more spring freshness into her lungs. “I’m still not sure whether to classify you as an errant climatic force or a hidden natural resource I’ve stumbled upon.” She turned and looked at him over the blades of grass.
“Sounds like I win either way,” he replied, seemingly content to be the object of her inspection. “I have bandages in the hall closet.”
“Good, you’re going to need them.” With that, she rolled onto her knees and headed for the truck. Nothing official in the cab would remedy this introductory rescue predicament. Today, she would have to rewrite the policy book, something she’d longed to do for some time. For some reason, that prospect lifted dread off her shoulders. She had blue skies overhead and green grass under her feet. Dare I ask for anything more?
~
Hake smoothed his hair back and sorted through half a dozen ways to save face in this strained situation, so the attractive conservation rep might view him in a more favorable light. The truck lurched through a collapsed culvert while they headed to a remote pasture that seemed more rock collection than grazing land. He’d acquired the entire acreage dirt-cheap by market standards, but cheap could equate to long-range expensive when improvements leaked a hole in the owner’s bank account. He’d have to spread out the forthcoming enhancement plan, even if that meant the comely officer would visit less often, a sorry happenstance.
She turned toward him, her eyes sparkling. “I see the former owner let the trees invade this rear pasture. Our EQIP program offers financial assistance to fight against hardwood encroachment to allow the grass to maintain dominance. With the spread so extensive, I’m convinced that condition alone would qualify your land for the program. You can hire out the clearing work, or do it yourself. Both practices are acceptable.”
“Okay, if there’s financial assistance to make sure the work gets done, I’m going to like doing business with your department.” Somehow, the confession lowered his apprehension. “I might do some of both, but I’d hire out clearing the larger trees, for sure. I have a different day job, so I might strive to keep my limbs intact for that citified work.” He added a folksy tone to the admission to keep the exchange light.
She chuckled. “No one would ever guess that you ranched by occupation, Hake. Still, hobby ranching holds considerable merit. As a landowner, you have quite the opportunity to bring your land back to the best condition possible. I admire that goal.”
“That’s my Christian obligation—to be a good steward,” he replied. When she nodded, he decided to take it a step further. “I do everything as unto the Lord. That value permeates every corner of my life. Believe it or not, there are some less clumsy domains in which I thrive.”
That garnered a throaty feminine laugh as the truck slowed to a halt. “That’s great news. Let’s start right here. I’d like to trace the pasture’s edge down to that drainage below. We can talk about how much of that riparian buffer of trees along the creek you might want to retain.”
“Trees along the creek are okay—but not ones in the pasture?” He exited the cab, scratching his head. There would be more than riparian buffers to learn about—like rusty grain silos that liked to gobble unsuspecting men for breakfast. Momentarily dazed, he stood off the front grill trying to gear up for the walk.
In seconds, Aley nudged him with her shoulder. “Hey, are you up for this part?”
“Guess we’re about to find out.”
“I’ll set a leisurely pace and talk about what I see. That way you can learn which hardwoods to watch for, the types threatening to encroach on the pasture.”
He held her gaze a few seconds and stepped down-slope toward the tree line with some reluctance. “So how about you? Have you always been the outdoorsy type?”
She picked a bright green leaf from a solitary tree as they passed. “Called out as a tomboy—you’re exactly right. This is American elm, what some regard as a trash tree. See how the leaf looks like the logo on an ice cream carton? That’s a quick way to remember this one.”
He ran his bandaged fingertips over the jagged-edged leaf. “You know, there just might be some hope for me yet. I already know a cedar tree when I see one.”
She shook her head. “That line over there is all Osage orange, sometimes called hedge trees. Even after you girdle them, the wood remains so hard, the tree will stand for another decade or more. Some like using the heartwood to make furniture. The grain has an interesting orange tint, but the name really comes from the balls that grow as grapefruit-sized seed pods.”
“They’re colored orange then?” He flexed his brow to heighten the inquiry.
She chuckled and picked at a shrub barely leafing out. “No, they’re actually lime green and crenulated, you know, crinkled like the surface of your brain.”
“If I had a brain,” he replied under his breath. Wiping his overgrown hair out of his field of vision, he sensed a need to overcome feelings of inadequacy on the ranch if he held a sliver of a chance to make a go of it. “Okay, what kind of bush did you pick?”
A little smile warmed her expression. “Well, I tried not to pick at it too much, so you might have more gooseberries left to make into pies and jams.”
Ready for more revelation, he intended to make it personal. “Do you like making jams and such from what Mother Nature provides?”
“Yes, I enjoy living off the land like that. I’d like to garden, but I don’t have a yard right now. I live in an apartment in Emporia, but I did have planter boxes on the porch last summer to grow tomatoes.”
“Aha, worthy aspirations trapped in boxes. That doesn’t sound totally satisfying for someone who has such an obvious connection to the land.” He gave her a quick glimpse to see how the probing comment landed.
Aley walked down into a gully, her feet sliding on the crumbly rocks lining the slope. “You don’t want this shrub in the pasture. It’s rough-leafed dogwood.” She strummed her hand across several thin bare-wood stems. “Get rid of it while it’s small and easier to clip through.”
“I’m going to need some strong loppers,” he replied, rubbing his hands together. The sight of his bandaged fingertips reiterated that he lacked the proper handle on that challenge.
She squared around to him once he’d joined her at the lower elevation. After she held his full attention, she smiled. Then it faded all too fast. “About those worthy aspirations trapped in boxes—I’m on the verge of doing something to remedy that. In all fairness, you should know. I’ll get your enrollment started for the program and put your enhancements in place, but another conservation officer will likely walk you through the process. I’m looking to transfer out of the Lyon County office to much greener pastures. You’ll do fine, as long as you stay motivated.”
The gully suddenly lacked air, as the detrimental news broke the possibility for a personal tie before he could even hint toward such collusion. The next agent wouldn’t have soft hazel eyes framed by curvy lashes and long hair the color of frosted tree bark. As she walked on dribbling leaves from her hand, he stood frozen by the dogwood, feeling equally discarded.
What kind of management plan would transform him from less of a trash tree, at least in the eyes of the current enticing regime? He stumbled across the loose flint rocks, searching for a way out of the impasse that had opened between them. A sense of longing quickened his pace. Lord help, I’m trapped in another grain bin. Oh, how he hated operating from the panicked end of the response spectrum, yet another rookie predicament to escape.
 

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