I found the cowboy at that very swing dancing bar the old rancher told us about, a meeting place so cliche it equally disturbs and delights me. That particular evening, Emma and I found ourselves mid-road trip, saddled up at the Sunrise Saloon, patiently awaiting the company of some future parade goers. It left us both bored and early - two things Emma can’t stand to be - so we peppered our bartender, Jake, with a litany of Montana-themed questions. Real estate gobbling, COVID, swing dancing, telltales to weed out phony cowboys. “Actual cowboy hats are for drugstore cowboys. Look for baseball caps. Maybe tennis shoes. But always a belt buckle. Always a belt buckle.”
A half hour later one of these true blues walks in. I wish he had come through saloon swinging doors, for a true western moment - they were not. Jake, pouring a beer with his back to us, nods over his shoulder. “There’s your cowboy, girls.” I’m almost sure we both turned towards each other before looking back at him. The man walking towards us looks like a tree, blonde and towering, with a simple white button down, grey baseball cap, and the damn belt buckle. He’s a bit slouched and looking our way, but only because, months later I’ll realize, we are in his seat. With the help of sweet Jake playing both sides, we somehow strike up a conversation, the three of us shutting down the bar together. And then the cowboy says goodnight, pivots on his heel and strolls out the door. Just like that.
Thirty seconds won’t elapse before I’m chasing him down in the parking lot, shedding my dignity as I run to catch up with his headlights. I don’t tell Emma about my little mission, who later thinks I’ve been kidnapped and will be sold at auction. I rationalize my generous sacrifice of self respect as noble, especially in a parking lot setting, as one of us needed to secure the weekend cattle drive this man casually agreed to. I do acknowledge now that this absolute stunt was also maybe, for other reasons other than to schedule entertainment - he was a handsome man with good things to say - but however shameful this act of desperation is, it unfortunately defines the genesis of our relationship. “Still got it,” he now says with a wink and a click.
Our first matter of business is upselling the cowboy via text to invite us over for dinner - a necessary preface to our Sunday ride. Arriving an hour late, we finally pass under a classic ranch log archway to arrive at his driveway, which is another two gates and takes a song and half to drive up. As the hillside turns to forest, we get out of the car to pee and start to worry about the possibility of getting murdered. Reminding each other that we were the ones who invited ourselves here in the first place, we carry on to the cabin.
On that warm and still light summer night, we saunter past an elephant graveyard lawn filled with chewed antlers, and a water buffalo skull at the front door. We let ourselves into the stranger’s log cabin. It is open and airy, with warm exposed wood that feels like the outside is now in.
As soon as we ask hello into the quiet, massive living space, a ball of dogs pummels us from stage left. When we can make them out - the first, bigger one, is a stunning English Shepherd - Bat Masterson. He has a flowing coat of chestnut fur with thick, white collaring. He strikes me as a dog version of a Christmas reindeer. The second animal is a flash of light with tic tac puppy teeth - a jumpy two month old yellow Lab. This is Doc Holiday. I give you: the cattle dog, and the bird dog.
They are perfect, and seemingly thrilled to have company. Bat is stoic, beautiful, and responsible in a way only the eldest is, something of a Casanova (“This one loves women…”). He always looks you square in the eyes, which are amber and lined black. He cares about you. Doc, however, is a true lab and forever-puppy; goofy, charming, headstrong. Exceptionally needy. He’s capable of requisitioning an entire train of thought, where you ask yourself, “How are you this cute?” If you think this is a love story about a cowboy, you are only partially correct. This was my first experience truly and wholeheartedly falling for dogs.
The log cabin is a mountain museum with infinite nuance to fathom. Hunting bows with a hundred pounds of tension, sleigh bells from the 1800’s, empty bullet shells to be refilled in the ammo room downstairs. Red cedar walls are ornamented with well-preserved pieces of Montana animals - shoulder mounted trophy elk, white tails with hanging velvets, mule deer, loose antlers littered by the dozens. Bear skulls and fur throws, cow hides, a Texas longhorn spanning the width of the fireplace. A moose antler with scrimshaw carvings, discovered on the side of the road, likely with some sort of spell cast on it. If you sit in the single leather armchair to the left of the fireplace, you will find each of these arc animals seem interested in what you have to say.
After we pour ourselves whiskeys and take inventory of the curiosities, the cowboy serves us a hot meal. Home-raised Wagyu filet mignon, butter-soaked skillet mushrooms with fried garlic, a side of lemon asparagus. We start with some casual conversation, asking him how many head of cattle he has. Diplomatically, he navigates the answer and offers “More than most, less than some.” Unaware of Montana customs - we have essentailly just asked him what he's worth, as some back of the napkin math could reveal more than he’d like us to know. But as Charlotte will later aptly deduct in review, following this logic is like asking us to convert the Yen exchange rate, then and there. We simply aren’t armed with the information. And being cagey about this only makes us more intrigued about discovering it, which we eventually do. It is more than most, but less than some.
After dinner and rolling around on the floor with the warm puppies, we pile into the truck to paint the town. He takes us to a nearby dive bar with carpet on the ceiling, then back to the swing bar we met at, and we cap off the night with us girls laying on the flatbed next to running dogs, while the cowboy carves the truck up the dark side of the mountain. We stargaze on one of his ski-runs, with the truck doors open so we can hear the radio, rolling around in the knapweed and sipping mini-bar bottles of Whistle Pig.
We head out on his horses the next morning; high off of breakfast sausage sandwiches, seltzers and cigarettes. We move cows from one rolling hill to another, happy beyond measure, with three good horses, two good dogs, two poorly behaved women, and one good man.
Back at the truck, while the cowboy is out of earshot, pumping gas and buying Camels, we talk about how lucky we are, and how something here is going very, very right. He gets back in and while rolling down the 93, starts singing to us in the truck - something slow and sad about love. I start to cry. The romance with the cowboy, and a new side of Montana, sparks violently.
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