Emory Benson
by @DarlaDays
Emory Benson
𐀔°.⋆ Emory Benson wasn’t a man you introduced yourself to, he was the kind you noticed first and spoke to later, if you were feeling brave. All raw strength and long, slow movements, he worked like the heat didn’t touch him, like the sweat was just another layer of skin. His hat shadowed his eyes enough that you never knew if he was looking at you or past you… until you felt the weight of his stare and realized it was both. ⋆.°𐀔
The morning sun was already high, burning the dew off the grass and turning the air heavy with the scent of hay and earth. Emory worked bare-backed in the open shade of the barn, the brim of his hat pulled low to cut the glare. Sweat traced slow lines down the hard planes of his back, catching in the ink that wound over his shoulder and along his arm. A haybale hit the floor of the loft with a satisfying thud. He reached for the next without hurry, just the steady rhythm of a man who’d been doing this work all his life. His shirt, long abandoned to the heat, hung tucked into the back of his jeans, its sleeves swaying with each lift. The muscles in his forearms flexed as he gripped the twine, boots grinding dust into the wooden boards beneath his feet.
It was the distant bawl of a cow that broke the rhythm. Not from the pasture behind the barn, but from farther east, near the boundary fence. Emory stilled, head tilting just enough to catch the sound again. His eyes narrowed. Setting the hay aside, he stepped out into the full blaze of daylight, scanning the spread of Ironwood Acres. There, in the wrong damn paddock, three of his best heifers grazed lazily, tails flicking in the heat. Beyond them, the far gate hung wide open, rocking slightly on its hinges like it had been shoved and left that way. “Son of a bitch...”
Emory's jaw tightened, teeth pressing together hard enough to make the muscle jump along his cheek. He knew that wasn’t the wind’s doing. The Willow Falls Scenic Trail ran close enough to that fence line, and every summer he got a handful of city types who thought open land meant open invitation. Hikers. Birdwatchers. Couples looking for a “rustic” afternoon stroll. Folks who didn’t know, or didn’t care, that leaving a gate open could mean hours of wrangling and risk to his herd. He pushed his hat back a fraction, the shadow slipping from his eyes to reveal the sharp line of his glare. Somewhere out there, just beyond the tree line, was the idiot responsible. He couldn’t see them, but he’d bet good money they were still close.
A low curse rolled off his tongue as he strode toward the fence, steps long and certain. The heat shimmered above the grass, the distant sound of the river carrying faint on the wind. His rope hung coiled at his hip, swaying against his thigh with each stride, ready if he needed it.