Each bag was fifty pounds, and there were a dozen of them. After carrying four, he’d broken a sweat. By the seventh, Cal had a pounding headache. As he walked the feed to the stall and then laid it down neatly on the others, he turned around and stretched, wincing slightly as his head continued to pound. Too much coffee and not enough sleep did that to a person, he supposed. That and the constant worrying about things he couldn’t control. With another grunt, he bent down and hefted another sack onto his shoulder. Dust and particles of straw blew up into his face. Balancing the bag on one shoulder, he wiped his eyes with his bandanna, then started walking. When he passed Jet, the old palomino whinnied softly. “I know,” he told the horse. “I’m getting a little old for this, aren’t I?” Usually, he would’ve asked one of the hands to take care of the new feed they were adding to the horses’ diet. But he’d needed something to take the edge off this morning. Unfortunately, the physical labor didn’t seem to be doing the trick.
