Opening the door and stepping out, he stretched his tired back and reached back in for his leather work gloves and the rope that lay coiled on the seat. He slapped the rope against his dusty pant legs and boots and breathed deeply of the evening smell of river bottom and beef cows. To some that may have been a questionable smell, but to him it was home in its purest essence and he loved it.His stomach growled and he wondered if there was any real food in the bunkhouse fridge, or if he'd have to either settle for junk, or head back up to the main house before crashing tonight. He'd been up since four thirty that morning and was too tired to go for food, even though he'd skipped dinner. Maybe there was some fruit left, or some milk. Fo lived on milk, so there should be some. Or maybe that was backward. His boots sounded loud on the wooden porch boards as he mounted the two steps.He tossed the rope onto one of the hooks inside the door of the bunkhouse, threw the gloves onto the shelf above it and reached to unbuckle his chaps.
