I was eight years old when John Kessler first barreled into my life in his dirty old pickup truck, gravel crunching underneath his tires and Eric Clapton blaring through his stereo. I watched curiously from the porch swing as he climbed out of the truck, trying to make out his features underneath the bill of a Rangers baseball cap. He was tall and lean, and his face seemed young... perhaps the same age as my cousin, who'd just finished his last year of high school.

I didn't have time to investigate further. He made a straight line for the barn and, for a fraction of a moment, found himself out of my line of sight. I followed after him with the haste and the stealth of a bouncy and overzealous child.

I didn't think he'd noticed me with my gap-toothed smile and my skinned knees, but if he did he didn't say anything.

That's the thing about John; in the few years that I knew him, I don't think I ever heard him speak a full sentence to anyone, not even me.

I ended up hiding in an empty horse stall, wedged between the wood paneling and a bale of hay, watching silently as John reached my father and shook his hand. My dad was well above average height and broad-shouldered, the build of a man who'd spent his whole life on a cattle ranch. It was so strange to see him have to look up to meet someone's eye.

"You here for the ranch hand position?" my dad asked gruffly.

"Yes sir I am," John replied with a nod. "I'm John... Kessler," he introduced himself, looking a little uncertain of what he should say or do next as my father went back to his job of mucking out the horse stalls.

"You ever worked on a ranch before?" my dad barked.

"No sir I haven't, but I'm a fast learner," John said steadily, as though he'd rehearsed the words a hundred times before. "I worked in a garage for a couple years in high school, so I'm pretty good at fixin' things."

My dad continued to shovel manure into a wheelbarrow and John shuffled his booted feet, looking mighty uncomfortable.

"You'll work from sun up 'til sun down... Payday's every other Friday, $489 a week... Room and board's free; you'll be stayin' in the loft," my dad went on to say, his back turned to John. He made his way towards the next stall, further down the walkway, forcing me to crane my neck so that I could keep them in my line of vision. "There's no kitchen so you'll have to eat at the main house – dinner's usually around seven... you can keep a mini fridge in the loft if you wanna... microwave as well... the missus ain't gonna let you at the table if you look like you've been workin' all day, so shower first..."

As they continued to speak about the ranch hand job – clearly it was none of my business and I shouldn't have been eavesdropping – I tried to discretely wriggle myself free so that I could go back to the swing, but all I managed to do was knock over a pitch fork and startle the chestnut mare in the opposite stall.

"Easy girl," my father said to the horse before turning his attention to me. "What are you doin' hidin' in there?" he asked me with a low chuckle.

Feeling the blood rush to my cheeks, I didn't say a word. John was looking at me now too, his brown eyes shadowed by his baseball cap and his mouth expressionless. I giggled and spun around on my heels, bolting out of the barn as fast as my feet would let me.

I wasn't usually such a shy child but that summer I avoided John like the plague. Every once in a while he'd catch a glimpse of me hiding in a stall or behind the machinery, and whenever I caught his eye he'd watch me bolt right out of my hiding spot towards the main house.

I didn't think he liked me very much; his expression was always so serious and he never talked at the kitchen table during dinner time, even though my mama tried to get at least a few words out of him.

He worked until early August and then, just like that, he was gone.

"Isn't John workin' today?" I wondered, dragging the wooden stool my grandfather built me toward my mama and climbing onto it. I propped my elbows onto the old-fashioned, linoleum countertop and watched her as she prepared sandwiches for lunch.

"He's gone back to Dallas for school," my mama told me.

"When is he goin' to be back?" I asked eagerly.

"He might come back next summer," my mama shrugged.

He came back to the ranch and to his loft every summer for three years. I began to look forward to the end of May, knowing I'd see his old truck rolling into our driveway once again. He never said much but my parents liked him all the same; he did his job well and he kept the loft clean, so they couldn't complain. I liked him too, and after three years I finally mustered up the courage to speak to him for the first time.

"Do you want any help?" I asked him timidly, finding him kneeling down in front of a rickety old fence that he was fixing up, sweat trickling down his sun-burnt neck.

For a moment I wondered if he'd heard me; he kept working, and it was only after a few seconds that he seemed to realize I was actually talking to him and not the fence post.

"Wanna hold the box of nails?" he asked.

"Okay," I smiled.

A few weeks later my father came into my room and sat down on the edge of my bed.

"Hey honey, I have to tell you somethin'... it's pretty important," he said. I scooted closer to him and leaned my head on his shoulder.

"What?" I asked, curious.

"John is leavin' tomorrow," he told me.

"Where is he goin'?" I wondered.

"He enlisted in the army... he's goin' off to war," my dad replied a little uneasily.

I was only eleven but I was old enough to understand what that meant. John was leaving and there was a chance he'd never come back.

"He can't go! He lives here! We need him to help around the ranch!" I said quickly, reaching for my dad, willing him to make John stay with us.

"He's twenty-one, he's a grown man, we can't make him do nothin'," my dad chuckled, patting my hair. "He'll be just fine, don't you worry 'bout him," he added as I flung my arms around him and hugged him tight.

The following morning I woke up and felt my stomach turn to lead. I didn't want John to leave. He belonged here; he was the man in the loft above the barn, it was his place!

I dressed quickly and raced outside, hoping I wasn't too late. If he liked it here enough, maybe I could convince him to stay for just a little while longer.

"Don't go, please don't go!" I pleaded, catching him packing up his truck.

"I have to; they need me over there," John said, and for the first time I saw something shift on his face; muscles I didn't even know he had formed into a small smile.

"We need you here," I argued.

"I'm sure your dad will find somebody else," John chuckled, running his fingers through his short, jet black hair and along the slightest bit of stubble.

"Maybe," I whispered, staring at my shoes.

"I'm gonna be okay," he assured me.

I nodded but didn't speak. Behind me the screen door opened and closed and I heard heavy, booted feet making their way down the porch steps. My dad put a hand on my shoulder but I shrugged him off, instead launching towards an unsuspecting John. I wrapped my arms around his waist and held on tight.

"You have to come back, you have to!" I told him before quickly letting go, tears streaking down my rosy cheeks. "Promise me you'll come back," I told him stubbornly, crossing my arms over my chest.

John knelt down in front of me, his dark brown eyes locking with mine for a moment as he placed something cold and hard in the palm of my hand. "I promise I'll come back, 'til then you keep that safe for me," he said.

He didn't say another word and neither did I. When he turned away and left I glanced down at my hand and stretched out my fingers.

Sitting in my palm was a chain with a pair of silver dog tags.