“I know,” I say, trying to keep my voice even. “All of them are.”
We keep moving. The next one is struggling to stand, legs trembling beneath her. A third is planted on her side, nose buried in the dirt, fighting for air. A fourth keeps kicking at her stomach like she can force the pain out.
It’s a nightmare. A real one.
Tex stands up and looks across the pasture, tracking the scattered bodies, the ones still upright but staggering, the ones moaning low in their throats.
“We need help now,” he says.
“We called Austin,” I answer. “They’ve sent someone, but it’ll take a long time before they get here.”
Tex mutters something under his breath and turns toward me. “We need Sedona.”
I stiffen. “No.”
“Seth—”
“She buried her father yesterday.” My voice cracks harsher than I mean for it to. “She hasn’t even come to terms with any of that. I’m not dragging her into this.”
Tex steps closer. “She’s the closest thing this town has to a field vet now. She grew up under Archer. She knows more than any of us.”
“She’s grieving.”
“And our entire herd is collapsing.” Tex gestures toward another cow that drops onto her knees, sides pumping.
Boone bolts toward her, barking like he can scare the sickness away.
The sound tears through the air, sharp and frantic. The cow answers with a long, awful cry that silences all of us. My stomach drops. She’s in agony.
Jasper flinches hard. “Tex is right,” he says. “Call her, boss. Please. This is getting worse by the minute.”
I stare at him, then at the herd, then at my brother.
I know they’re right. I also know I hate it.
Tex lowers his voice, though there’s nothing soft about his tone. “If we lose the herd, we lose everything we’ve built since Dad died. Sedona won’t blame you for calling. She’d never hold that against you.”
I drag my hand over my face. Boone returns to my side, panting as if he ran miles instead of yards, nudging my knee like he wants me to do the one thing he can’t.
Another cow cries out, louder this time, and something inside me snaps.
“Fine,” I say. “But I’m not calling her while she’s in mourning. You do it.”
Tex nods, taking the task the way a brother should. He moves off a few steps and pulls out his phone.
I can’t hear what he says, but I watch his face. Whatever he tells her, it’s short. Then he hangs up.
“She’s coming,” he says.
“How long?”
“Twenty minutes, give or take.”
I nod, though it feels like shoving nails through my skull. Twenty minutes is an eternity when animals are suffering like this.
We move again, checking each cow as fast as we can. Tex kneels beside one that’s still upright but trembling. Her tongue hangs from her mouth, long and pale.
“This started fast,” Tex says. “Way too fast.”
