“She’ll be here soon,” Tex says.
“You said twenty minutes,” Jasper presses.
Tex doesn’t snap back. “I know what I said. I heard her voice. She’s coming.”
I swallow hard and crouch beside the cow again, pressing my palm between her ribs the way Archer taught us when we were kids, helping him diagnose.
Her body is too warm, and her breaths shudder beneath my hand.
“Hang on,” I whisper.
The cow answers with a low groan.
Boone noses my shoulder again, tail wagging in sharp jerks, unsure whether to stay with me or keep watch over the pasture.
“Good boy,” I tell him. “Stay with me.”
Tex straightens, scanning the horizon. “I’ll go meet her at the drive.”
“Go.”
He jogs off toward the truck, legs eating up the distance with long, purposeful strides.
Jasper kneels beside me. “What do we do till she gets here?”
“Keep them upright,” I say. “Keep them breathing. And don’t panic.”
His eyes jump to mine. “How do you do that? How are you not panicking?”
“I am,” I tell him. “I just don’t have the luxury of showing it.”
Another cow drops in the distance.
Boone bolts toward her, barking until Jasper chases him down and pulls him back by the collar.
My throat feels raw. My hands shake.
Then Tex’s shout carries from the lane.
“She’s here!”
Relief punches through me so hard my knees almost buckle.
An old Sedan rolls onto the drive, and she jumps out before the engine fully stops. Sedona’s still dressed in all black, hair tied back, dark circles under her eyes.
But she’s here. She’s moving with purpose. And she looks at the pasture with the sharp, clinical focus her father drilled into her.
She grabs her bag from the passenger seat and runs toward us.
Boone meets her halfway, whining. She pats his head once—the only greeting she can spare—then looks at me.
“Show me everything,” she says, breathless but all business.
I point toward the first cow that started this whole disaster. “Here.”
She drops beside the animal and begins her examination.
Tex kneels across from her.
