“No,” I snap. “She doesn’t get to show up like nothing happened.”
Sedona straightens, tired but unyielding. “I didn’t come here for you.”
“Then leave,” I say.
Her jaw clenches. “You want to stand here and fight, or you want to save these animals?” she says, voice tight but firm. “Because that’s the choice you’re making.”
My pride flares hot. “This isn’t your place anymore.”
She steps closer, eyes locked on mine. “I know you don’t want to see me. This isn’t the best time for it. But you can choose. We can argue, or I can get on the ground and keep these cows alive.”
Another cow lets out a horrible cry, legs kicking wildly.
Seth shouts, “Everyone shut up and focus!”
Boone runs toward the cry, barking urgently.
I turn just in time to watch another cow buckle and collapse, legs folding underneath her like a bad dream I can’t outrun.
The sound tears through the air. And through me.
Sedona’s eyes meet mine again.
For a long second, neither of us moves.
Then I swallow hard. “Fine,” I mutter. “Go.”
She resumes her examination, dropping to her knees beside the nearest cow. Her hands move fast, practiced, clinical.
She calls out over her shoulder, “Seth, I need pressure on her neck—there. Tex, help me get her upright. Keep her chest forward.”
They obey instantly.
She works with a kind of fierce calm. Her voice slices through the chaos like she’s been doing this every day of her life.
“Billy!” she shouts. “Stand here. I’m relieving the gas for now so she can breathe. Hold her flank.”
I move before I can think. Before I can remind myself that I didn’t want her here. That I didn’t want her near anything of mine again.
My hands press against the cow’s side. Sedona slides a needle under the hide to release the pressure. Gas hisses out, sharp and foul.
The cow’s whole body shudders with relief.
“Good,” Sedona says. “Move to the next one.”
We rotate. One cow. Then another. And another. Sedona checks mouths, eyes, hides. She pulls samples fast, labeling each tube with quick strokes.
Her voice turns clinical, almost detached. “This isn’t your typical bloat. The onset’s too sudden. Could be toxins. Could be interference with the rumen. Could be a contamination source we haven’t identified.”
Jared whispers near me, “She’s like a machine.”
She hears him and ignores it.
Half an hour passes with all of us running from cow to cow, helping her keep them alive long enough for backup to arrive.
Then, at last, an unfamiliar car pulls up the drive.
White sedan.
