CHAPTER ONE
TUCKER
The calf is stuck.
Mama cow number 247 picked the worst possible corner of the east pasture to drop early, wedged herself against the fence line where the ground slopes toward the creek. Both front hooves are presenting but the head is turned back, and she's been laboring too long. Sweat runs down my back despite the six a.m. chill, my knees sinking into mud as Hank circles wide to keep her calm.
"Easy, girl." My voice stays low. Steady. Same tone my dad used on panicking animals for thirty years before his heart quit on him in the south field.
She bellows. Deep, guttural, exhausted.
Reaching in, I find the calf's jaw, ease the head around until it lines up with the legs. Mama's muscles contract hard against my forearm and she tries to stand. Dolly blocks her, nipping just enough to hold the line.
"Good girl. Both of you."
One more contraction. The calf slides free in a wet, steaming rush, and I clear the membrane from its nose, watch the first breath shudder through a brand new set of lungs. Mama turns,already lowing, already licking. The calf blinks up at me with dark, unfocused eyes.
Eight hundred and one.
Sitting back on my heels, I wipe my hands on my jeans and let out a breath that's been locked in my chest for the last twenty minutes. Hank trots over, nudges my elbow with his nose like he's checking my work. Dolly's already scanning the tree line for coyotes because she never stops working.
My phone buzzes in my back pocket. Then again. Then a third time in rapid succession, which means it's Josie.
She lands at 2. Guest cabin is ready right?
Also she's bringing equipment so don't freak out about the cases
Tucker I swear to God if you don't answer me
Leaning against the fence post, I type back with one clean thumb.
Busy. Calf coming.
Three dots appear immediately.
OMG is it okay?? Send me a picture!!
Also the photographer. Tucker. Please.
The photographer. Right. Josie's big plan to drag Brant Ranch into the twenty first century with a new logo, a website, social media content, and whatever else she cooked up during her marketing meetings in Reno. She pitched it over Thanksgiving dinner with a slideshow on her laptop,complete with graphs showing direct to consumer beef sales and agritourism revenue projections.
My answer was no.
Her response was to hire someone anyway.
Cabin's ready.
Thank you!! You're going to love Lena she's amazing
Her portfolio is incredible Tucker seriously just look at it
Not going to look at it. Don't need a portfolio to tell me what Brant Ranch looks like. Been staring at it my whole life. Four generations of Brants have run cattle on this land. My great grandfather cleared the first pasture with a mule and a back that never fully straightened again. My grandfather built the barn that still stands. My dad expanded the herd to eight hundred, taught me to ride before I could read, and dropped dead at fifty two walking fence line after supper.
The ranch doesn't need a brand. It needs rain, decent hay prices, and a fence crew that shows up when they say they will.
Back at the barn, I strip off my shirt, use the hose to wash the blood and mud off my arms. The water's cold enough to make my teeth clench. Hank and Dolly drink from the trough while I grab a clean henley from the hook inside the tack room and pull it on, settling my hat back over hair that probably needs cutting.
Manny's already got the feed truck loaded. He nods at me from the driver's side, coffee thermos in hand.
