Trace’s brows shot up. What the hell was going on? “Since when do you play sentry, mutt?”
Dodger responded by taking a deliberate step forward and shoving his broad head into Trace’s shin, nearly knocking him sideways.
Irritation flared, then died the instant the smell hit him. A sour stench that was just… wrong, sliding under the sweet-molasses scent of the feed pellets the bison ate all winter. Trace’s stomach dropped straight through his boots.
He raised both hands, palms out. “All right, big man. Message received. Let me get off my damn horse and check things out.”
Swinging down from Bastion, he took a slow step forward. Dodger matched it, blocking again, pressing his full weight against Trace’s legs until Trace had to brace a hand on the wolfdog’s thick ruff to keep his balance.
“I get you,” Trace muttered.
When he knelt, Dodger stayed glued to his side, nose wrinkledand teeth still bared at the bin. Trace pried open the lid. The pellets looked normal—dark brown and uniform—but the stench crawled up his throat. No one could mistake that smell, a mixture of spoiled milk and sour molasses.
Dodger nosed his shoulder hard, almost knocking him on his ass.
Trace’s pulse hammered in his ears. “Good boy,” he whispered, voice suddenly raw. “Fuck, Dodger. Good boy.”
Slamming the lid shut, Trace dragged a spare tarp over the entire bin, weighting the corners with frozen chunks of dirty snow. Then, blood still dripping from his bandaged hand, he stood and stared at the flapping canvas while Dodger leaned against his leg like a living shield.
Bastion had wandered closer, ears pricked, watching the wolfdog with the same wary respect he gave grizzlies. Trace scratched Dodger’s thick black ruff with his good hand.
“How is it you always show up when we need you?” he asked quietly. “Guess you’ve decided the whole damn ranch is yours to protect now.”
Dodger huffed once, his hot breath fogging in the frigid air, and pressed harder against Trace’s side.
Using his good hand, Trace vaulted back onto Bastion’s broad back. Dodger fell in at their side, a black shadow, silent through the snow as they wheeled and headed straight back across the north pasture at a hard lope. Snow exploded from Bastion’s hooves in rhythmic bursts. Dodger’s paws left only ghost prints.
Two hundred yards. They had only gone two hundred yards when Bastion crested a low rise within the same pasture, and Trace saw her. One of the younger bison, barely three years old, had wandered away from the herd.
She stood splay-legged near another bin, head hanging low, hindquarters swaying like she was drunk. Her sides heaved in ragged bursts, showing all the signs of brucellosis.
Trace’s heart stopped cold. Entire ranches had gone under when brucellosis hit their herds.
He hauled back on the reins so hard Bastion sat down on his haunches, sliding a full body length in the snow. Dodger slammed to a stop beside them, hackles spiked from neck to tail, a low, continuous growl vibrating in his chest.
“Damn it,” Trace rasped.
Kicking Bastion into a flat gallop, he headed straight for the gate leading to the ranch. He had to get to the vet barn. Dodger streaking alongside, ears pinned, running flat-out as if he already understood the herd was under attack.
The ride home tasted like copper and dread.
CHAPTER 14
Twenty minutes later, Trace pushed through the mudroom door. He’d called Chance on the way back to the lodge. Then he’d called Javi and told him to gather all the hands, remove all the feed pellets from every pasture, and decontaminate the bins.
After that, he put in a call to the state veterinarian. “I’ve got a down cow showing symptoms already. I need the brucellosis snap test here within the hour. And I need the brand inspector on standby. If this is positive, we’re looking at depopulation.”
God, he could hardly get that last word out. He was the fucking ranch veterinarian. He checked the herd every day. How could he have missed something this big?
The vet’s silence on the other end of the line was answer enough. Trace wanted to puke.
When he stepped inside, the warmth hit him first, followed by the scent of sugar, vanilla, and pine. With all the aromas of home and holidays filling the air, he should have felt comforted. Instead, they sat wrong in his gut.
The kitchen was quiet except for the low hum of the refrigerator and the faint swooshing of the dishwasher. The sight of cookies covering every flat surface in perfect, ridiculous rows almost pulled a smile to his face. Almost.
The girls had done a great job decorating. Some had snowflakes glittering with silver dragées. Others were shaped like trees and frosted in three shades of green. There were even tiny red-and-white cowboy hats Ruby must have ordered just to make Joy laugh.
Yep. The sight should have loosened the knot in his chest. But it didn’t.
