Will I miss the sex?Yes.
Will I miss it more than I’ll enjoy not listening to her yappin’ about?No.
“Sorry, Noelle. You know, genetics don’t buy themselves. And they’re going to be showing the bulls I’m interested in around four.” I look at my watch again. It was three forty, time to get the fuck outta here.
It’s not a lie. I do need to look at a couple of Angus bulls being sold—stud stock with pedigrees that read like royalty.
I thumb out a quick text to Elena, asking how Evie’s holding up.
A second later, my phone buzzes with a picture.
Evie’s grinning wide, helmet crooked on her head, perched atop a shaggy paint pony with a handler leading her around in a circle.
Elena:She’s having fun.
I can’t help the tug in my heart. Evie’s smile is all teeth and joy, her little boots sticking out sideways like she’s born for the saddle.
Me:Don’t let her talk you into buying that pony.
Elena:Too late.
I chuckle.
Me:You okay with having her? I gotta go down to the sale barn.
Elena:She’s fine with us.
Itake a deep breath and don’t ask her who this ‘us’is.
I know.
I send a thumbs-up emoji and pocket the phone. My girl’s happy. That’s all that matters.
The sale barn is busy. Voices echo under the rafters, low as a church before the sermon, everyone flipping through catalogs, thick with pedigrees and EPD charts.
I’ve already circled the lots I came to check—two Angus bulls bred out of a line that throws calves easy, with carcass numbers that make the buyers at Certified Beef sit up straighter.
It takes fifteen minutes before the bull I’m interested in comes in. He’s big-shouldered with a slick black hide shining under the lights. He doesn’t spook at the crowd, just tosses his head like he knows he’s worth every penny.
“Lot Thirty-One,” the auctioneer fires off, voice fast as a hailstorm on tin. “Thunder Ridge Blackcap 214K, sired by Connealy Thunder, dam line goes back to Traveler. Startin’ at twenty-five hundred, who’ll give me twenty-five?”
My pulse kicks up.
Connealy Thunder throws calves easily, the kind that hit the ground quickly and get to sucking without trouble. Traveler blood means long backs, good gain, solid feet—no gimpy calves limping through the pasture. That’s beef buyers’ gold right there.
I raise my hand. The auctioneer nods my way, doesn’t even pause. The bids roll back to ten, twelve, fifteen, twenty thousand. I stay put, not chasing, not showing my hand too quickly. I can go up to twenty-five…maybe thirty, but that’s it, which is damn expensive. And that too without semen rights.
Finally, the man across the ring I’ve been trading bids with drops his hand. I give the auctioneer a slight lift of my chin.
“Sold, Lot Thirty-One to Blue Rock Ranch!” the auctioneer shouts, slamming his gavel.
The catalog closes in my hand, but my mind’s already running numbers. That bull will pay for himself in three years, maybe less, if he throws calves like his sire.
In ranching, you don’t just buy a bull, you buy the future of your herd. Better genetics mean faster weight gain, stronger calves, and higher market prices. Folks think ranching is dirt and sweat—and it is—but it’s also betting on bloodlines. Buying the future one bid at a time.
After signing the papers and arranging for the new bull I had just bought to be delivered to Blue Rock, I go looking for Evie.
I find her curled up in Sarah’s lap by the pony ring, a stuffed horse tucked under her chin, her little boots still dusty. She’s out cold, trusting as can be, while Sarah strokes her hair with a tenderness that twists my gut.
