She grins. “Oh, stop pretending like you’ve got a problem with it.”
I pour a cup of coffee, black and hot, and tell Tillie I’ll be back in a couple of hours for breakfast.
Before Jeanine, the hands ate their meals at the house kitchen, crowded around the same old table. Jeanine hated that, said it made the house feel like a bunkhouse.So, I set up a mess hall with a cook. It’s worked like a dream. I never saw a reason to change it back.
Most mornings, I’m out early, back in time for breakfast with Evie. Lunch, I take at the mess hall with the other hands. Dinner’s with Evie—sometimes here at home, sometimes down at the diner, sometimes over at Joy and Mav’s place with Aria. We keep it loose, but I make time for her every day.
My father didn’t do that.
When we were kids, he was gone.
After Mama passed, he stayed gone.
Landon and I raised ourselves, two boys trying to fill shoes too big for us. Maybe that’s why I’ve always been close to him—two survivors of the same neglect.
The April morning bites sharp as I step out onto the porch. The air’s damp with dew, smelling of sage and wet earth. Sunrise creeps over the canyon walls, painting the pastures in pale gold. The herd’s bawling carries across the land, calves calling for their mamas, lowing mixing with the clang of gates as the hands start their day.
I slowly drink my coffee.
I love this time of day when there is nothing but possibility.
Blue Rock stretches wide in every direction. Rolling pasture broken by stands of cottonwood, the creek cutting a silver ribbon down the center, barns and corrals squared against the horizon. This land is my bones. My inheritance. My burden. My salvation.
I finish my coffee and head for the calvingpens.
“Mornin’, boss.” Dodge falls into step beside me, his hat pulled low against the chill.
“Mornin’.”
This time of year means long nights and longer days, what with new calves dropping. Some are easy, while some need a rope and a strong back to pull them into the world.
Dodge points out a cow, restless in the straw, tail flicking. “She’ll go by noon.”
“Keep an eye on her.” I give her a once-over. The heifer lifts her head, nostrils flaring. She’s got that look. Close, but not quite ready.
I don’t think we’ll need a vet. And even if we do, Bodie is who we will turn to as we always do. But if Bodie is busy?
You’ve got to stop thinkin’ about her, Cade. She hates your ass. And you hate hers. Remember?
We check on the bulls afterward.
I’ve got a handful of bulls running Blue Rock, each with his own job.
I’ve got a couple of commercial Angus boys—good, solid bulls. They’ll cover the bigger pastures and keep the calf crop strong.
I keep one Hereford in the mix, too. He throws Black Baldies—calves tough as boot leather, grow quick, and sell high at auction.
Thunder’s the crown jewel—Angus, through and through, with bloodlines you could brag on at any stock show. He cost me more than I ever wanted to spend, but he’ll sire the calves that’ll define BlueRock’s future.
That’s the thing about bulls. Folks think they’re just big, mean sons of bitches. Truth is, they’re the future in a hide. You pick right, your herd thrives. You pick wrong, you pay for it for years.
We cut across the pasture to the breeding pens, where Thunder paces behind the steel rails like a king sizing up his kingdom. His black coat gleams even under the dust. His muscles coil thick through his shoulders and rump. He drops his head, snorts hard, pawing at the dirt like he’s daring us to climb in with him.
Dodge leans against the rail, spitting into the dirt. “Hell of a bull. He’s gonna change the herd.”
I watch the way Thunder carries himself—proud, alert, dangerous. “That’s the plan. His sire threw calves that gained three pounds a day without even trying. Faster weight gain, thicker frames, more marbling. Buyers at market will fight over ’em.”
“And Traveler blood in the maternal line,” Dodge adds, grinning. “Ain’t nothing wrong with that. Solid udders, easy calvers.”
