And Thunder—my prize bull, the one I dropped a small fortune on—ain’t right. He paces near the far rail, thick-necked and restless, but every so often, he stops, droops his head, and licks his nose like a calf that can’t get comfortable. A bull like him should be throwing his weight around, not looking off like some cull steer.
“It’s not just him,” Dodge mutters, tipping his hat toward a pair of heifers by the trough. One’s ears are sagging, drool hanging thick from her muzzle. The other shifts weight from foot to foot, tail swishing like she can’t settle.
I catch it too—their manure’s looser than it ought to be. Calves stand listless instead of bucking like spring grass should make them.
It’s been a full day of this, and I’m nervous as hell. A bad batch of feed can run through a herd like wildfire. Miss the early signs, and before long, you’ve got bloated bellies, down cattle, and vet bills stacked higher than hay bales.
Dodge scratches his jaw, voice low. “Cade, if we don’t get someone to lay eyes on ‘em soon, we’re liable to lose more than shine.”
That’s when I pull out my phone and make the call I’ve been dreading.
Thirty minutes later, Bodie’s old Ford rattles up the gravel road, dust spitting in the evening light, followed by Sam’s old truck. Bodie climbs out, tipping his hat. Sarah steps from hers and joins him.
Tension tightens deep in me.
She’s so damn beautiful. Hazel-green eyes bright, and something about her pulls at me like always.
“Evenin’,” Bodie says, easy as ever. “So, what’s wrong?”
He was here two days ago with his new assistant—nice guy, Gilbert Perry. Everything was fine then.
“They’re not eating,” I start, jaw tight. “Pickin’ at the feed, pushing it around like it’s sawdust.”
Sarah lifts a stylus and starts jotting notes on her phone.
“Coats gone dull,” Dodge adds.
I nod toward Thunder. “He keeps droppin’ his head, lickin’ his nose like he can’t settle. That ain’t Thunder.”
“Loose manure,” Dodge continues grimly. “Not just one or two—a whole bunch.”
“A couple of heifers are droopin’ their ears.” I wave in the direction of the animals. “You know that look—they’re tellin’ us they don’t feel right.”
“Pasture’s like a churchyard,” Dodge mutters. “They should be bawlin’ for feed, kickin’ up their heels. Instead, they’re standin’ around waitin’ on somethin’.”
Bodie’s smile fades. He studies the herd from the fence, hat brim low. “Maybe it’s stress—the weather’s been swingin’. Cold, then hot. Cattle hate that.”
“Stress don’t make a whole herd go dull-eyed,” I grunt.
We walk the line slow. Bodie squints into the pasture and points at a cow standing apart, tail limp. “That one looks a touch dehydrated. Might need electrolytes in the water. Could be nothin’.”
I crouch near the trough, studying trampled manure. “Looser than it oughta be. More than one pile, too.”
Bodie kneels, scoops a bit with a stick, and sniffs. “Thin, but I’ve seen worse after a cold snap. Could clear up in a day or two.”
“Could,” I echo, not buying it.
Sarah steps to the rail, opens the gate, and then walks straight toward Thunder.
The big bull shifts, tossing his head, but she moves calmly and deliberately. “Easy, boy. I’m not here to hurtyou.” She lays a hand on his muzzle like only someone who knows cattle dares. With her other, she pulls out a small stethoscope.
“See Thunder’s ears?” she says over her shoulder. “Not pricked—drooping. He’s licking his nose too often. Early sign of toxicity. That heifer by the trough—loose manure, not just nerves. Feed’s the first place I’d look.”
She crouches at Thunder’s flank, listens, moves, listens again. “Gut sounds are sluggish. He’s uncomfortable, but not colicking. Heart rate’s a touch elevated.” She wipes a thermometer with alcohol and slips it in. Thunder flicks his tail, shifts; she pats his side until he steadies. She checks the temp and frowns slightly. “Normal temp. That’s good. But….”
“But?” I press as I join her.
“If this is what I think….” She straightens. “Monensin. Early signs are subtle before it hits the heart muscle.”
