The bull lets out one last shudder, a sound so deep it rattles my bones, and then he goes still.
“Goddammit!” Cade roars, surging to his feet.
He kicks a trough, sending it flying against the fence with a metallic clang.
His fists ball up, and for a moment, I think he’s going to break himself apart.
I push to my feet, wiping blackened hands on my jeans. I put a hand on his arm. “Easy, cowboy.”
Cade stands still. His face in the harsh floodlight looks carved from stone, but his eyes—they’re wrecked.Gutted.
My heart goes out to him. “I’m so sorry I couldn’t save him.”
He shakes his head. “I knew it was too late when I called you. But….”
“I know.”
“Who hurts helpless animals?” There is a wealth of grief in his voice. “I mean…fuckin’ hell. Why make him suffer?”
Tears prick the back of my eyes at his fury and his anguish. I tentatively slide my hand around his waist and hold him. His gaze snaps to me, and for a moment, it’s like he’s seeing me through fire.
He doesn’t hesitate; he pulls me into his arms and leans his head on my shoulder as if he needs me like he needs air.
I stroke his back, loving the solid feel of him. Loving how wonderful it is to be the person he turns to again. But I also hate how weak it makes me feel. Now, however, is not the time to assert my indignation. He needs me, and I will comfort him…as I would any other client. Right?
Yeah, Sarah, you go around hugging clients after their animals pass away. You do it all the time…not!
After a while, I tell Dodge he needs to call the cops, and not long after, the sheriff’s truck comes to a stop in the yard.
Sheriff Hugh Dillon steps out, his broad shoulders outlined by the floodlights.
“Dr. Kirk. Cade.” He nods. “You wanna tell me what’s goin’ on?”
I fold my arms tight, trying to keep my voice even. “Poisoning, Sheriff. One bull down. I flushed what I could, but….” I glance toward the carcass, throat tightening. “We were too late.”
His face hardens. “This is different than what happened the last time.”
“That was monensin, this is…straight up kerosene.”
“And no one noticed?”
“They laced the molasses.”
He pulls a small notepad from his pocket, clicks his pen. “Walk me through it. Start from the beginning.”
As a vet, this isn’t the first time I’m talking to law enforcement. For ranchers, animals aren’t just animals—they’re investments, reputations, livelihoods. I’ve been called in more than once when a prize horse went down under suspicious circumstances. Once a bay thoroughbred who’d just won big on the summer circuit, worth more than most folks’ homes. He dropped dead in his stall overnight, and the owner swore someone had poisoned him.
It took hours of bloodwork and combing through feed samples before I found the culprit—a tainted supplement laced with a drug.
I take a breath and force myself to replay it—the call from Cade, the smell in the feed trough, the froth at the bull’s mouth, the charcoal slurry that didn’t work. Hugh writes quickly, the scratch of his pen harsh in the quiet.
I shift my weight, boots scraping against crushed rock. “Sheriff, I’ve seen some bad cases in my time, but this ain’t one you can mistake. Stinks like hell if you get close—kerosene’s all over his muzzle, all down his throat. He didn’t just stumble into it. Somebody dosed him, made damn sure he swallowed it.”
Hugh’s pen scratches. “You sure?”
Cade gives him a hard look. “A bull don’t drink that on his own, Hugh. You know that. They’ll lick salt, they’ll nose through grain, but they don’t lap up kerosene unless somebody forces it on ’em. The burns in his mouth, the way he went down….”
The sheriff squints. “So, how the hell does a bull end up drinking kerosene?”
