Later, I promise myself. Tonight, I’ll show her.
I ease the Mustang through the gate and up the long driveway toward a weathered ranch house surrounded by outbuildings. The property is sprawling with acres of pasture, a big red barn, various animal pens scattered across the landscape. Movement catches my eye near the back of the house, and I spot a figure in the distance.
I park near the main house and kill the engine. The sudden silence feels heavy after the rumble of the motor.
“Ready to meet your old friend?” I ask.
June takes a breath. “As ready as I’ll ever be.”
We climb out of the car, and I round to her side, taking her hand automatically. Her fingers lace through mine, and the simple gesture warms me.
“This way,” I state, leading her around the side of the house. “When I called Farmer Crawford earlier, he said Brutus is usually in the back pasture this time of day.”
“What if he’s out?” She’s scanning the area nervously. “What if he’s escaped again?”
“Then you run inside and I deal with him.”
“That’s not comforting, Kai.”
“Wasn’t meant to be, doll.”
She laughs despite herself, squeezing my hand.
We round the corner and find Farmer Crawford near a vegetable garden, watering some crops with a hose. He’s an older guy, maybe sixty, with sun-weathered skin and a trucker cap pulled low over his eyes.
“Hey there!” I call out. “Appreciate you letting us come by.”
He straightens up, nodding in greeting. “Brutus is back that way, grazing behind the fence.” He gestures toward a large paddock about fifty yards away. “Head on up, and I’ll join you in a minute.”
June and I make our way toward the paddock, and I spot him immediately.
Brutus is huge, even bigger than I remembered from our terrifying encounter on the road. Black as midnight, with a chest like a barrel and horns that could impale a man without effort. He’s grazing near the far side of the enclosure, seemingly peaceful, but the moment we get close, his head snaps up.
His nostrils flare. His hooves stamp the ground. A low snort escapes him, a warning.
“Yep,” June says quietly. “Doesn’t look like he’s happy to see us.”
I step closer to the fence, keeping my movements slow and deliberate. I’ve worked with bulls my entire career. I know their body language, their signals, the subtle cues that tell you when they’re about to charge versus when they’re just posturing.
“Easy, boy,” I murmur, using the same calm tone I use in the arena. “Nobody’s here to hurt you.”
Brutus eyes me with what can only be described as contempt. Another snort. Another stamp.
And then, slowly, he starts moving toward us.
My heart rate picks up, but I hold my ground. This is what I wanted, to see him up close, to get a read on him before I have to climb onto his back in front of thousands of people.
But Brutus doesn’t come to me.
He walks right past the section of fence where I’m standing and moves instead toward June.
She freezes.
“Hold still,” I say, watching, fascinated, as Brutus stops directly in front of her. He tilts his head, nostrils flaring as he inhales the air. His demeanor has changed, the aggression fading into something almost… curious.
June takes a tentative step closer to the fence. “Hey, Brutus.” Her voice is soft, gentle. “Do you remember me? Because I remember you.”
Brutus lowers his head. A soft sound escapes him, not a snort, but something gentler. Almost a huff.
