Chapter 4 - Sierra
I am absolutely not game.
My legs are shaking, my arms ache from waving them around for the past hour, and I'm pretty sure I just breathed in at least a pound of dust. But Wade is watching me with those sharp brown eyes, clearly waiting for me to fold, and I will walk into a pen full of angry bulls before I give him that satisfaction.
"Show me what to do," I say, hoping my voice sounds steadier than I feel.
Mason jumps down from the fence with the kind of easy athleticism that comes from years of physical work. "We'll start with the vaccinations. Wade will hold the calf steady, I'll administer the shot, and you'll mark which ones we've done. Simple."
Simple. Right. Because nothing about the past hour has suggested any of this is simple.
Wade leads a calf into a narrow chute that holds it in place. Not tightly, but enough that it can't thrash around.
"It's okay, baby," I murmur without thinking. "It'll be quick."
"They're livestock, not puppies," Wade says, but his voice is less sharp than before. "Don't get attached."
"I'm not getting attached. I'm being compassionate. There's a difference." I move closer, watching as Mason prepares the syringe. "What are we vaccinating for?"
"This round is for respiratory disease and clostridial infections," Mason explains, swabbing the calf's neck. "We do it in stages as they grow. Some at birth, some at weaning, some now. Keeps them healthy, reduces loss."
"Loss meaning death?"
"Yeah." He administers the shot quickly, and the calf barely reacts. "Ranching's not for the faint of heart. You lose animals sometimes, no matter how careful you are. Disease, predators, accidents, difficult births. It's part of reality."
Wade releases the calf, and it bounds away to rejoin its mother in the adjacent pen. I mark it on the chart Mason hands me—number 127, vaccination complete.
"Next," Wade says.
We fall into a rhythm. Wade secures the calf, Mason vaccinates, I mark the chart. Occasionally Mason points out something—a calf that's smaller than it should be, one with early signs of illness that we'll need to monitor, one that's particularly strong and healthy. I try to absorb everything, writing quick notes in the margins of the chart.
By the twentieth calf, my hand is cramping from gripping the pen. By the thirtieth, I've stopped noticing the smell. By the fortieth and final one, I'm running on pure stubbornness and what's left of my morning coffee.
"All done," Mason announces, putting away the vaccination supplies. "Good job, Sierra. You kept up."
"Barely," I admit, flexing my sore hand.
"Better than some people I've worked with." He glances at Wade. "Remember that college kid who came out here for a summer internship? Lasted two days."
"He was useless," Wade says, stripping off his gloves. "Spent more time on his phone than working."
"Not everyone's cut out for this life." Mason starts loading equipment back into his truck. "But you did alright today."
The praise, coming from Mason's matter-of-fact delivery, means more than it probably should. I'm twenty-six years old and feel ridiculously pleased that I impressed a ranch hand with my ability to mark a chart and not faint around cattle.
But I'll take the win.
"What's next?" I ask, even though what I really want is a shower, food, and possibly a nap.
Wade looks at me, and I swear I see something like respect flicker across his face before his expression hardens again. "Lunch. Then afternoon chores if you're still standing."
"I'm still standing."
"For now."
We walk back toward the main house, Colt peeling off toward the stables and Mason heading to his truck to return the vaccination supplies. That leaves me alone with Wade.
I should probably say something professional. Thank him for the opportunity to learn, maybe, or ask intelligent questions about cattle management. Instead, what comes out is: "Your horse is beautiful."
