I shrug. “Frank thought so.”
“Not that it matters. Mostly eat from cans anyway.”
“I can do better than that.”
He tugs at his beard, deep in contemplation.
“Enough about you. What do I get out of this arrangement?” I ask.
“Help you desperately need not enough?” he grumbles.
“You came out here because of the bull. Can Mags… canyoumake that stop?”
After a long pause, his turquoise eyes meet mine, swirling with some unknown energy. “Dunno.”
“Frank said you people—” my voice drops to a whisper, “you Wildbloods have ways of making things work out here, making the mountains behave.”
“Had.” His Adam’s apple works. “Wildbloods.” He shakes his head, face scrunching. “What else you know aboutthem?”
He asks like he’s not one. Now I’m confused.
“Sorry, I didn’t mean it in a bad way,” I apologize.
“Didn’t you, though… Wakefield?” The last syllables are a curse.
I straighten, wondering how deep his story runs. “Not a fan of my family?” I ask.
“Not a fan of humanity.”
The words land between us, heavy, inexplicable.
“Huh,” I finally say to break the silence.
He stares at the wall, expression suddenly morose.
“How about the field? Can you protect my crops?”
He shrugs.
“You’re not really selling your services here.”
He stands too suddenly, and my face burns.
“I should go.”
“Did I say something wrong?”
“There ain’t enough money in the world that could tie me to this ranch… tothisland.”
“This land?” I counter. “You say that like something’s different here. Like you already know why I spent the morning at the café asking around. Then made calls only to find out nobody, not one other rancher experienced anything strange this past week.”
“You put the call into Mags, then?” he asks almost fiercely.
I shudder, sitting back. “Yes, there a problem with that?”
“Only that things like this circulate through small towns for years, decades even,” he answers in dark tones.
“Why my land? And only my land?”
