Spur's at the corral gate, saddling a big sorrel gelding that doesn't want to cooperate.
He's patient with it. Talks low, keeps his hands steady, doesn't fight the horse's energy but doesn't back down from it either.
Former bull rider. The kind of patience that comes from learning the hard way that fighting a thousand-pound animal is a losing proposition.
His leg's bothering him today. I can see it in the way he mounts, the half-second hesitation before he swings up. He'd die before admitting it.
And then there's the intern.
She's already at the south pasture gate.
Not standing around waiting for instructions like most of the college kids we get—she'sworking.
Checking the gate latch, scanning the fence line for weak spots, positioning herself where she'll be useful when the herd starts moving.
She's wearing work boots that have actually seen work, jeans that aren't for show, and a ball cap pulled low over her face.
I've had my eye on this one since she showed up four days ago.
Presley Hutchins. Texas A&M, Animal Science.
Summer internship application that was better than most graduate-level work I've seen.
References from her department chair and two separate FFA advisors who both used the wordexceptional.
She's exceptional. I'll give her that.
The way she reads a herd is unnatural for someone her age.
Yesterday I watched her move a stubborn heifer out of a drainage ditch without raising her voice or her hands. Just body position, patience, and an instinct for the animal's pressure points that you can't learn from a textbook.
Blaze noticed it too. Told me after: "That girl's got more cow sense than half the hands on payroll."
Something about her nags at me.
Not in a bad way—in the way a word nags at you when it's on the tip of your tongue and you can't quite reach it.
Something familiar that I can't place.
The way she sets her jaw when she's concentrating.
The way she plants her feet. Solid, like she's daring the ground to move.
I've been telling myself it's because she's good at her job and I respect competence.
That's probably true.
But there's something else underneath it that I can't name, and I don't have the patience for things I can't name.
The herd moves without incident.
Three hundred head through the gate, Blaze and Spur on horseback flanking, the hands pushing from behind. The intern is in the thick of it—dusty, sweating, grinning like a kid at Christmas when the last cow clears the fence.
She catches me watching and the grin disappears, replaced by something more careful.
Professional. Like she remembered who I am and adjusted accordingly.
Smart kid.
