The herd settles into the fresh pasture like they've always been there.
That's the thing about cattle—they don't hold grudges about being moved. They just put their heads down and eat.
I could learn something from that.
The hands break off toward the bunkhouse. Water, shade, fifteen minutes before the next job.
Blaze waves the prospects toward fence repair on the north line—keep them busy, keep them earning.
Spur dismounts slowly, favoring that leg, and leads the sorrel back toward the barn without looking at anyone because Spur doesn't acknowledge pain in public. He never has. Probably never will.
I lean against the fence rail and watch the land do what it does when the work is done.
Everything goes still, goes quiet, goes back to being a hundred thousand acres of dirt that doesn't care about club politics or territorial threats or the president's personal problems.
But the dirt has ears. And those bikes on 112 have been scratching at the back of my skull for a week.
Blaze catches my eye from across the corral and tips his head toward his truck.
I push off the rail and walk over.
He's already got the tailgate down, pouring coffee from a thermos that's older than my youngest daughter. "We need to talk about those bikers."
"We do."
"Banshee ran the route again last night. Same stretch of 112. Didn't see anything, but there were fresh tire marks at the pulloff near the east fence. Someone's been stopping there."
"Looking at what?"
"The ranch. What else is there to look at?"
He's right. That stretch of 112 runs parallel to our east boundary for about four miles.
Nothing out there but our fence line, our cattle, and a whole lot of Texas.
If someone's pulling off the road to stop, they're looking at us.
"Tell Banshee to set up a rotation. Eyes on that pulloff at night. I want to know who they are before they know we're watching."
Blaze nods and takes a drink of his coffee. "You think it's connected to the Copperhead Kings going down?"
"Everything's connected to the Copperhead Kings going down. The power vacuum doesn't stay empty."
"It could be nothing."
"Could be." I look out at the herd settling into the fresh pasture, heads down, already grazing like they didn't just get pushed half a mile in ninety-degree heat. "But I'd rather know it's nothing than assume it is."
Blaze nods, screws the cap back on the thermos, and our conversation is over.
He's got his orders, I've got my concerns, and the ranch doesn't stop moving because the president's worried about unfamiliar bikes.
I check my phone and there’s a text from Grace in our family chat:
Diner at 8? Dakota's buying.
Below it, a reply from Dakota:
The hell I am.
