Smoke irritation leaves a signature if you know how to hear it. Subtle, uneven, not deep enough to panic over, but not something you ignore either.
Red stands a few feet back, arms crossed, scar cutting down one side of his face catching the sun. He doesn’t crowd. Never does. Red gives animals and people the same courtesy: space unless invited closer.
“How’s she sound?” he asks.
“Upper airway congestion,” I say immediately. “Not wet. No rattle. Breathing’s fast but steady. She’s compensating, which tells me we caught it early.”
I pull the stethoscope free and reach for her lower lip, lifting it gently to check gum color. Pink. Healthy. Capillary refill solid.
“Smoke irritation more than infection,” I continue. “I’ll give her an anti-inflammatory and keep her hydrated. If she spikes a fever or starts coughing, we reassess. But she’s not going downhill.”
Red nods once.
It’s a small thing, that nod. But from him, it’s worth more than a dozen thank-yous.
Emmett wanders over from the barn, grin bright, hair sticking up because he forgot mirrors exist. He’s got a feed scoop in one hand and optimism radiating off him like heat.
“You look tired,” he says.
I glance at him without missing a beat as I reach for the syringe. “You ever thought about becoming a diagnostician?”
He squints. “Is that a real job or one of your fake doctor words?”
“Very real,” I say, flicking the syringe to clear air bubbles. “Pays poorly in Dusty Spur.”
“Hard pass.”
Willy snorts. “Kid wouldn’t last a week. He’d apologize to the cows for pokin’ ’em.”
Emmett looks genuinely wounded. “I do apologize to the cows.”
“That explains everything,” Red mutters.
I administer the injection clean and quick, barely earning a flinch from the heifer. She settles almost immediately, sides easing as the pressure in her lungs starts to loosen.
“Good girl,” I murmur, giving her flank a firm pat before stepping back. “You’re gonna feel better soon. Don’t make a liar outta me.”
I step out of the chute and jot notes in my pocket journal. Dosage, symptoms, and follow-up window, because memory is useful, but documentation is safer.
My back pops when I straighten, loud enough that Willy winces in sympathy.
“Fire crews say the land’s still stressed,” he says, more serious now. “Animals too.”
“No kidding,” I reply. “Stress hormones hang around. They mess with immunity, appetite, and healing times. We’ll see ripple effects for weeks.”
“Even with the rain?” Emmett asks.
“Especially with the rain,” I say. “Bodies don’t reset just because the danger passes.”
That thought lands hard.
Abilene.
She’s been lodged in my head, a loose splinter since the cabin. Showing up in the pauses between heartbeats. In the moments when my hands know what to do but my mind drifts somewhere softer.
I’ve even been writing about her.
Which is deeply unsettling.
