Page 5

Lot 14 tossed his head. Boone slowed him with the smallest shift in his body.

Josie stood just outside the ring gate with the health papers held against her chest. Her eyes had gone wide. When she caught me looking, she pressed her lips together, trying to keep her professional face in place.

It almost worked.

Eighteen thousand was good.

Eighteen thousand was damn good.

Wyatt turned one page in his book without looking down.

The auctioneer called for eighteen-five.

Nobody moved.

He called again, stretching the chant, looking toward the aisle buyer. The man stared at Lot 14. He wanted him. I could see the calculation—haul distance, feed cost, what his cows needed, what his wife had likely told him not to spend.

His hand shifted.

Stopped.

The bidder at the back leaned over to say something to the man beside him.

The auctioneer worked the room.

I kept my mouth shut.

That was the trick nobody credited me with. Talking was easy. Knowing when not to talk took practice.

Lot 14 planted his hind feet. Dust settled over his polished hooves. Boone waited beside him, broad and quiet.

The aisle buyer lifted one finger.

Eighteen-five.

Applause broke out too early and died when the back bidder answered.

Nineteen.

My pulse hit hard once.

The best individual price we’d seen in four years sat in the ring, wearing tag fourteen and trying to chew the corner of a display banner.

The auctioneer asked for nineteen-five.

The aisle buyer took off his cap. Scratched his head. Put it back on.

No.

The auctioneer kept at him.

The bidder looked toward Wyatt, as if my brother might offer absolution, a payment plan, or a free second bull. Wyatt gave him pale gray eyes and nothing else.

“No?” I asked the buyer.

“Plenty high.”

“He’ll look cheap when his calves hit the ground.”