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“They all look cheap when they belong to somebody else.”

“Buy him and solve that.”

He laughed, but he shook his head.

The auctioneer turned to the back bidder.

Nineteen thousand once.

The man held his number.

Nineteen thousand twice.

Josie’s fingers tightened on the papers.

Earl coughed.

The left side of my shirt stuck damply to my ribs. My shoulder throbbed in time with my heartbeat, but everything in me had narrowed to the ring, the bull, the bidder who’d quit, and the half-second gaps inside the auctioneer’s chant.

Then a new hand went up along the far wall.

Nineteen-five.

Noise cracked through the barn. Not polite applause this time. Boots struck dirt. Somebody whistled. Lot 14 jerked his head at the sound, and Boone stepped nearer, steadying him.

The back bidder hesitated.

For one strange second, nobody breathed.

The auctioneer asked for twenty.

The bidder folded his sale book.

Sold.

Nineteen thousand five hundred dollars.

The far wall. Deshler outfit, up from Sheridan, three trailers in our drive since seven that morning.

The gavel struck wood.

The barn broke open.

I yelled with everybody else. Couldn’t help it. I grabbed the rail with both hands, regretted the left one instantly, and turned the resulting grimace into a grin before Wyatt could see.

He saw.

Of course he did.

But his face had changed. Not much. Wyatt didn’t contain a great range of public weather. The strain around his mouth had eased, and he looked at Lot 14 as Boone led him out of the ring.

Best sale in four years.

Dad should’ve been there.

***

By the time the last buyers headed for their trucks, the barn had gone strangely quiet. Outside, diesel engines started along the gravel drive. Trailer doors clanged. Bulls bawled from the load-out pens, deep calls rolling over the creek bottom.