Page 2

I slide a needle into 14C’s jugular and draw blood. It fills the tube the color of dark chocolate.

Luis makes a rough sound behind me. “Is that bad?”

“It means she isn’t moving oxygen right. It doesn’t tell me why yet.”

I take a second sample, then water from the tank and the hydrant into separate sealed containers. If the poison is in the tank, the difference will show. If it’s in the hydrant, this ranch has a much larger problem.

Cole crouches on the far side of 14C, outside the arc of her legs. “What can I do?”

“Hold the line between her shoulder and the fence. If she surges up, give her room. Don’t try to be stronger than a cow.”

“I’ve met cows.”

“Then you know they don’t care how impressive your shoulders are.”

The corner of his mouth moves. Not quite a smile. The possibility of one.

I shouldn’t notice. I have six cattle on the ground and a dead one close enough that the flies are already working the corners of her eyes. I notice anyway. I notice his forearms, and the scar across one knuckle, and the fact that he watches my hands instead of my chest while I set the catheter.

I start the antidote slowly. Within a few minutes the frantic edge leaves her breathing. It isn’t much, but it’s real.

“Good girl,” I murmur. “Stay with me.”

“You carry that drug on every call?” Cole asks.

“Cattle specialize in creative ways to die at inconvenient hours.”

Luis comes back with a clear plastic envelope. “This was clipped inside the trailer.”

I strip my gloves and take it by the edges. An interstate health certificate. Origin in Oklahoma, destination Barbed Crown Ranch, Texas. Twenty-four breeding cattle.

Examining veterinarian: Dr. Sofia Rios.

My practice name. My license number. The blocky version of my signature I use on electronic records. I’m not licensed in Oklahoma. I have never seen these cattle in my life.

For one second, the pasture narrows.

Cole rises. “What’s wrong?”

“I didn’t sign this.”

Luis goes pale beneath his tan. “You were the number on the page.”

“I believe you.” I pull my tablet from my bag and open my records. The certificate number on the paper is real. It belongs to six Charolais bulls I examined outside Laredo in January and shipped to Louisiana. Different owner, different animals, different everything. Same number.

I turn the screen toward Cole. “They copied a real number from my files.”

His attention sharpens. “Who had access?”

“My software company. The client. State systems.” I hesitate. “Maybe my former employer, if he kept access he wasn’t supposed to keep.”

I hate it as soon as I say it. I hate that Warren Vale can walk into a morning that has nothing to do with him and make me feel twenty-nine again, standing in his office while he explained that integrity was a luxury for vets with rich fathers.

Cole catches whatever my face does. “Name.”

“Not yet. A list of people who could have seen a number isn’t evidence that one of them forged this.”

“It’s a place to start.”