Sold.
The older rancher had been laughing ever since.
“You know what's wrong with girls like you?” he asked, leaning close enough that she could smell coffee on his breath. “You think watching a few ranch videos makes you a cattlewoman.”
She looked directly into his eyes.
“I didn't buy them because I thought it would be easy.”
“No,” he said. “You bought them because you don't know any better.”
He snatched the receipt from her fingers.
Before she could react, he crumpled it into a little ball and tossed it toward the filthy straw beneath the railing.
Then he gave her shoulder a rough shove.
She stumbled backward half a step.
The cattlemen laughed.
“Go home, little girl,” the rancher said. “Leave ranching to people who know what they're doing.”
For the first time, something changed in her expression.
Not fear.
Not embarrassment.
Something colder.
She glanced down at the receipt lying beside the fence.
Then she bent, picked it up, and carefully unfolded it.
“I'll need that,” she said quietly.
The rancher grinned.
“For what? Your bankruptcy records?”
She smoothed the paper against her palm.
“For proof of ownership.”
His smile widened.
“Well, congratulations. You officially own ninety dead cows.”
She looked past him toward the calves.
One of the smallest animals had pushed its nose between the rails. Its breathing was rough, and mucus glistened beneath its nostrils.
But when she extended her hand, the calf lifted its head.
Its eyes were alert.
It sniffed her fingers.
And when she gently scratched the short hair between its ears, it leaned toward her touch.
The young woman noticed something.
Something none of the laughing men seemed interested in seeing.
She had arrived at the auction expecting to purchase a few inexpensive calves.
She had not expected to leave with ninety.
But she also had not expected to recognize a pattern she had seen before.
The rancher folded his arms.
“What's the matter? Already picking out which one to bury first?”
She did not answer.
Instead, she reached into her jacket and pulled out a small battered notebook.
Its cover was cracked, its corners softened by years of use, and its pages were filled with careful handwritten observations.
She opened it to a section marked with a faded blue ribbon.
Then she looked at the animals again.
The way they stood.
The way they breathed.
The way their eyes followed movement despite their exhausted appearance.
The way some calves coughed harder whenever dust rose from the packed straw.