Which, of course, it didn’t.
The animals had no idea anyone had called them worthless.
They did not know they had cost fourteen dollars and fifty cents each.
They did not know half the county had laughed.
They had simply spent the summer doing what goats did when given access to the kind of plants they preferred.
Browsing.
Stripping leaves.
Chewing seed heads.
Standing on their hind legs to drag down stems cattle would not touch.
The older rancher turned toward the young woman.
His face had changed.
Not dramatically.
He was not suddenly ashamed of everything he had said.
Men like him rarely transformed because one expert held up a weed.
But certainty had left his expression.
That was something.
He pointed toward the herd.
“How many?”
The young farmer narrowed her eyes.
“How many what?”
“Goats.”
“You’ve been counting them every time you drive past.”
His son looked away to hide a smile.
The rancher ignored him.
“How many?”
“Forty-seven now.”
“I thought you bought forty-eight.”
“One died.”
The farmer’s voice flattened slightly.
The specialist glanced toward her but said nothing.
The rancher noticed the change.
For once, he did not make a joke.
“What happened?”
“Parasite load was worse than we caught in time.”
He nodded.
Livestock loss was one language both understood.
Then he looked at the goats again.
“You really paid fourteen fifty?”
“Average purchase price, yes.”
“Not counting commission.”
“No.”
“Hauling.”
“No.”
“Minerals.”
“No.”
“Fence.”
“No.”
“Vet.”
“No.”
The rancher almost smiled.
“So they aren't fourteen-dollar goats anymore.”
The young farmer smiled back.
“There he is.”
Several neighbors laughed.
The rancher shook his head.
“I’m serious.”
“So am I.”
She leaned one forearm against the fence post.
“They were cheap to buy.”
“That’s different from cheap to manage.”
“Exactly.”
The specialist smiled.
The auctioneer, who had driven out after hearing about the strange pasture, called from behind them.
“So my fourteen-fifty headline is dead?”
The young farmer looked over her shoulder.
“It was dead before you opened your mouth.”
More laughter.
Even the older rancher smiled this time.
Then the specialist handed him the weed stalk.
“Your real concern is timing.”
The rancher’s expression sharpened again.
“What do you recommend?”
“Walk your downwind boundary.”
“Today.”
“If you find flowering plants, flag them.”
“If they’re isolated, remove them.”
“If you’ve got an established patch, then we talk treatment.”
The rancher nodded toward the goats.
“What about those?”
The specialist looked at the young farmer.
“Her animals.”
“Ask her.”
The rancher’s eyes moved back.
A strange silence followed.
Everyone seemed to understand the irony before the words were spoken.
The same man who had spent months calling the herd auction trash was about to ask whether they could work on his property.