After several seconds, he said:
“That stuff seeds late August.”
She stopped.
He knew what she was fighting.
She looked toward him.
“How do you know?”
“I’ve seen it before.”
“Where?”
“South county.”
“Bad?”
“Bad enough.”
The rancher looked at the plants.
“Your goats better finish before seed set.”
There was something different in his voice.
Not mockery.
Warning.
The young farmer nodded.
“I know.”
He walked back toward the truck.
Before entering, he added:
“If you lose control of it, call.”
She stared.
“For what?”
“I've got sprayers.”
She nodded.
“Thank you.”
He drove away.
That evening she found herself irritated.
She preferred him arrogant.
Arrogant people were easy.
Useful people complicated resentment.
August heat arrived.
The pasture changed faster.
Where goats had passed, grass began returning.
Not everywhere.
Some patches remained bare.
Some had thistles goats only partly damaged.
Some woody stems resprouted.
But the broadleaf canopy declined.
The young farmer took photographs from the same locations every week.
She measured grass height.
Recorded goat days per acre.
Tracked rainfall.
The county range specialist returned.
He walked one treated section.
Then an untreated section.
Then back.
The farmer watched his face.
“Well?”
He crouched.
Pulled back grass.
“Better than I expected.”
She smiled.
“How much better?”
“Don't get excited.”
“Too late.”
He pointed toward resprouting weeds.
“You need second pressure here.”
“Some species need repeated defoliation.”
“And after goats leave?”
“Overseed thin areas.”
“Manage cattle timing.”
“Maybe targeted spray on survivors.”
She nodded.
“That I can afford.”
He smiled.
“That's the point.”
Then he walked toward the southern fence.
Stopped.
His expression changed.
“What?”
the farmer asked.
He knelt beside several mature plants the goats had not yet reached.
Seed heads.
He broke one open.
Tiny seeds fell into his palm.
“How close are you to grazing this section?”
“Four days.”
“Make it two.”
“Why?”
“We’re entering seed set.”
The farmer looked toward the neighboring rancher’s hay fields.
Wind moved west to east.
“Will it cross?”
“It doesn't need permission.”
“How far?”
“Depends on weather.”
He stood.
“We need to move.”
She did.
For the next two days, the farm became organized panic.
Temporary fencing moved ahead of schedule.
Water trough relocated.
Goats shifted into the southern paddock.
The plants were taller there.
Some reached the young farmer’s chest.
The goats attacked them.
Not delicately.
Leaves disappeared.
Flowering tops stripped.
Seed heads chewed.
Several animals stood on hind legs to pull plants down.
The farmer watched.
Forty-eight animals looked insignificant against forty-seven acres.
Then she remembered that pasture management happened one mouthful at a time.
The wealthy rancher’s son drove past that afternoon.
Stopped.
Watched.
The young farmer walked toward the fence.
“You reporting back?”
He smiled.