Page 3 of Branded

The altered-brand heifer stayed in her original group. That matters. A correction made honestly can still erase an animal’s earlier identity if nobody keeps both halves of the story.

Garrett returns my letter. “Counsel confirmed the contract. He also confirmed my father kept it outside the ranch files.”

“That sounds like a conversation for someone who can answer.”

“You came onto my property before daylight, walked into active pens, and started photographing livestock under a contract nobody here knew existed.”

“I arrived when the schedule told me to. Your employee tried to send me toward the office and the editable records.”

“You think my records are being altered.”

“I think all records can be altered. It’s one of their defining qualities.” I peel off one glove. “Your father paid me to match the physical cattle against his paperwork. So far I have one altered-looking brand, one empty tag hole, and a pen move that needed correcting. None of that proves theft.”

“But you think they belong together.”

“I haven’t earned that conclusion yet.”

Something in his face eases. Ease may be an ambitious word for a man who seems built around closed gates. “Finish the group.”

He doesn’t leave. He props one shoulder against a post outside the alley and watches me work.

I’ve been watched by owners before. Usually it’s the look of a man waiting for me to make a mistake he can put in a letter. This is different. He watches my hands, the angle of my light, the way I write before I move, and he doesn’t say a word.

“Are you going to supervise?” I ask without looking up.

“I’m going to learn.”

That surprises me enough that I glance over. He’s serious. His eyes are on the heifer I’m photographing, not on me, and there’s a line between his brows like he’s trying to see what I see.

“The hair over the new bar is shorter,” I say, before I decide to. “It hasn’t grown back to match. Six weeks, maybe eight.”

He looks for a long moment. Then he nods, once. “I’ve walked past that heifer twice this morning.”

“Most people would.”

“I’m not most people. It’s my barn.”

The way he says it isn’t a boast. It sounds like a man realizing he’s been robbed in his own house.

Travis Mott arrives when I’m on animal nineteen. He’s in his fifties, with a pressed shirt and boots that haven’t touched a receiving pen this morning. His smile lands on everyone equally, which means it belongs to the job.

“Ms. Rowe. We didn’t expect you in the yard.”

“The schedule says opening inventory.”

“We could have printed everything in the office.”

“I’m sure you could.”

Garrett’s attention sharpens. “You knew about the audit?”

“I knew Calvin was reviewing inventory. Calvin reviewed everything.”

“That isn’t what I asked.”

Mott looks toward the cattle. “No. I didn’t know he hired her.”

The answer arrives half a beat late. Timing isn’t evidence, but I file it anyway.