Page 60 of Captive

“Your contract authorizes necessary vet care. She moves when the vet says she can travel.”

“I heard your ranch is turning away cattle and hiding dead ones in a quarantine pen.”

There are several ways to make him regret that sentence. I know all of them. None of them would slow the bleeding.

“Three dead cows from the first load are in state custody with paperwork,” I say. “Your heifer is in a separate barn. Dr. Rios is treating a tear from the delivery. You’ll get her exam, her treatment, and her travel recommendation in writing.”

“Put Garrett on.”

“Garrett’s handling the receiving closure. I can take a question for Dr. Rios that doesn’t interrupt her hands.”

A long pause while he figures out I haven’t threatened his breeding slot or his deposit or his reputation.

“How bad is it?” he asks.

Across the rail, Sofia cleans the tear while a barn hand keeps the calf behind a panel at its mother’s shoulder. The heifer shifts, then settles when the calf pushes its nose through the bars and calls for her.

“Limited low tear,” Sofia says, without looking up. “Nothing deeper. Bleeding’s controlled with pressure. She needs a repair before she moves.”

I repeat it to Eaves word for word. Nothing else is mine to add.

“Put her on,” he says.

“She’s stitching. I won’t interrupt that so you can ask her if she’s stitching.”

“That heifer’s worth more than most trucks,” he says finally.

“Then waiting till morning is cheap.”

He hangs up with less satisfaction than either of us deserves. The heifer stays overnight. Nobody raised their voice.

When she comes out of the barn, stripping her gloves, she doesn’t go to the cart. She comes and stands beside my chair and looks back through the rail at the heifer and her calf, nose to nose.

“I heard you on the phone,” she says.

“I didn’t threaten him.”

“I know. I heard that too.” She’s quiet a second. “You used to, didn’t you. Threaten people. For Russell.”

“Yes.”

“He was scared about his heifer. And rude. And you didn’t.”

“He was scared about his heifer,” I say. “You told me once you don’t get to be stronger than a cow. I figured it probably applies to owners.”

She makes a sound that isn’t quite a laugh. Then she puts her hand on top of my head, just for a second, like she’s checking I’m warm, and walks toward the kitchen.

* * *

By seven-forty, the crew kitchen holds six cooling enchiladas, two bowls of beans, and Sofia at the end of the table with the Vale schedule open next to her plate. She’s washed and changed again. There’s a green grease-pencil mark across the back of her left hand, three medication times written on her skin.

“Food,” I say.

“I’m aware of the concept.”

“Demonstrate.”

She takes a bite without looking up. Her blue pencil rolls toward the edge of the table. I stop it with two fingers, find the cap beside her water glass, snap it on, and set the pencil above her papers.