Chapter 6 Cal
Cal
By the time I arrive at the leased pasture where Donna’s grazing her herd, she and Wes have sorted the infected cows and their calves into a temporary corral of heavy steel panels.
Setting up a temporary pen, makeshift alley, and squeeze chute is physically demanding, but takes less time and is easier on the infected cows than herding them back home.
Besides, these cows have already been pastured at Donna’s ranch this season, so the grass is too low. She’d have to supplement their feed—which is expensive—if she wants to keep her organic label.
The familiar smell of manure and hide greets me as I grab my antibiotic kit from the back of my truck and hurry to the pen.
A quick count confirms only a couple dozen of Donna’s hundred-head herd need treatment.
For now, anyway. Once IBK—pinkeye—is in a herd, it doesn’t stroll—it runs. Flies do the legwork.
We haven’t had rain for a couple months. My eyes water from the dust, and the flies grow thicker the closer I get to the pen.
“This all of them?” I ask Donna when I reach the gate she leans on.
“I hope so.” Donna says in a resigned breath.
“Bennett and the folks are checking ours,” Wes says from where he’s perched on the top rung of the alley. “I’ll help you get started, then I’d better head to our place. Hope you’ve got enough meds for ours, too.”
I nod. “Hope none of ours need it.”
I scan the penned cows, then point. “Bring me the red and her calf. We'll treat the worst first.”
Wes jumps off the fence, and he and Donna go to work, pushing the cow and her calf toward the alley and into the head squeeze.
As soon as the chute clangs shut, immobilizing her head and separating her from her calf, the docile cow comes alive.
She hits the side panel with her shoulder and bawls almost as loud as Junie when she can’t find her favorite stuffie.
I lean in just long enough to confirm my fears. One eye pinched nearly closed. Tears cut clean tracks through the dust on her face. The cornea is faintly milky at the edge. “SQ is the best treatment for her,” I say to Donna.
Her mouth tightens, the way it always does when antibiotics are the only solution. “That means she’s out of organic.”
“Yeah. And she keeps her eye.” I grab a syringe from my case, tent a fold of loose hide high on her neck and slide the needle under it. In and out. Clean and fast.
A commitment to raising stock that can be sold as organic isn’t only about avoiding steroids, pesticide-contaminated food, and antibiotics. It’s about giving the animals a good, healthy life, free of disease and free to roam.
“Mark her tag,” I call to Wes over the noise of the chute opening to release the cow, then closing again once her calf is inside.
I cap the used syringe, grab a new one, and inject the calf, all within about thirty seconds.
By the time Wes releases the calf to join it’s mother, Donna’s got the next pairs in the alley.
My brothers and I—Cassidy, too—have done this sort of thing with the Stevens and our parents since we were kids.
IBK is a constant worry when dust is high and flies swarm like a plague.
If Hayes were here, we’d talk while we worked.
He’s all energy, but somehow that translates to a presence around animals that immediately sets them at ease.
Wes moves fast and efficiently, but with a tight, firstborn energy that doesn’t leave much room for joking around when there’s work to be done.
Only focus. The animals pick up on that vibe and are restless, but they recognize Wes is the Alpha.
They’re not uncooperative, but they shift their feet and bellow uneasily as he guides them into the chute.
I get it. I don’t have a problem taking direction from people, except when it comes to Wes.
We’re barely a year apart, but he’ll always be my big brother.
And most of the time he’s my best friend, no matter how much I buck against him telling me what to do.
In a situation like this, though, the fact we’ve spent most of our lives together works in our favor.
We move in rhythm with each other on instinct. No words needed.
After an hour or so passes, we’ve made a lot of progress, but we need a break, and so do the cows. I know Wes senses it too when he doesn’t send another cow through the alley to the chute.
He takes off his hat and wipes sweat from his forehead with the back of his arm. “I’ll water the alley. If we can keep the dust down and the flies off, maybe we’ll slow the spread.”
“You read my mind.”
“I’ve got sodas in the truck,” Donna calls from the corral with the untreated cows before heading across the pasture to where her Chevy is parked.
While Wes drags the hose off the tank trailer to give the alley a quick soak, I lead the cow I just treated with ointment instead of antibiotic into the pen we’ve created for the animals with less serious IBK.
After shutting her in, I stretch to my full height and straighten the kinks out of my back and neck.
“I’d better head home to help there,” Wes says walking to me.
“The rest will be okay with ointment. We can handle it.”
I pull my phone from my back pocket. I keep it on silent when I’m working. Don’t want any noises startling skittish animals.
“Careful.”
I bristle at Wes’s warning tone. We’ve all had to replace a phone or two after dropping it around animals and having it stepped on. But cleaning a phone after it’s landed in manure is even worse.
Doesn’t mean I need my brother to treat me like a kid.
“Just checking on Junie.”
“And Frankie Forsythe?” His mouth quirks in a way that pushes my mild bristling to quilling like a porcupine.
“Just Frankie, actually. She’s the one with the phone. And Junie doesn’t know how to text yet.”
I’m not taking his bait. He gave me the same stupid grin when I’d told him Frankie was watching Junie. I’d pretended not to hear him when he said, “’Bout time you used the single dad angle. Your looks aren’t going to attract any ladies.”
I prepare to ignore any more of his comments while I scroll to the text from Frankie. When I open it, the words punch me hard enough to stop my breath.
Recognized at Merry’s. Viral video. At Flo’s in the back with Junie.
For a beat, the pen noise falls away—the bawling, the metal, the dust—and all I hear is my own pulse, too loud and too fast.
Wes glances at me like he’s done all morning between cows, but his big brother air shifts from bossy to protective. “What is it?”
“Frankie’s in trouble.” I push call and head toward my truck.
“What kind of trouble? Is Junie okay?” Wes’s stride matches mine, and we walk side-by-side.
“Not sure about the trouble, but she'd say if there was something with Junie.”
Frankie answers on the first ring, and I stop. Just hearing her voice settles my nerves.
“What happened?” I ask.
“Junie’s fine,” she answers.
“I figured. What about you, though?” I press the phone closer and give Wes a reassuring nod.
His shoulders drop slightly and he steps back to give me space. Donna’s brow creases with a question as she crosses the pasture carrying three Cokes.
“Yeah, nah. I’ll be fine,” Frankie says with a confidence I don’t buy. “We’ll be fine. I get a bit paranoid when stuff like this happens. I didn’t want anyone following me to your house.”
“Makes sense.”
“I didn’t mean to derail your day, but I think Junie’s safest here until someone can pick her up.”
In the background, Junie cries, “I want you to play at my house!”
I glance at Wes whose eyes narrow with concern that morphs into understanding. “Go.” He tips his head toward Donna. “We can handle it.”
I nod my thanks then tell Frankie, “I’m on my way.”
I don’t bother packing up my kit. Wes can bring it to me. He’ll need the ointment in it.
My tires kick up enough dust as I peel out, that a fine layer of it clings to my truck long after I’m on the main road.
My speed creeps way over the limit, and I formulate a story that’s enough of the truth to not be an all-out lie in case a cop pulls me over.
Then I formulate a plan for what to do when I get to Flo’s and secondary plans for any other emergency that might pop up.
Usually planning calms me down. This time, though, my plans don’t ease my worry. I know how to help animals and how to keep Junie safe, but I don’t know how to protect Frankie from being found. There’s no antibiotic or vaccine for that. No seatbelt or booster seat.
But, whatever the answer, I intend on finding it. Anyone wanting to do Frankie harm—emotionally or physically—will have to go through me first.