Chapter 28
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
Tex
It’s six in the evening. I’ve been sitting on the porch for an hour, throwing a tennis ball for Boone, watching the dust motes dance in the dying light.
I can’t take it anymore.
The waiting. The silence. The constant, low-grade buzz of anxiety vibrating under my skin.
I feel like a racehorse stuck in the starting gate, the doors locked shut.
If I sit here for one more minute, staring at the bunkhouse and wondering if Sedona is dying in there, I’m going to lose my mind.
I stand up. My joints pop. I stretch my arms over my head, feeling the muscles pull and snap.
“Seth,” I call out.
He’s at the picnic table, a ledger open in front of him, his brow furrowed as he tries to make sense of the inventory lists the CDC demanded.
He looks up, pushing his glasses up his nose. “Yeah?”
“I’m done lazing around,” I say. “I need to move. I want to get started on training for the rodeo.”
Seth blinks. “The rodeo? Tex, we’re in the middle of a biological crisis.”
“That’s exactly why. If I don’t do something productive with my hands, I’m going to punch a hole in the wall. Or a hazmat suit.”
Billy steps out of the house. He looks rough. His eyes are rimmed with red, his jaw dark with stubble. He’s been pacing the perimeter of the property like a caged wolf for hours.
He groans when he hears me. “Really? Now?”
“Yes, now,” I say. “We need a distraction. You need a distraction. Come on, Billy. You used to love roping.”
“Yeah,” he mutters, leaning against the railing. “My shoulder will hate me.”
“Your shoulder is fine,” I counter. “Stop making excuses.”
Seth closes the ledger with a snap. He looks between the two of us.
“Did you talk to Grant today, Seth?” I ask. “I tried calling him earlier, but it went to voicemail.”
Seth sighs. He rubs the back of his neck. “Yeah. I talked to him.”
“What’s the word?” Billy asks. His voice is tight. “What’s this about Tripp talking about the whole thing being canceled?”
Seth’s expression darkens. “Tripp Hollister is running his mouth to anyone who will listen. He’s telling the committee that the ranch is a biohazard. That the outbreak is ‘uncontained’ and ‘lethal.’ He’s pushing for a postponement. Or a relocation.”
“Relocation?” I scoff. “To where? The county fairgrounds? That place is a dump.”
“He wants it moved,” Seth says. “Or canceled entirely. He’s using the ‘safety of the community’ as his platform. It’s political maneuvering. He’s trying to make us look incompetent.”
“Son of a bitch,” Billy breathes.
“It gets worse,” Seth continues. “If this isn’t resolved soon—if we don’t get the all-clear in the next week—the sponsors might pull out.
The rodeo brings in a lot of money for the town, but fear is a powerful motivator.
If people think they’ll catch a flesh-eating bacteria by buying a ticket, they won’t come. ”
I feel a knot of anger tighten in my gut. This ranch is our life. Our legacy. And Tripp is using a freak accident to tear it down.
“So we practice,” I say firmly. “We show them we’re not dead yet. We get ready for that rodeo, and we win the damn thing. We show Tripp and everyone else that the Carsons are still standing.”
Billy looks at me. For a second, I see the fight in him. The need to punch something. To win.
“Fine,” he grunts. “But I’m heading. And if you rope me around the neck, I’m leaving you in the north pasture.”
“Deal.”
We walk toward the practice arena. The air is cooling, the heavy heat of the day lifting just enough to make it bearable.
The CDC team is packing up for the day, retreating to their white tents at the edge of the property. They give us a wide berth, looking at us like we’re walking petri dishes.
I grab the ropes from the tack room. The leather is familiar in my hands, worn and smooth. I coil the lariat, feeling the weight of it. It centers me.
We set up the dummy steer—a plastic head on a hay bale. It’s not the same as a live animal, but it’s safer. Less unpredictable.
I mount Bandit. He’s restless, feeling my tension. I pat his neck, murmuring to him.
“Easy, boy. Let’s work.”
I back him up, getting his hindquarters engaged. I swing the rope over my head. The loop hisses through the air.
I focus on the horns of the dummy, visualizing the catch.
I throw.
The rope settles perfectly around the horns.
“Hah!” I yell, jerking the slack.
It’s a good catch. Clean.
Billy is leaning on the fence, watching. He’s not smiling, but his shoulders are less rigid. He climbs over the rail and walks toward the chute where we keep the mechanical steer.
“You want a moving target?” he calls out. “I’ll run the machine.”
“Do it.”
The engine coughs and sputters to life. The mechanical steer jerks forward, dragging the rope behind it.
I nudge Bandit. We take off. The wind rushes past my face. The world narrows down to the rope, the target, the rhythm of the horse’s hooves.
I swing. I throw.
I miss.
The rope lands in the dirt. I curse, re-coiling.
“Your elbow dropped,” Billy shouts over the engine noise. “Keep it up!”
I turn Bandit around. We go again.
And again.
And again.
By the seventh run, my arm is burning. Sweat is dripping into my eyes. But I’m hitting the mark every time.
The frustration bleeds out of me with every throw. The fear of the parasite, the worry about Sedona, the anger at Tripp—it all fades into the background noise.
We practice for an hour. The sun dips below the horizon, leaving the sky a deep, inky blue.
Seth sits on the top rail, watching us. He’s not looking at the ledger anymore. He’s just watching his brothers work.
It feels almost normal. Like a normal Friday evening before everything went to hell.
I’m feeling good. I’m feeling like maybe we’re going to be okay.
Then the radio on Seth’s hip crackles to life.
It’s the shrill, static-filled sound of the CDC frequency.
“Carson residence. This is Dr. Thorne. Come in.”
Seth grabs the radio. “Go ahead, Dr. Thorne.”
“We have a situation. North pasture. We need extra hands. Your brothers. Now.”
I pull Bandit to a halt. The good feeling evaporates instantly.
“What is it?” Billy asks, wiping sweat from his forehead.
Seth’s face is pale in the twilight. “North pasture. They need help.”
Billy doesn’t hesitate. He vaults the fence and sprints toward the truck.
I slide off Bandit and hand the reins to Jasper, who has been lurking by the barn.
“Put him up,” I tell the kid. “Give him water.”
I run after Billy. Seth’s already in the driver’s seat, the engine roaring to life.
We tear down the dirt road, kicking up a cloud of dust. The headlights cut through the gloom. We pass the orange tape, the white tents, headed toward the isolation zone where the calves are kept.
We see the lights before we see the animals. A cluster of flashlights and work lights bobbing in the dark.
We jump out of the truck before it stops rolling.
The smell hits me first. The sharp, coppery tang of blood. And something else, something sour. Like rotting fruit.
“Over here!” a voice shouts.
It’s one of the CDC vets, Dr. Miller. He’s wearing a hazmat suit and kneeling in the dirt.
We run over.
It’s a calf. A little black angus. One of the ones we separated yesterday.
It’s on its side, legs kicking feebly at the air. Its eyes are wide, rolling back in its head. Foam froths at its mouth, tinged with pink.
“What happened?” Billy demands, dropping to his knees. He touches the calf’s neck. The fur is soaked with sweat.
“It started seizing about ten minutes ago,” Dr. Miller says. His voice is muffled, stressed. “Temperature spiked. We’re trying to cool it down.”
“Is it the parasite?” Seth asks.
“We don’t know. Probably.”
Dr. Thorne arrives, his faceplate reflecting the light. “Don’t touch it directly,” he commands. “Use the gloves.”
Billy ignores him. He grabs a bucket of water and pours it over the calf’s flank. The animal shudders, a violent spasm that rattles its whole frame.
“Hold it still!” Billy shouts.
I drop down beside him. I wrap my arms around the calf’s head, trying to keep it from thrashing. The muscles are rock hard, twitching uncontrollably.
It’s hot. Unnaturally hot. Like holding a piece of the sun.
“It’s burning up,” I grit out.
“Get the ice packs!” Dr. Miller yells to a technician.
We work in a frenzy. We pack ice around the neck and groin. We pour water. We check the airways to make sure it doesn’t choke on its own tongue.
The calf lets out a low, mournful bellow. It’s a sound of pure pain. It cuts right through me.
I look at Billy. His jaw is clenched so tight I can see the muscle jumping. His hands are steady, checking the pulse, the breathing. But his eyes are wild.
“Come on,” Billy mutters to the animal. “Stay with me. Fight it.”
The calf stares at me. Its eyes are brown, liquid, terrified. I see the life in them. The will to survive.
And then, I see it fade.
The kicking slows. The body relaxes, but not in relief. In surrender.
The breathing hitches. Gurgles.
Then stops.
“No,” Billy says. He slaps the flank. “Breathe. Damn you, breathe.”
Dr. Miller leans in with a stethoscope. He listens for ten seconds. He pulls back.
He shakes his head.
“Time of death, 7:42 p.m.,” he says quietly.
Billy’s hands freeze on the wet fur. He stares at the still body. The silence is deafening.
I sit back on my heels, my hands covered in mud and calf sweat.
Dead.
We lose calves sometimes. It happens. But not like this. Not foaming at the mouth. Not burning up from the inside.
This was violent. This was wrong.
Dr. Thorne steps forward. He signals to two men in hazmat suits. “Bag it. Get it to the lab. I want a full necropsy immediately.”
They move in with a black body bag, pushing Billy aside. He stands up, stumbling back.
He looks at his hands. They’re trembling.
I stand up too. I feel shaky. Hollowed out.
I look at the other calves in the pen. They’re huddled in the corner, eyes wide, watching us. They know. Animals always know.