Chapter 21
cade
Dodge and I are at the fence line, watching my bulls move slowly through the pasture.
Something’s wrong.
They’re eating, but half-hearted, muzzles dragging through the feed. Their hides ought to gleam this time of year, but that’s not the case.
And Thunder—my prize bull, the one I dropped a small fortune on—ain’t right.
He paces near the far rail, thick-necked and restless, but every so often, he stops, droops his head, and licks his nose like a calf that can’t get comfortable.
A bull like him should be throwing his weight around, not looking off like some cull steer.
“It’s not just him,” Dodge mutters, tipping his hat toward a pair of heifers by the trough. One’s ears are sagging, drool hanging thick from her muzzle. The other shifts weight from foot to foot, tail swishing like she can’t settle.
I catch it too—their manure’s looser than it ought to be. Calves stand listless instead of bucking like spring grass should make them.
It’s been a full day of this, and I’m nervous as hell. A bad batch of feed can run through a herd like wildfire. Miss the early signs, and before long, you’ve got bloated bellies, down cattle, and vet bills stacked higher than hay bales.
Dodge scratches his jaw, voice low. “Cade, if we don’t get someone to lay eyes on ‘em soon, we’re liable to lose more than shine.”
That’s when I pull out my phone and make the call I’ve been dreading.
Thirty minutes later, Bodie’s old Ford rattles up the gravel road, dust spitting in the evening light, followed by Sam’s old truck. Bodie climbs out, tipping his hat. Sarah steps from hers and joins him.
Tension tightens deep in me.
She’s so damn beautiful. Hazel-green eyes bright, and something about her pulls at me like always.
“Evenin’,” Bodie says, easy as ever. “So, what’s wrong?”
He was here two days ago with his new assistant—nice guy, Gilbert Perry. Everything was fine then.
“They’re not eating,” I start, jaw tight. “Pickin’ at the feed, pushing it around like it’s sawdust.”
Sarah lifts a stylus and starts jotting notes on her phone.
“Coats gone dull,” Dodge adds.
I nod toward Thunder. “He keeps droppin’ his head, lickin’ his nose like he can’t settle. That ain’t Thunder.”
“Loose manure,” Dodge continues grimly. “Not just one or two—a whole bunch.”
“A couple of heifers are droopin’ their ears.” I wave in the direction of the animals. “You know that look—they’re tellin’ us they don’t feel right.”
“Pasture’s like a churchyard,” Dodge mutters. “They should be bawlin’ for feed, kickin’ up their heels. Instead, they’re standin’ around waitin’ on somethin’.”
Bodie’s smile fades. He studies the herd from the fence, hat brim low. “Maybe it’s stress—the weather’s been swingin’. Cold, then hot. Cattle hate that.”
“Stress don’t make a whole herd go dull-eyed,” I grunt.
We walk the line slow. Bodie squints into the pasture and points at a cow standing apart, tail limp. “That one looks a touch dehydrated. Might need electrolytes in the water. Could be nothin’.”
I crouch near the trough, studying trampled manure. “Looser than it oughta be. More than one pile, too.”
Bodie kneels, scoops a bit with a stick, and sniffs. “Thin, but I’ve seen worse after a cold snap. Could clear up in a day or two.”
“Could,” I echo, not buying it.
Sarah steps to the rail, opens the gate, and then walks straight toward Thunder.
The big bull shifts, tossing his head, but she moves calmly and deliberately. “Easy, boy. I’m not here to hurt you.” She lays a hand on his muzzle like only someone who knows cattle dares. With her other, she pulls out a small stethoscope.
“See Thunder’s ears?” she says over her shoulder. “Not pricked—drooping. He’s licking his nose too often. Early sign of toxicity. That heifer by the trough—loose manure, not just nerves. Feed’s the first place I’d look.”
She crouches at Thunder’s flank, listens, moves, listens again.
“Gut sounds are sluggish. He’s uncomfortable, but not colicking.
Heart rate’s a touch elevated.” She wipes a thermometer with alcohol and slips it in.
Thunder flicks his tail, shifts; she pats his side until he steadies.
She checks the temp and frowns slightly. “Normal temp. That’s good. But….”
“But?” I press as I join her.
“If this is what I think….” She straightens. “Monensin. Early signs are subtle before it hits the heart muscle.”
“The fuck?” I turn to Bodie. “You hear that?”
Bodie nods, cautious. “Could be. Could also be a hot ration or mold somewhere.”
Sarah doesn’t back down. “If it were one or two, I’d agree. But you’ve got half a dozen with drooping ears, three hanging back instead of pushing to the bunk. Thunder’s pacing because he’s queasy. Watch him when he stops—he shifts off his front feet.”
“Rumen acidosis?” Bodie offers.
She shakes her head. “Manure’s loose, not foamy. No belly-kicking or teeth-grinding. If it were acidosis, you’d see pain. This is systemic, affecting the entire organization. Something they’re all eating.”
Bodie gives my bull a measured look. “What would you suggest, Sarah?”
“Pull ‘em off grain. Straight hay a week. Fresh water at all times. Get feed samples to the lab today. Watch Thunder close. Bulls can show later, but once they do, it hits fast.”
Bodie lets out a breath, studying her. “You talk like you’ve seen it.”
“I have. Montana. Bad supplement load—monensin dosed wrong. Took two weeks to figure out. They lost ten head before changing feed.”
I stand there with my fists in my pockets, watching like it’s déjà vu—Sam Kirk’s ghost at the rail, telling me his girl was born for this work.
“Feed contamination’s the first thing I’d rule out.” Sarah’s eyes stay on Thunder. “In the right dose, monensin helps efficiency. In the wrong one, it guts a herd from the inside out.”
Heat flares in me. “We’ve fed the same ration all spring. I know my operation.”
“Then something changed without you knowing,” she counters evenly. “Moldy silage. A hot load of supplement. I’ll pull samples. Until then, get them off grain. Hay, clean water. Watch ‘em.”
I bristle, but Bodie nods. “She’s right. Sometimes it’s subtle. Easy to miss.”
“How would monensin get in the feed? We don’t use it.” I cut Sarah a look. “Never have. My old man hated it—said a good cow don’t need crutches. We finish on grass and rolled corn.”
She rolls her eyes. “I don’t know how it got in, cowboy. But it…or something did. Your fancy Angus ain’t squirting water if he’s just on grass and rolled corn.”
Bodie lifts a brow, glancing between us. “She’s not wrong. Cattle don’t crash for no reason.”
“May I take care of your bull now?” Sarah asks, eyes flashing, daring me to say no.
I glance at Bodie. He hooks his thumbs in his belt, mouth twitching. “She knows what she’s doin’, Cade. Better’n me.”
I grind my molars and jerk my chin at Dodge. He’s already slipping the halter on Thunder. The bull shifts, hooves grinding dirt. Sarah checks his eye membranes, then draws up a syringe.
“What the hell’s that?” I move toward her.
“Fluids and electrolytes,” she says, tapping the barrel of the syringe.
“You sure?” I don’t know why I’m being such an asshole.
“Cade, do you really think I’d hurt an animal?” she asks softly, holding my gaze, challenging me.
I throw my hands. “If something happens to him, I’m gonna—”
“Stop with the threats, cowboy, and let me do my job,” she snaps, swabbing Thunder’s neck and sliding the needle in smooth. The bull flicks an ear but doesn’t fight.
“Good boy,” she murmurs, rubbing his neck. Then she reaches for a bolus gun from her kit. “Activated charcoal. If there’s toxin, we bind it and move it out.”
Thunder tosses his head; I steady him. Sarah doses him quickly.
She steps back, wiping her hands. “That buys us time till results come in.” Her gaze lands on me. “And don’t second-guess me when your future’s standing on four legs in front of us.”
Thunder snorts, swings his head, looking better already. Or maybe it’s her confidence working on him…and me.
“I’ll take samples.” She pulls bags from her kit. “Feed, water, manure. Lab today.” She glances at me. “In the meantime—strip the grain.”
“I heard you the first time,” I hurl at her.
She cocks an eyebrow. “You seem like someone who needs to hear it twice.”
She scoops manure into a bag, seals it, and labels it with the date and ‘Thunder’.
“We’ll run the fecal.” She yanks off a glove. “If it’s parasites, we’ll know. If it’s a toxin, that’ll show, too. Manure tells the story cattle don’t.”
“I know that.” It comes out harsh. She’s pushing my buttons without even trying. ‘Cause she’s just doing her job while I’m acting like a fool.
Dodge works his toothpick, smirking. Bodie’s by his truck, scrolling his phone that was buzzing angrily a few minutes ago. I’m pretty sure he’s smirking, too.
Bodie waves. “Gotta go—got a colic at Proctor’s.”
He’s handing me off to Sarah. Great.
“Thanks for coming quick,” I tell him.
“Thank Dr. K. She’s the one savin’ your Angus…and your ass.” He’s laughing as he climbs into his truck.
Dodge barks out a laugh.
I shoot him a look. “Make yourself useful and get Dr. K hay and water samples.”
“Yes, boss,” he says, grinning wide.
We have a whole situation, and the asshole is amused. That’s when the seriousness of what’s happening lands like a weight. “Hell. If this is feed contamination—”
“Then you caught it early,” Sarah interjects quietly. “If you hadn’t, Thunder’d be down.”
I look at my bull—tossing his head, then sagging like he’s carrying more than muscle.
Sarah jots notes on her phone. “I emailed instructions to your ranch account.” She looks at me wearily.
“Pull every cow off the mixed ration today—no grain, no silage, just clean grass hay. Give them fresh water, and scrub the troughs if there’s any algae.
Add electrolytes. Check manure twice a day and log any loose animals.
If anyone spikes a fever, call me. Thunder—watch his heart rate and breathing.
If he goes off feed or starts to stagger, we’re tubing fluids. ”
She swipes another note. “Tomorrow I’ll bring rumen buffers—baking soda and magnesium oxide. If symptoms don’t ease, we’ll mix it in the water. No antibiotics till we know what we’re dealing with. The last thing we need is to mask signs before the labs come back.”
She tucks her phone away. “Do all that, and we’ve got a good shot at containing this.”
She’s all business—no gloating. Somehow, that annoys me more, and I have to curb it so as not to go off the handle. I got no reason to.
“Look…thanks. I’m sorry for—”
“I get it. He’s your future. You can’t roll the dice with him.”
She’s right—Thunder and his calves will shape Blue Rock for years. If something happens to him, I might as well torch that very big check I wrote to acquire him.
Thunder bellows, pawing dirt, just a little more like himself. My panic eases. “He looks better.”
“Calcium and fluids kicking in.” She studies Thunder. “Gut’s moving more. Not a cure, but it buys time.”
She turns toward her truck. I hate needing her eyes to see what I missed. I hate owing her. I hate that I like having her here.
“Thanks for coming, Sarah.” I shove my hands in my pockets, feeling gauche.
“Just doin’ my job, Cade.”
“I know, but….”
She studies me a beat. “You’re welcome.”
“You…ah…you wanna come in for a cup of—” What the hell am I doing inviting her in?
Her eyes flash panic. “No, thank you.”
I glance at the house, and it lands—that’s the house where she and Landon….
I’m still processing when tires crunch up the drive.
Noelle Dunn slides out of her shiny Tesla like she’s on a runway—glossed lips, too-tight jeans.
Fuck me sideways. I don’t got time for this!
“There you are,” she calls. “Daddy said your Angus is having trouble. I told him I’d check in.” Sweet as fake honey.
Check in? Like she knows anything about cattle. I was a fool to let her into my life. I’d rather be celibate than be with her.
Before I can shut it down, she spots Sarah climbing into her truck. “Well, well.” Noelle folds her arms, smile sharp. “Didn’t know you were hiring disgraced vets, Cade. How desperate are you?”
“I’ll have the samples to the lab first thing and will call as soon as I know anything,” Sarah says evenly. Then she starts her truck and drives off.
Her dignity, in contrast to Noelle’s lack of decency, makes me ache.
“Noelle,” I snap. “That was uncalled for.”
She blinks, all innocence. “What? I was just—”
“You were being nasty. Don’t talk to her—or anyone—like that.” My tone brooks no argument.
It’s hypocritical as hell. I’ve said plenty to Sarah, like I’ve got some special right to be cruel while no one else does.
“She’s poison, Cade. Everybody knows it.”
Christ. I’m the reason people think that. My fault. Even if she’d lied, I could’ve ended things like a man. Instead, I climbed on a high horse and trampled her. And now…if she told the truth? What does that make me?
“Cade,” Noelle purrs.
My patience snaps like old, barbed wire.
“I’m done.”
“Done with what?” she asks, bewildered.
“Us.”
Her painted nails skim up my shirt. “You don’t mean that. You’ve been lonely. I can fix that.” She leans in. “You know I can.”
Maybe the old me would’ve let her, taken the easy way out. But the second she touches me, my stomach turns. I can’t be with her. Not with Sarah under my skin since the minute she came back.
I step out of Noelle’s reach. “Don’t. We are done.”
“Why?” Anger brims in her eyes.
Hell, she isn’t hurt…well, her ego is, but that’s all.
“Daddy will be so disappointed. He thought we were—”
“Lyle knows I’ll still help him out. That’s what we do around here. But, Noelle, you and me? We’re not right.”
“We are, too,” she says like she’s five. And there it is—how wrong we are. She’s twenty-seven, talking like a teenager.
“Noelle. I’m sorry, but this is over. I gotta focus on my ranch and my kid.”
Her eyes flash, and her pout turns mean. “I did you a favor letting you be seen with me.”
I lift my brows.
Damn girl, that’s the best you got?
“You should be grateful I’m your girlfriend. Men would kill to have me.”
“Then you should find one who will,” I remark calmly. “I ain’t him.”
She realizes she’s stepped in it, spins on her heel, mutters a curse, and tears out.
I head back toward the barn to check the herd. And while I’m at it, I stop lying to myself.
I never got over Sarah Kirk. Not when she left. Not when I married Jeanine. Not ever.
And I have no idea what to do about it.