Page 135 of The Mountain Echoes

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It’s the day of the auction, and I’m hyped. I wake up with a spring in my step.

“Mornin’.” Earl steps in beside me with a cigarette in one hand and a checklist in the other.

“You know those things are gonna kill you?”

He holds up the cigarette. “This? Nah! You know what they say.”

I grimace, brace for whatever pithy nonsense he wants to impart early in the freaking morning. “What do they say?”

“That bein’ healthy is just the longest way to die.”

That brings a chuckle out of me. “Let’s get movin’, old man. We’re tagging the last group. We keep back any underweight or limping.”

He studies me, eyes narrowing. ”Where’s that beau of yours?”

I burst out laughing. “Beau?”

“Well, I ain’t callin’ him your boyfriend, that’s all kinds of wrong ‘cause Mav’s a man, not a boy.”

I’m still shaking with laughter when I tell him Maverick went back to Kincaid Farms to check on a few things before he comes back and spends the day with us, as part of our team. He’s not selling or buying at Gunnison, but he’s coming along for me, for Longhorn.

Tomas is in the pens already, moving the cattle into sorting lanes. Nadine is helping him. She glances up and gives me a nod. I nod back.

“First trailer leaves at five,” I remind them. “We’ve staggered the hauls, mapped the unloading lanes, and scheduled the auction check-in with an hour buffer.”

Earl runs his palm over a slick hide, checking for swelling. “Del Rio came through with the second trailer.”

“Yep. Vera dropped off a big batch of lemon squares for him.”

“That’ll keep the deal solid,” Earl says with a smirk.

We work in rhythm.

I run through the feed checklist, double-check the ration amounts, and confirm the final mineral drench schedule. Dr. Sarah Kirk has been out already—checking temps, eyes, joints. She even came back a second time on her own dime after I told her about the audit scare.

It’s all lining up.

“It’s lookin’ good, boss.” Tomas sounds almost gleeful as we pass each other near the feed bins.

“Yeah, it is.”

We start tagging the next group, careful not to stress the cattle too much. I adjust the chute. Tomas wrangles astubborn steer, cursing under his breath but gentle with the rope.

I take a long breath, eyes scanning the hills, watching the sunrise cut through the mist. I feel the pressure of it—my father’s legacy, the ranch’s future, the scars of the past. Heavy it may be, but it isn’t a burden.

The buzz of activity builds as the sun climbs. Tomas runs a dry rag over his saddle horn, humming. Earl heads to the trailer with the clipboard, muttering about the last round of checks.

“I’m gonna walk the hauler,” he tells me. “Make sure the rig’s sound before we start.”

“You sure?” I call out. “We already checked the coupler and brakes last night.”

“I don’t trust things that should be double-checked,” he grumbles, already stomping toward the Del Rio trailer, parked and gleaming in the yard.

I give Tomas a look. He shrugs. “You know how he is.”

I smile faintly and keep moving.