Page 139 of The Mountain Echoes

As I leave, I see Joy and Aria hugging. It does my heart good to see them together. The two women in my life, getting along, being supportive. I am a lucky son of a bitch.

Tomas insists on joining us.

“He wanted me to make sure everything went well,” he says, valiantly fighting tears. “He wanted me to take care of Aria.”

“Yeah!” I pat his shoulder, and we get on with it, albeit a little later than we’d planned.

Tomas and Zane are in the rig behind, following close.

There’s no music, no small talk. Just the hum of tires and the constant awareness that Earl’s not with us.

I check my phone. No messages. I’m going to assume that means everything is fine at Longhorn or as fine as it can be, considering the circumstances.

Aria’s with Bree, Joy, Nadine, and Vera. She doesn’t need words from me right now. Just the space to breathe and grieve.

When we hit the fairgrounds, the noise slams into us like a wall—cattle bawling, auctioneers calling bids over the loudspeakers, and ranchers and buyers moving like ants across the packed dirt, their boots sending up clouds of dust.

Zane meets me at the gate, jaw tight. “They’re expecting us in Pen 8. They held our spot.”

I nod.

“You good?” he asks.

I’m still reeling from the events of this morning, still not all here. But I shrug. “Gotta get to work, yeah?”

“Yeah. Don’t got time to mourn Earl,” he tells me flatly.

“He was a cowboy; he’d be the first one to say the work needs to go on.” Tomas tips his hat.

We unload the cattle.

Tomas handles the gates, double-checks tags, and makes sure the stress levels are low.

These animals know her voice, her hand. I can tell they’re unsettled without her. Hell, I am, too.

But damn, they look good.

Glossy coats. Even muscle. Calm, alert eyes. All her doing.

The first bids start flying by midmorning. Zane runs point on paperwork. Tomas checks buyers for brand inspection.

I take the back rail and brace myself.

The auctioneer announces, “Lot 312—Longhorn cattle, prime Angus-cross, dryland finished, rotational grazed. Clean certs, bred right, quiet-handled—who’ll start me at fifteen hundred?”

The bids snap like firecrackers.

Fifteen. Seventeen. Eighteen.

They keep climbing.

People are paying attention. Not just because the cattle look good, but because everyone here’s heard what happened at Longhorn.

They know Earl’s name.

They know what Aria’s been up against.

And they respect grit when they see it.