Page 78 of The Mountain Echoes

Butthey have the same protective walls, the same combination of vulnerability and strength, and equallybig chips on their shoulders. Elena has been losing hers since she and Duke got married, but Aria still carries a big one that comes from being the exiled child.

Aria looks over Elena’s shoulder at the catalog. “What are you showin’?”

Elena brightens. “A pair of bred heifers and three bulls. One of them is out of Smoke Jumper.”

“The one that placed second at the National Western?” Aria’s eyes widen.

Elena arches an eyebrow. “Thought you lived in California?”

Aria looks sheepish. “Well, I read the livestock news…aggressively.”

Elena chuckles, clearly pleased with Aria. “He’s throwing good bone and calm eyes. Solid conformation.”

“That’s what you want when you’re building bloodlines,” Aria muses.

I’m impressed with Aria. I didn’t expect her to know quite so much or be so engaged. She might not have been in Longhorn for a decade, but she remembers the rhythm.

We find seats on the bleachers for the auction.

Aria’s excited—kid in a candy store excited. Didn’t expect that either.

The energy in the ring sharpens as a Wilder bull enters with Hunt holding its lead. A handler from the auction program flanks the other side.

The animal moves elegantly—dark red hide, thick-necked, wide-backed, muscles stacked clean down to the hock. You don’t need a pedigree chart when the genetics walk in looking like that.

“That’s Lot 24,” Elena murmurs for Aria’s benefit. “Bull calf, fifteen months, sired by Smoke Jumper and out of a proven dam from Cascade Creek Ranch.”

Bids fly fast and hot, like a dry lightning storm.

The auctioneer’s voice rattles through the speakers in that rhythmic, almost hypnotic cadence. “Five thousand—five-five, can I get six, six, now six-five, lookin’ for seven—yes sir, seven in the back—seven—five, seven-five, who’s got eight?”

A tall man in a dark felt hat—Wyoming brand on his coat—jerks his chin up from the second tier of the bleachers.

The auctioneer nods. “Eight thousand! That’s eight in the second row. Can I get eight five?”

A woman from New Mexico’s Landera Creek Ranch, wearing turquoise earrings and boots polished like glass, lifts her bidder’s card with two fingers.

The auctioneer’s tone rises—each number a hammer strike, building tension. “Eight five! Now nine! Nine in the back! Who’s got nine five?”

The crowd tightens around the edges of the ring. Eyes narrow. Some folks nod at the bull like they’re blessing it.

Others just want to see blood.

This bull isn’t just meat and muscle—it’s pedigree, promise, potential. This is the type of animal that redefines herds and starts legacies.

“Ten thousand! I got ten on the rail—lookin’ for ten five!”

I raise my hand once.

The spotters call it in with a whistle and a finger snap.

The auctioneer doesn’t miss a beat. “Ten five from Kincaid Farms! Do I hear eleven? Eleven thousand!”

Wyoming man’s jaw twitches, but he doesn’t move. New Mexico lady hesitates just long enough for me to know she’s out of rope.

“Goin’ once….”

The auctioneer pauses. The crowd stills.