I was in the saddle before the sun had even thought about breaking the horizon. Twist and I moved like a single shadow toward the south pasture, gathering the seasoned herd with the kind of silent efficiency that only comes from years of working the same dirt. By the time the rest of the ranch was pouring their first coffee, I had the "old pros" tucked into the pens and was already striking out for the west.
By midday, the Texas heat was a physical weight. My Wrangler shirt was soaked through, sticking to my skin in all the wrong places. I pulled it off, stuffing the sweat-damp denim into my saddlebag and riding in my sports bra. It wasn't about vanity; it was about survival.
When we reached the creek, I let Twist wade deep into the shaded water. I used my shirt as a makeshift sponge, wiping the grime and salt from my skin before dunking the whole thing back into the cold current. I squeezed the water over my head, letting the runoff soak my short hair and the thighs of my jeans.
I was heading back toward the pens when one of the hands, a veteran named Gabe, rode up alongside me. He didn't even blink at my lack of a shirt—out here, work was work.
"Need some water, boss?" he asked, tossing a cold bottle my way.
"Always," I said, draining the whole thing in one go.
The peace didn't last. A bull—a mean, high-headed brute who was one bad day away from a bucking string—decided he didn't like Gabe's horse. He charged. I didn't think; I just acted. I spurred Twist into the bull's flank, knocking him off balance before dropping a loop over his head. I ran him in a punishingly tight circle, asserting dominance until he realized I wasn't an option to mess with.
"Go check the north herd," Grandpa's voice crackled over the radio later. "It'll take us two days to finish this bunch. See what we're looking at for tomorrow."
"Copy that," I muttered.
I was back at the north creek, trying to steal another moment of cool water, when the rhythm of hoofbeats caught my ear. Two identical horses, carrying two very identical riders, crested the hill.
Colt and Cash.
They had ditched their shirts, too. I couldn't help but notice the way the sun caught the sweat on their chests, the narrow trails of dark hair disappearing into the waistbands of their dusty jeans.
"Mind if we join you?" Cash asked—the thinner one, his voice a half-step higher than his brother's.
"Don't care," I said, keeping my eyes on Twist's ears as I wet my shirt down again. I used the damp fabric to cool my horse's neck, acutely aware of them dismounting nearby.
"Do you mind the company, ma'am?" Colt asked, his deeper baritone vibrating in the quiet air.
"I'm used to it," I said, though my heart gave a traitorous little thump. I led Twist to a flat rock, using the height to swing back into the saddle. I whistled to them, a sharp command. "If you're coming, keep up. These are the crazies."
We found the north herd, but the vibe was wrong. Usually, this bunch was high-strung and loud. Today, they were eerie.
The first bad sign was a small, still shape in the tall grass. I dismounted, my stomach dropping. A stillborn calf. Premature. I roped it by the heels and dragged it far downwind of the herd—nature's law was cruel, but I wouldn't let the scent of death spook the others.
Then, I heard the bawl. It wasn't a call for a calf; it was a scream of agony.
I found the cow on her side, her flanks heaving. I tied her to a nearby mesquite tree to keep her from thrashing and knelt in the dirt. "Mayday," I barked into the radio. "Grandpa, I've got a bad birth in the north pasture. Get the vet to the chutes. Now."
I reached in, my breath catching as I felt the unnatural heat and the wrongness of the anatomy. "Mother of ick," I whispered, finding the tiny, slick hooves. I yanked, but she was too tight.
"Need help?" Colt was off his horse, kneeling in the dirt beside me.
"Grab these heels," I told him, handing him my rope. "I think... I think it's inside out."
We pulled together. The sound of tearing flesh made my stomach turn. When the calf finally came away, it was a nightmare—dead, premature, and malformed.
"What is that?" Colt asked, his face pale under his tan.
"A disaster," I said, my voice shaking with adrenaline. I reached back in, my hand hitting a second set of heels. "Twins. And another premie. Something is wrong with this herd, Colt. We need to get every single one of these girls to the chutes before we lose the whole crop."
Cash rode up, his face grim as he looked at the blood on our hands. "Axel and the hands are coming. We'll move 'em now."
I looked at the twins—the city-boy rodeo stars—and saw the grit in their eyes. They weren't just here for the paycheck anymore. They were in the fight with me.
The transition from the wild, blood-soaked pasture to the sudden silence of the ranch house felt like stepping into a different world.
The head ranch hand met us at the cattle guard, his truck lights cutting through the darkness like twin spears. He hopped out, his face grim as he scanned the small herd we'd driven in—a mix of struggling mamas and the adrenaline-fueled twins, both of them covered in the same grime and sweat as I was.
"The vet's on his way," he said, his eyes lingering on the cow tied to the back of the trailer. "I hope you were right about these cows, Camellia. If it's something contagious..."
He didn't finish the sentence, but the implication hung heavy in the air.
"Me too," I whispered, my voice raspy.
By the time the vet arrived, and the long, grueling work of assessment began, the clock had pushed past midnight. I was moving on pure, mechanical instinct. Every muscle in my body ached, a deep, bone-weary exhaustion that made the world feel like it was vibrating.
Grandpa finally walked over, his eyes softening as he looked at my blood-spattered clothes. "Go to the house, Cam. We've got the rest of it. That's an order."
I didn't argue. I didn't have the breath for it.
I spent the final hour of my shift in the barn, ensuring Twist was cooled down and comfortable. I brushed him until his dapple-grey coat felt soft under my calloused hands, whispering quiet thanks into his mane. When I was sure he had enough hay and water, I finally turned toward the house.
The kitchen was dark, save for the hum of the refrigerator. I moved like a ghost, grabbing a plate of leftovers and a glass of water, barely tasting the food before I made it to the bathroom. The hot shower was the first luxury I'd had in sixteen hours; it washed away the copper smell of the pasture and the grit of the North herd, but it couldn't wash away the feeling of those small, still lives lost in the grass.
I didn't bother changing into pajamas. I collapsed onto my bed, the familiar comfort of my own room pulling me under before my head even hit the pillow. The last thing I remembered was the sound of distant engines—the vet leaving, the hands heading to the bunkhouse—and the terrifying, silent question of what tomorrow would bring.