“Your grandfather said he was the only bull on earth smarter than Tomás.”
Marisol smiled.
“That sounds like him.”
“Sentinel threw heavy calves on less feed.”
Paul looked toward Pen Seven.
“Why?”
Marisol opened the notebook and showed him the line.
Rosa 31 x Sentinel.
Paul read it.
Then looked sharply toward the bull.
“You think that’s one of his?”
“Notebook says Clay bought 417.”
Paul studied the sale tag.
“What does Clay’s registration say?”
“Sale sheet says commercial. No papers attached.”
“That hurts.”
“I know.”
“Could be anything.”
“I know.”
Paul looked at her.
“You’re still thinking about buying him.”
“Yes.”
Paul lowered his voice.
“Marisol, Ernesto knew cattle better than most men in this barn.”
She waited.
“He was also wrong sometimes.”
“I know.”
“Good.”
He handed back the notebook.
“Then do your own thinking.”
That was the kindest thing anyone had said to her since Ernesto died.
Not trust your grandfather.
Not forget your grandfather.
Think.
At 10:47, Lot 417 entered the auction ring.
The Hereford bull moved through the gate.
His left rear leg swung slightly outward.
Donnie Fay’s voice filled the barn.
“Big stout four-year-old Hereford bull here, gentlemen, eighteen-twenty on the scale, lots of body, lots of muscle, somebody put him to work.”
Nobody moved.
Donnie started high.
“One-forty a pound, one-forty, who’s got one-forty?”
Silence.
“One-thirty?”
Nothing.
“One-quarter?”
A few men looked down.
“One-ten?”
No paddle.
Donnie sighed theatrically.
“Ninety cents, boys. You’re not buying him for a photograph.”
A man near the front raised a paddle.
“Ninety, thank you.”
Another bid.
“Ninety-five.”
A third.
“One dollar.”
The first bidder shook his head.
Donnie searched.
“One-oh-five?”
Silence.
Marisol raised her paddle.
The barn changed.
Not dramatically.
Heads simply turned.
Donnie saw her.
“One-oh-five, young lady has one-oh-five.”
Somebody laughed softly.
Not cruel.
Surprised.
Donnie pointed.
“One-ten?”
Nothing.
Fifteen seconds.
Marisol thought she had him.
Then Gary Hendrick lifted a paddle.
“One-ten.”
Marisol looked at him.
Gary was not looking at the bull.
He was looking at her.
She understood immediately.
This had nothing to do with cattle.
Marisol raised.
“One-fifteen!”
Gary raised.
“One-twenty!”
Marisol.
“One-quarter!”
The cattlemen began paying attention.
Gary smiled faintly.
“One-thirty!”
Marisol checked nothing.
“One-thirty-five!”
Donnie’s rhythm accelerated.
Gary lifted again.
“One-forty!”
At 1,820 pounds, every nickel meant ninety-one dollars.
Marisol calculated automatically.
$2,548.
Still below maximum.
She raised.
“One-forty-five!”
Gary leaned back.
The barn quieted.
Paul Brewster lowered his coffee.
Curtis Harlan whispered to somebody beside him.
“What the hell is Hendrick doing?”
Gary did not own cattle.
Everybody knew that.
He had pasture temporarily on acquired development land, but he leased grazing to other people.
He did not need a Hereford bull.
Donnie pointed.
“One-fifty?”
Gary raised.
“One-fifty!”
Marisol calculated.
$2,730.
Her maximum $2,852 translated to slightly above $1.56 per pound.
One bid remained safe.
She raised the paddle.
“One-fifty-five!”
$2,821.
Exactly thirty-one dollars below her ceiling.
Donnie looked at Gary.
“One-sixty?”
Gary’s paddle remained in his hand.
He stared at Marisol.
Marisol stared back.
For the first time, something changed in his expression.
Until then, he had believed she was emotional.
Maybe stubborn.
Maybe trying to prove something because the ranch sale upset her.
But emotional bidders looked at the auctioneer.
They looked at the animal.
They looked at the crowd.
Marisol was looking at a number.
Gary saw the notebook.
He saw how calm she was.
And a man who had built his fortune by recognizing information gaps suddenly understood he was standing on the wrong side of one.
“What do you know?” he asked.
The auctioneer was still calling.
“One-sixty, one-sixty, anybody one-sixty?”
Marisol did not answer Gary.
Gary’s jaw tightened.
He could bid again.
Another ninety-one dollars.
Then another.
He had spent more than that on dinner.
But money was not the issue anymore.
If Marisol knew something, bidding blind gave her control.
Gary hated that.
His paddle lowered.
“Sold!”
Donnie slapped the block.
“Sold, one-fifty-five, bidder number forty-three.”
The barn erupted into conversation.
Marisol lowered her paddle.
She wrote:
$2,821.
Then beside it:
Under max by $31.
Paul saw.
He laughed.
“You had a stopping number.”
“Always.”
“Ernesto?”
“Mine.”
That answer pleased him more.
Gary intercepted her near the sale office.
“Marisol.”
She kept walking.
“I’m talking to you.”
She stopped.
Gary approached.
Up close, his ranch clothes looked even newer.
“You just paid breeding money for a lame bull.”
“Maybe.”
“You think that’s funny?”
“No.”
“What’s in the notebook?”
“My grandfather’s handwriting.”
Gary’s face tightened.
“I’m trying to keep you from making a mistake.”
“You bid against me.”
“I was showing you how auctions work.”
Marisol almost smiled.
“You stopped first.”
Gary’s expression hardened.
“You know your aunt and uncle are selling that property.”
“Yes.”
“You’re not going to save eighty-seven acres buying broken livestock.”
Marisol looked at him.
“Then why do you care?”
Gary stopped.
She continued.
“If the farm is already yours, and the bull is worthless, why spend almost three thousand dollars trying to keep me from buying him?”
“That isn’t what happened.”
“You had no use for him.”
Gary lowered his voice.
“You’re sixteen.”
“Yes.”
“You’re playing rancher with money you can’t afford to lose.”
Marisol’s grip tightened around her notebook.
She wanted to insult him.
Ernesto would have.
Then she remembered another line from Notebook Three:
When a man wants you angry, make him explain himself instead.
Marisol asked, “Why do you want the Vega farm?”
Gary smiled.
“Because I develop land.”
“Why that land?”
“It fits our project.”
“What project?”
“That is business.”
Marisol nodded.
“So is my notebook.”
She walked away.
Gary watched her go.
The bull arrived at the Vega farm that afternoon.
Marisol had arranged transportation through Luis Mendoza, owner of the feed store where she worked.
Luis thought she had lost her mind.
He said so repeatedly.
“You spent almost three thousand dollars on a bull everybody else rejected.”
“Yes.”
“With your own money.”
“Yes.”
“Your grandfather would haunt me if this goes badly.”
“He’d haunt me first.”
“That doesn’t help.”
Pen Seven stepped off the trailer.
The hitch remained.
Luis crouched.
He was not a veterinarian, but he had worked cattle for thirty years.
“Doesn’t look hip.”
“I don’t think so.”
“Foot?”
“I think outside toe.”
“You going to prove that with teenage confidence?”
“No.”
Marisol pulled out her phone.
“I called Dr. Keene.”