North Country(62)

Chapter 21





Logan




“What do you figure you’ll set the red dog number at?” my father asks Jon, leaning against the gate, a Colt burning between his fingertips. I emerged from my place after showering the day’s dirt and sweat off to find them here, pondering a nearby pasture where this year’s calves graze with their mothers. Most of them have lost their reddish-brown coat that mark them as this year’s births.

“Based on what I’ve seen …” Jon hums, his mouth downcast in deep thought. “I’m thinking ninety-two.” He holds up his index finger. “But that’s unofficial.”

I shake my head. “Mom told me you guys place bets on spring calves, but I thought she was kidding.”

“Jon takes his herd management very seriously,” my father says with a small smile. I can’t read his tone. Is he impressed or amused by my brother-in-law’s efforts?

“So, what, you just hang out in the fields and watch bison fuck all summer?” I say wryly. The whole process is one hundred percent natural, thank God, not like Uncle Wyatt’s cows, with rubber gloves and semen straws. All we need to do is put them in the right pastures during mating season and keep the bulls separated.

“And on here.” Jon holds up his iPad, which displays various feeds from the cameras they’ve set up around the property to keep an eye on the herd.

My father chuckles. “It’s a nice thing to look forward to after a long winter. Pool’s gotten big over the years with your cousins and uncles throwing in, plus a few market regulars. Egan won this year.”

I frown. “The three-year-old?”

“Sarah fronted him the cash.” Jon smiles sheepishly, but it falls off as quickly. “Mulligan’s coming near the end of the month for the annual checkup. I’ll set the number before then. But we need to start planning, Holt.”

“Move over half a million pounds of wild animal that doesn’t want anything to do with us or being told where to go through corrals and chutes? No, I haven’t forgotten,” Dad mutters. “You know, my life was a hell of a lot easier before my daughter married. Sometimes I miss when there were only eighty of them.”

“It’ll be nothing. We’ve got Logan to help out.” Jon drops a hand on my shoulder.

I struggle not to stiffen, but it’s impossible. “Can’t wait.” It’s been a long time since I helped move a herd, and I imagine Dad’s not exaggerating about how much more complicated it is now. Wyatt and Jack usually come to help.

“Are you guys about done staring at grass?” Mom hollers from the back door. “Turkey needs carving.”

“That’s my cue.” Dad pulls away from the fence.

And I guess that’s ours to follow.

I steal a glance next door, and my heart skips a beat. Emery’s SUV is parked outside. It wasn’t there when I came in from work to shower. I know because my focus is drawn there nonstop. I guess she’s home, but for how long is a mystery. She texted my mother this morning to say she wouldn’t be making it to dinner.

I expected it, but I won’t lie, the disappointment hit me hard.

“Really wish you could come with us to Denver in January, man,” Jon says, falling into step beside me as we head for the house.

“What’s in Denver?” I ask absently, more focused on weighing how stupid it would be to walk across the field and knock on Emery’s door.

“The US National Bison Association Annual Conference. We go every year. It’s a good time. And seeing as we’re gonna get a new bull next year— ”

“I did not agree to that,” my father counters, his index finger held up in protest.

“If we don’t change things up soon, we’re gonna end up with a bunch of sick, inbred stock. It’s time for a new bloodline and you know it, Holt. You’re so stubborn sometimes, but you gotta stop resisting this.”

I hold my breath, waiting for my father to blow up. He never liked being told how to think and especially not by someone young and argumentative. It’s why he and Jay could never see eye to eye on anything.

“Yeah, you might be right.” Dad sets his Colt on an ashtray to burn out on its own and pushes open the door. The collies are hovering nearby and bolt in ahead of him and Jon.

And I’m left outside, momentarily stupefied, before I follow them.

Inside is pure chaos. Egan is wailing in a corner, Macy is screaming “Stop it!” while the twins laugh and toss her doll back and forth, treating her to a game of monkey-in-the-middle that she clearly didn’t ask to play. The only quiet kid is Thomas, who’s flopped on the couch, shuffling a deck of cards.

“Holt!” My mother stands at the counter next to the turkey, guarding it from the two hungry dogs.

“Sorry, I wasn’t thinking.” He attempts to nudge them away with his thigh as he collects the carving knife. It’s pointless. Those dogs are unblinking, drooling statues, wedging their bodies into the crevices between legs and cupboard for their chance.

“What on earth is going on in here?” Jon asks with incredulity.

“The twins lost their gaming time, so they’re tormenting their sister, and Egan is upset because Carson told him we’re eating Gobbles. The turkey you thought would be a good idea for him to name and help feed.” From her spot at the stove, Sarah turns to shoot her husband a withering look. “Do you think you could help with at least one of your five children at some point today?”