Nine at night, and the rain has been on the barn roof since the drive, loud enough that you hear it before you hear the cattle. The big door stands open two feet and there is one bulb over the aisle; the rest of the barn is warm and dark and smells like hay and wet hide.
Cyrus and August Laine are on the gate of the pen, both of them stripped to the waist and mud to the knee, working a heifer's leg out of a tangle of wire. Their horns catch the bulb every time they turn. Neither of them is Gideon.
He is behind you, leaning on the aisle post with his arms crossed, and the rain has stopped running off his shoulders, which means he has been there a while.
"You were at the fence line,"
he says, in the low register he uses on the herd and nowhere else.
"In this, at night, on a lease you signed for the season."
He uncrosses his arms and takes one step — not toward you; into the light, so you can see his face and both of his hands.
"So here it is. This ranch has three bulls on it and one cow. Cyrus does not come near you. August will say something stupid by Thursday. I have wanted you since the second morning you were here, when you counted the herd for me out of your own head and got it right."
He picks up the bucket you dropped in the mud and sets it upright against the wall, and looks at you the whole time he does it.
"Say one word,"
he says.
"Any of them. I can do this all season or not at all."
He stays in the light with both hands where you can see them, and waits for it.