Boots and Twisters by Myla Jackson Page B

even one of the animals. His father would have kept better track of the cattle. He’d have checked every other day on the herd, if not every day.
    Another reason they should sell the ranch. They weren’t cut out to be ranchers. They had other work demanding their attention, Trent’s work as an architect and Isaac’s work as a geologist.
    “When are you due to head back out in the field?” he asked.
    “Not for another week. Then I’m off to Montana.” Isaac glanced at the house. “I hired her. I’ll take care of the mess in the kitchen. You check on the cow and see if there’s anything you can think of.”
    “Dad always took care of the sick animals. Anytime I tried to help, he refused. Said I’d do more good by getting Dusty out there to help him. He was too stubborn for his own good.”
    “Yeah.” Isaac shoved a hand through his hair. “And Dusty’s not here to help.”
    “It’s probably not a good idea to call him.” Trent scratched his five-o’clock shadow. “The man’s probably pumped up on morphine or some other painkillers.”
    “Wouldn’t be right to bother him.” Isaac glanced at his brother hopefully. “Would it?”
    “No.” Trent tipped his head toward the barn. “I’ll go see what I can do to make her comfortable.”
    “What do you want for dinner?”
    “Something not burned.”
    “Frozen pizza?”
    “We had that last night.”
    “Frozen chicken wings?”
    Trent sighed. “We need to sell this place. I miss the restaurants in Houston.”
    “And the smell of oil refineries?” Isaac’s lips thinned. “I’m not selling.”
    “You get to escape every other week.”
    “We can hire more help.”
    “Damn right. I have deadlines I can’t miss.”
    “Saving the world one oilrig at a time?”
    “Maybe. At least I’m trying to help make this country less dependent on foreign sources of fossil fuels.”
    “So noble.” Isaac bowed, his whole attitude reeking of sarcasm.  
    “Don’t knock it, you’re in the same business, finding oil for speculators.”
    “Yeah, but you have a talent for building things. It doesn’t have to be oil rigs.”
    “Oh, go cook something.” Trent stomped off to the barn, his brother’s taunt hitting far too close to home. After the brightness of the Texas outdoors, the interior of the barn was dark and filled with shadows.
    He stood for a few moments, allowing his sight to adjust to the darkness.
    Then he heard Lucky talking.
    He followed the sound to the last stall where the heifer lay on her side, breathing hard.
    Lucky crouched on the ground beside her, smoothing a hand over the animal’s neck.
    He must have made a noise, because Lucky glanced over her shoulder, her gray eyes rounded, sad. “She’s dehydrated.”
    “The vet’s coming in the morning.”
    “If we don’t get fluids in her, she might not make it through the night.”
    “There’s only one large-animal vet in the county.”
    “Then we have to do something.” Lucky pushed to her feet. “Where are your supplies?”
    “In a cabinet in the tack room.”
    “Show me.”
    Trent led the way, and Lucky followed him.
    “Do you keep salt, potassium chloride and calcium chloride?”
    He stared at her. “I have no idea.”
    She frowned.
    “What? My foreman usually handles ordering supplies for the animals and takes care of any sick ones.”
    “You own the ranch.”
    “Yeah, but I didn’t ask for it.”
    “That doesn’t make sense.”
    “Inheritance from my father. The only thing he ever gave me.”
    She tilted her head, a smile playing at her lips. “I detect resentment.”
    “Yeah.”
    Her smile disappeared and she brushed him aside. “I don’t have time for it,” she said, her voice brusque, no-nonsense. One by one, she went through the cabinets until she located a box of salt and two more with calcium chloride and potassium chloride. She pulled them down onto a counter and then reached for the metal tube lying on a shelf above.
    “What are you