Dean nodded.
“Why?”
Silas looked at him.
If Otto had asked, he would answer.
This man had not earned that yet.
“I’m still looking.”
Dean smiled wider.
“Fair enough.”
Then walked away.
The sale started at ten.
Pen fourteen did not enter until after eleven.
By then the barn had thinned.
Good stock had sold.
Several buyers were loading trailers.
Others waited for cheap lots.
Silas stood near the back rail.
Ruth remained near the concession stand with both arms crossed.
She had promised not to interfere.
That promise was becoming harder by the minute.
The auctioneer, Curtis Boyette, had been calling livestock sales for twenty-three years.
He read the lot information quickly.
“Older Jersey cow, retirement dispersal, who’ll start three hundred?”
Nothing.
Curtis scanned the rail.
“Two-fifty?”
Silence.
“Two hundred?”
A processing buyer lifted two fingers.
Curtis caught it immediately.
“I’ve got two, now who’ll give me two-and-a-quarter?”
Silas’s heart hammered.
This was the part he had imagined all week.
Imagining was easier.
He raised his index card.
“Two-fifty.”
Curtis stopped.
The entire barn seemed to notice the voice because it did not belong.
He looked toward the back.
Found Silas.
A smile appeared.
Not cruel.
Adult amusement.
“Well now.”
A few people laughed.
Curtis pointed.
“That your daddy’s bid, son?”
Silas felt heat climb into his face.
Ruth’s arms tightened.
She did not move.
Silas lifted the card higher.
“No, sir.”
The laughter softened.
“That’s mine.”
It returned louder.
Someone near the front muttered:
“Kid’s buying hamburger.”
The processing buyer turned and looked at Silas.
Amused.
Then raised his hand.
Curtis resumed.
“Two-seventy-five.”
Silas looked at the cow.
Front left.
Weight shifting.
Eyes tight.
Not dead.
Not finished.
Hurting.
“Three hundred.”
The room quieted slightly.
The processing buyer frowned.
He raised again.
“Three and a quarter.”
Silas had calculated his limit.
Not emotionally.
He and Ruth had sat at the kitchen table.
His own money.
Her forty.
Feed.
Vet.
Transportation.
He could go to three hundred fifty.
Not higher.
At three seventy-five, there would not be enough cushion.
Silas raised the card.
“Three-fifty.”
The processing buyer looked at the cow.
Looked at Silas.
Then at his clipboard.
He was not sentimental.
A thin older Jersey had value by weight.
There was a number above which purchasing her no longer made sense.
He had reached it.
He lowered his hand.
Curtis scanned.
“Three-fifty once.”
Silas stopped breathing.
“Anybody three-seventy-five?”
Nothing.
“Three-fifty twice.”
Ruth’s heart was pounding harder than Silas’s.
Curtis brought the gavel down.
“Sold.”