By the time Claire Garza raised her bidding paddle, most of the men inside the Beeville livestock auction had already decided the bull was worthless.
Not inexpensive.
Not risky.
Worthless.
The animal stood beneath the hard white auction lights with his head hanging so low that his nose nearly touched the sawdust.
He was enormous.
That was the first thing Claire noticed.
Even exhausted, he possessed the kind of frame cattlemen spent years trying to breed.
Deep chest.
Wide shoulders.
Heavy bone.
A broad muzzle.
Powerful hindquarters beneath the weakness.
But very little of that mattered to the crowd because his hide seemed to be moving.
Ticks.
Thousands of them.
They clustered around his ears.
His dewlap.
Behind his front legs.
Along his belly.
Across the thick skin of his neck.
Some were small enough to resemble dark grains of sand.
Others were swollen until they looked almost gray.
The bull flicked his tail weakly.
A few cattlemen laughed.
The auctioneer stared over the rail.
“Gentlemen, ladies, we’re starting at eight hundred.”
Nothing.
The bull shifted.
A tick fell into the sawdust.
Someone in the back shouted:
“I’ll give you eight dollars!”
The barn erupted.
Claire did not laugh.
She sat near the third row wearing a weathered brown cowboy hat, a deep-blue Western ranch dress with sleeves rolled to her elbows, a broad leather belt, and scuffed boots dusted white from the parking lot.
She was a large woman.
Very large by the standards of most of the women who attended cattle auctions.
Broad hips.
Strong thighs.
Heavy arms shaped by actual ranch work rather than exercise performed for appearance.
Her body had been discussed almost as often as her cattle since she inherited the Garza property.
Sometimes openly.
Usually when men believed she could not hear.
She had learned early that being underestimated was less painful when it became useful.
The auctioneer tried again.
“Eight hundred?”
Silence.
“Seven-fifty?”
A rancher near Claire shook his head.
“Wouldn’t haul him home for free.”
Another man laughed.
“You’d spend a fortune killing those ticks.”
Someone else added:
“If they don’t kill him first.”
Claire leaned forward.
The bull lifted his head for perhaps two seconds.
His eyes met hers.
That was the second thing she noticed.
They were tired.
But alert.
Not dull.
Not unfocused.
Still present.
The animal was fighting.
Claire looked lower.
Hooves intact.
No obvious structural deformity.
Breathing fast but regular.
Muscle still visible beneath dehydration and blood loss.
She glanced toward the paperwork attached to the pen.
BEEFMASTER CROSS
AGE ESTIMATE: FOUR YEARS
REGISTRATION: UNKNOWN
CONSIGNOR: REGIONAL RECOVERY LOT
That last line interested her.
Recovery lot.
Not ranch cull.
Not dispersal sale.
Recovered livestock.
The auctioneer sighed.
“Six hundred.”
Nothing.
He shook his head.
“Somebody take a chance.”
The older rancher behind Claire laughed.
“Only person buying that thing is somebody wanting fertilizer.”
More laughter.
Claire lifted her paddle.
“One thousand.”
The barn went silent.
The auctioneer actually stopped.
He stared at her.
Claire kept her arm raised.
“One thousand dollars.”
A man two seats over turned completely around.
“For that?”
Claire looked at the bull.
“Yes.”
The auctioneer blinked.
Then recovered.
“I have one thousand from Ms. Garza.”
Nobody challenged her.
Nobody was going to.
Instead, laughter began.
It started somewhere near the back.
Then spread.
An older cattleman leaned on the rail, grinning.
“You understand what you’re buying, don’t you?”
Claire lowered the paddle.
“I understand perfectly.”
He pointed toward the bull.
“That hide’s got more ticks than hair.”
Claire said nothing.
“You’ll spend twice what he’s worth before you get him cleaned.”
A second man called: