Page 9

Josie understood him anyway.

“All right,” she said softly.

She sat beside Boone.

All the way down.

Wyatt picked up his pencil.

“The gross was better than forecast.”

“That sounds almost cheerful,” I said. “Do you need water?”

“The average was up eight percent over last year. Lot Fourteen materially improved the result.”

“Handsome and financially literate. Takes after me.”

“He tried to put his head through a panel.”

“Boone’s side, then.”

Boone folded his arms.

Wyatt did not smile. He moved the point of the pencil down the expense sheet.

“Advertising came in under budget. Feed was over. The additional veterinary work reduced our margin on Lots Six and Nine, though selling both above the reserve recovered part of that.”

Josie leaned forward. “Lot Nine’s treatment wasn’t optional.”

“I didn’t say it was.”

“The infection would have—”

“Josie.” Wyatt looked at her directly. “You saved the bull. The cost is a fact, not a criticism.”

She closed her mouth.

Boone’s hand moved under the table. I couldn’t see where it went, but Josie’s shoulders lowered an inch.

Wyatt continued. “Commissions, transport, food, printing, the auctioneer, and temporary labor leave us here.”

He drew a line under the net.

It was a respectable number.

A good number.

It sat a long way from the number on the yellow pad.

No one said either one.

Outside, a trailer rolled down the drive. The diesel grumble faded toward the county road. Somewhere below the house, one of the remaining bulls called, and another answered from the load-out pens.

Dad’s chair stood empty at the end of the table.

Wyatt set the pencil exactly parallel with the edge of the pad. “This covers the immediate operating shortfall.”

Boone looked at the bank paper. “Not the note.”