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Willow nodded to her, then addressed the crowd. “All right, everyone. Time to go in and find our seats.”

Jodie took a deep breath and squared her shoulders.

I can do this.

Mac’s hand settled warm and steady on the small of her back as they walked toward the school.

How did I get so lucky?

“What do you mean? You said you’d use bait traps. Are we still doing bait traps here, or are you going to pull a bait and switch?” Willow pounded her fist on the podium facing a table of unfamiliar faces. Sandra stood toward the back, discreetly snapping photos.

Behind her, Jodie shook with fury in her seat. The crowd filling the grade school gymnasium murmured around her, some angry, others sounding happy about the development. She should have known this would happen from the moment the men from the BLM filed into the gym and took their seats at a long table facing the crowd, confirming the rumor that had spread through the gathered members of FHDH. All but one of the men were brand-new faces. The others, the people Jodie had dealt with over the phone, through emails and on Zoom meetings, had left their jobs for one reason or another—retiring, moving, taking sick leave—except for one man, Harold North, who was now trying to calm Willow down as she stood at the narrow podium set up for questions facing the table.

“I can honestly say that we aren’t party to earlier commitments,” one of the new guys, Dwight, told her in a blatantly patronizing tone.

“What does that have to do with anything?” Willow demanded. She pointed at Harold. “You’re still here. You’re ‘party to earlier commitments’ or whatever your friend is talking about.”

“I am, yes. But circumstances are changing, Willow,” Harold said. “With the extensive drought and the wildfires already burning around the country, we have to entertain the possibility of using helicopters in order to speed up the process.”

“It’s for the safety of the horses,” another new guy said. Jodie hadn’t bothered to learn his name—which showed exactly how upset she was.

“Oh, really? How safe is it for you to run horses for miles in the blistering heat, terrified of the loud noise and the dust, already dehydrated and disoriented? I’ve seen horses break legs, break necks⁠—”

“There are unfortunate risks, but many of these animals are already sick and dying.”

Jodie couldn’t stand it anymore. She didn’t bother going to the podium but stood and shouted from her seat.

“I can tell you exactly which horses are and are not ill.” She held up her binder. “According to the reports I’ve gathered from our volunteers all year, there are four horses that absolutely should not be subjected to the stress and strain of a helicopter roundup under any circumstances. And there are twenty-five foals who will be put into danger for no reason other than it’s cheaper and faster to subject them to this torture.”

Harold leaned toward his microphone. “Jodie’s records are good. I’ve used them myself.” He looked down the table at the other men. “And she’s right about the four compromised animals. Whatever method we use will have to account for them.”

That took some of the wind out of Jodie’s anger. Harold had always been reasonable. More importantly, he was local and knew the herd. Still, not all of her anger was gone.

“And what about darting? Will I still be able to do that so that we aren’t here again next year endangering horses in a roundup?”

Another one of the unfamiliar BLM men spoke next. “No final decision has been made about that or about helicopters. That’s the straight answer. But they are an option.”

Nobody liked it, but at least he hadn’t tried to dress it up.

Hank Presser stood several rows ahead of Jodie. He didn’t bother with the podium mic, either.

“My grandfather worked for the Bureau for thirty-two years,” he said. “He believed the job was taking care of the land. All of it. Wildlife, grazing, water, the people trying to make a living on it.” He nodded toward the empty seats among the BLM staff. “The people who worked this herd with us are gone. You folks are asking us to trust you anyway. That means you’ve got some earning to do.”

People murmured agreement. But one man rose from the opposite side of the gym and addressed the crowd.

“And while everybody’s earning trust, maybe we could remember those horses aren’t the only animals eating off that range.”

Several people groaned.

“Sit down, Virgil,” Hank called. “We know.”

Virgil ignored him. “Forage is gone. Draws are drying up. Fences get torn up. My sheep still have to eat, whether anybody here thinks they’re as pretty as a mustang or not. I’m in favor of copters.”

Willow folded her arms and glared. “Of course you are. You’ve wanted those horses gone for years.”

“I’ve wanted the herd managed,” Virgil shot back. “There’s a difference.”

“Not from where I’m standing.”