“That’s sad,” she said. “Nobody in my family ever had cancer. My grandfather died in the rodeo arena, gored by a bull. My other grandfather bought and sold livestock and died of old age. You just never know.”

“True.”

They were at the gate that led to Bart’s house, and as they reached it, they saw Bart coming toward it on foot, smiling.

“I know that smile,” Cort chuckled. “Sold a bull, did you?”

“Sold two,” Bart replied with a grin. “I can afford to pay taxes!”

“Me, too,” Mina said, smiling. “Well, if we can do a production sale together the end of the month,” she added as Bart opened the gate and she and Cort rode through. “I can’t afford to do it by myself. Besides,” she added with a sigh, “I’m too shy of people to actually invite anybody out to look at the calves.”

“Speaking of which,” Cort interrupted, “she almost got gored out in the pasture by an angry mama when she bent over to check a downed calf.”

“Oh good Lord,” Bart burst out. “Are you okay?” he asked quickly, his eyes scanning her.

“I’m fine. Your cousin really knows how to ride a cutting horse,” she added with grudging praise. “He saved me. I thought the calf was injured and I stopped to check him.”

“Thanks, but don’t risk your life,” he added. “You know I don’t run polled cattle here.”

She grimaced. “I knew that. I just wasn’t thinking. We’d just loaded up Old Charlie for Bill to take to his place. He was a terror of a bull, but I already miss him.”

“You can always go over to Bill’s and visit when you want to,” Bart said.

She nodded.

“Old Charlie?” Cort asked.

They dismounted. “He’s my oldest bull,” she told him. “He injured one of my young bulls so badly that he had to be put down. He just got another one—with lesser injuries that will heal. I couldn’t keep him and I didn’t want to sell him to somebody who might have the same bad luck. Bill didn’t have a bull. So I gave him Charlie.”

He was watching her with real interest. She improved on closer acquaintance. He smiled slowly. A woman who knew cattle, who could ride a horse. He’d never expected this feisty little woman to do more than knit.

Bart intercepted that look and ground his teeth together. Cort was a rounder. Mina was a recluse, with good reason not to trust men. It was an accident looking for a place to happen, but he didn’t know how to stop it. Mina didn’t like Cort, but she’d admired the way he cut off the mother cow before it could gore her.

Something had happened besides that. He knew it from the way they both looked. He’d get it out of Cort later, he decided.

“Want to come in and have lunch with us?” Bart asked.

She forgot all about the tuna salad invitation, because she really didn’t want to sit and try to eat with Cort, and she’d have to invite him as well, out of politeness. “Thanks,” she said, “but I’ve got things to do at the house. I just wanted to ask you about the production sale.”