After my husband di:ed, my daughter changed the gate code to my 300-acre cattle ranch in Wyoming and left me sitting outside. “You can come home once you give my husband power of attorney,” she said through the speaker. I stayed in my truck, finished my sandwich, and called the one man she’d forgotten her father trusted more than anyone.

Then his voice came through the speaker.

“Dolores, Russ left debts you don’t know about. The equipment needs replacing.

If I don’t sell the herd now, you’ll lose everything by spring. Sign the paper and let the adults handle it.”

I’d helped calve heifers in a blizzard the previous February. I could have told him that, but I was tired of talking into a box. I backed away from the gate and parked under the big cottonwood where Russ used to leave the stock trailer.

I unwrapped my sandwich and poured coffee from my thermos. That was when I remembered a drive home from dialysis the previous November. We
were outside Kaycee, and Russ had been quiet for almost an hour. As the sun dropped behind the Bighorns, he turned his head and asked me to make him a promise.

If anyone ever locked me out of the ranch, I was to call Amos Redcloud.