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.

I knew how many animals were in that pasture. I wondered what number he’d already promised his buyer.

Then Kristy came out of the barn carrying her father’s saddle. It was heavy enough that she had to rest it against the bumper before she could lift it into the back of the Tahoe. I watched her shut the hatch and go back inside.

Around four, a dusty red pickup came up the county road from the south. Amos pulled alongside me and held a long yellow envelope out his window.

Russ had written my name across the front in the same square letters he used to label the freezer beef.

“You ready?” Amos asked.

I put the lid back on my thermos and followed him up to the gate. He leaned on his horn until Brett came down the drive, clipboard still tucked under his arm. Kristy followed a few steps behind him with the remote in her hand.