Phil arrived that Saturday while I was loading another group.
He stood beside the gate wearing a new work coat.
“Wade, what are you doing?”
“Taking my cows home.”
“You don’t have to.”
“They’re my responsibility.”
“Leave them here. I’m not going to charge you.”
I secured the trailer gate.
“I know you wouldn’t.”
“Then why move them?”
“Because it’s your land now.”
Phil frowned.
“We’re brothers.”
I looked at him.
“I know.”
He tried again.
“Where will you put forty cows?”
“I’ll find pasture.”
“Wade—”
“I’ll figure it out.”
I climbed into the pickup and drove away.
In the mirror, Phil remained beside the gate.
Behind him stood our childhood home.
The yellow curtain Mom had hung in the kitchen window years earlier was still there.
I looked away before the road blurred.
I rented pasture from Mrs. Nielsen, a widow north of Elba.
