Chapter Two
The sizzle of charred beef smelled different when said cow was alive and kicking and not quartered into pieces and placed in a pan. Brenda Vance backed up. She avoided the bull’s hindquarters, but she wasn't quick enough to avoid the wood. The plank of the fencing splintered, and a shard of wood caught the side of her forehead.
Blood mixed with sweat and caught in her eye. Brenda swore. Her muttered curse made the younger three of her ranch hands wince. They should all wince. It was their fault the cow wasn't properly secure.
"You all right, missy?" came the gravely, tobacco tarnished voice of the fourth and eldest ranch hand. Manuel Bautista had stepped on this ranch around the time when Brenda had taken her first steps before she’d turned a year old. Like her, he knew this
