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From the corrals came the familiar work rhythm.

Gate.

Rope.

Hooves striking dirt.

Cash's voice carrying above everybody else's.

Wyatt calling numbers.

Boone saying little and being heard anyway.

I found him without trying.

I always did.

He stood at the head gate in a dark T-shirt, hat pushed back, forearms dirty to the elbow. A yearling crowded the chute. Boone put one large hand against its neck and eased the animal into position without force anybody could see. The steer settled.

A neighbor leaned over the rail and asked Boone something about the west pasture.

Boone answered.

Another man waited, then asked about a bull calf.

Boone listened to the whole question before he spoke.

Nobody stepped back.

That was the thing I noticed without meaning to.

Nobody stood away from him anymore.

Not in the careful half circle Silver Bend had once made around Big Boone. No mothers reached for children when he passed. No men performed courage by talking too loudly. People got close enough to clap his shoulder. They handed him ropes. They expected him to answer.

A woman near the sorting pen bent to fix the heel of her boot. The baby on her hip had other plans, twisting toward the corrals with both fists working.

Without looking twice, she held the child out to Boone.

"Take her a second?"

Boone froze.

Only I noticed.

Then his hands came up.

The baby disappeared against him. One broad palm covered most of her back. She stared at his beard, considered it, and grabbed a fistful.

Cash saw.

"Oh, that's excellent," he called. "Hold still. Somebody get a camera before Boo remembers he's terrifying."

Boone looked at him.

Cash grinned.

The baby pulled harder.