Castrating cattle is my specialty. I’m getting too old for it, but ranching’s in my blood. The bank doesn’t care, delivering the past-due notice in person. Frank’s hollering, “Bess, wait!” from across the corral, but I ignore him. The banker and I are busy.
After we’re done, I rest my hands on my thighs. I’m gonna need a wheelbarrow.
At supper, we eat without speaking. Frank dives into a plate of prairie oysters, my specialty. The trick is to deep fry so they don’t get tough. I pause mid-bite, savoring the chew. The banker’s are about as tender as they come.