Colleen Collins - Let It Bree

Squinting against the glare of the overhead lights, Bree searched the stands. Under one of those Stetsons was Carlton Rugg from Bovine Best, the internationally renowned cattle breeding organization. They had a stellar reputation, and were known for their humane treatment of bulls, so she’d given them her verbal permission—an implied contract, not a written one—to bid aggressively for Val should he win the championship.

And if he won, she’d win three hundred grand— maybe more! With that kind of prize money, she’d fly out of nowhere, small-town Chugwater faster than a full-court slam. And Val would ease into the life of a full-time Romeo, making love to lady bovines for the remainder of his days. They’d both be happy…just happy in different parts of the world.

“Stepping into the arena, ladies and gentlemen,” announced a baritone voice over the loudspeaker, “is Valentine Bovine.” Chuckles rippled through the crowd. Fighting her sadness, Bree forced a smile. She’d named her bull Valentine because of the small white heart on his rear flank, and then she couldn’t resist making his last name Bovine because of its lilt. Her name, Bree Brown, lacked any lilt whatsoever, and she hated it. Her mother had named her after the French cheese, brie, her grandmother had told her, but it wasn’t until Bree was six months old that her mom had realized she’d misspelled it. And Brown? That was about as boring and ordinary as Chugwater itself.

“Valentine, the fourth and last finalist, represents the senior bull champion division,” continued the announcer, his baritone voice reverberating through the speakers.

The crowd’s incessant chatter prickled Bree’s ears. She wiped at her suddenly hot, moist face and for a dizzying moment, she thought she might keel over. She’d never been this freaked out in a volleyball competition—but then, no single game had ever meant fulfilling her dream.

But in a sense, this was like a “single game” considering she’d only helped Mr. Connors, her neighbor back in Chugwater, show his bulls in competition before. This time, with Val, was Bree’s first solo showing, all on her own.

Keep it together. Stay focused. Bree tightened her hold on Val’s leather halter, needing something to grip to quell her adrenaline-crazed nerves. Just as she used to do in high-stress volleyball games, she took a few moments to distract herself. In her mind’s eye, she envisioned Mr. Connors, who’d bequeathed Val to her in his will last June, seven months ago. It wasn’t a surprise, really. After all, he’d let her name the bull the day it was born two and a half years ago, when she was barely twenty-one. Mr. Connors’s death hadn’t been a surprise either, but she didn’t want to think about that now.

She swung her thoughts to Grams, with whom she’d always lived a few miles outside Chugwater. She had vague memories of her father, who’d deserted them when she was two, and of her mother, who’d died when she was five.

The rest of Bree’s family consisted of Aunt Mattie, Uncle Scott and three over-testosteroned cousins who lived next door. But even with a large extended family, it was old Mr. Connors who’d become her best pal. He was the one she’d entrusted with her most secret dream—one day to ride the Orient Express, the exotic and romantic train, through Europe. A fantasy she’d never dared confess to anyone, especially not her Aunt Mattie, who still fretted that Bree had earned a degree in art history rather than in something practical like accounting.

The announcer’s voice jarred her thoughts. “Ladies and gentlemen, Doctor Marshall from Yuma, Arizona,” he said, reintroducing the grand-champion judge.

To a smattering of applause, the livestock veterinarian strode across the arena, his leather boots kicking up dirt. The overhead lights sparked off his gray hair, the shine competing with his fist-size silver belt buckle.

“Slow, boy,” Bree murmured. She barely tugged the strap and Val halted, standing stock-still. Brahmans were known for their smarts, but Val was exceptional. Not only did he understand her vocal and physical cues, Bree swore sometimes he could read her thoughts, too.

The vet began scrutinizing Val, running his hands expertly over the bull’s back and sides. Val will live the rest of his life as a breeding Casanova, Bree reminded herself. But the justification felt hollow. If she hadn’t been so busy these last few days hauling Val down to Denver, registering into the stock show, prepping him for the competition, she might have taken a few moments to ponder if winning your dream was worth losing your roots.

Finally, Dr. Marshall straightened, eyed Val one more time, then walked over to one of the 4H helpers who offered him a microphone. Taking the mike, the vet turned to the crowd. “Valentine,” he began—his drawl making her bull’s name sound like “Vaaalentiiiine”—”walks freely with good placement. He’s got excellent thickness, depth of body, spring of rib, straight topline. Superior Brahman character.” He paused.

Bree’s insides lurched. This was the moment.

The next thing she knew, someone was shaking her hand. She looked into the judge’s twinkling gray-blue eyes, vaguely aware he was congratulating her. People rose to their feet. Stetsons flew. Amid the shouting and whistling, the announcer’s voice yelled, “It’s Valentine Bovine, Brahman Grand Champion of the first Denver Stock Show Brahman Competition!”

People flooded the arena. Flashbulbs. Somebody motioned Bree to bring Val to an adjacent pen where she received a small bronze statue. More flashbulbs. A teenage girl wearing braces on her teeth and a rhinestone tiara on her head—who someone introduced as “Miss Livestock 2003”—joined Bree in another picture. Bree dipped her head a little, painfully aware she towered over the stock-show princess.

The princess disappeared. Several stock show officials joined her for another photo. Carlton, watching from the side, gave her a thumbs-up, a sign that his company was already outbidding other breeders for the rights to own Val. Carlton pointed toward the neon exit sign at the south end of the stadium, mouthing he’d meet her there.

And as Bree smiled shakily for yet another set of pictures, she noticed two cowboys standing to the side. One tall and somber, the other short and confused-looking. They looked ridiculously out of place, like Abbott and Costello gone bad in one of those old gangster films her Grams so loved.

Then the tall, somber cowboy sidled next to Bree, congratulating her in an east-coast accent, mumbling something about needing to get some stats on the bull. As he took the leather strap from Bree’s hands, she noticed a large diamond ring on his pinkie finger. Had to be one of the owners of Bovine Best, a business worth millions. With that kind of money, maybe even his shirt buttons were diamonds.

But before she could check his buttons, the cowboy was leading Valentine away. Val jerked against the leather harness to look over his shoulder at her. As she stared into those big dark eyes for maybe the last time, waves of pain and loss washed over her. After two and a half years of grooming Val for this moment, it had all happened so fast—the trip, the competition, the win—and now her beloved bull was leaving her life forever.

She dropped her head so no one would see the blobs of tears. Honest to God, she felt her heart breaking.

Then, through her blurry vision, she caught sight of something wrong. She swiped at her eyes.

Mr. Pinkie Ring wore brand new turquoise boots.

Come on, she thought. Okay, so maybe he had money to burn and wore diamonds, but fresh-out-of-the-box boots at a stock show? Turquoise ones? And why was he leading Val toward the west exit, when Carlton had pointed to the south?