The loudspeakers were pointed directly at the ring and the auctioneer's voice blared a singsongy tune.
“And looky here, folks, at the nice young gal with her Reserve Champion steer. Isn't he a beauty? Who'll start the bidding?”
The lights were hot and glaring. I kept a tight hold on Mule's halter and whispered in his ear as we made one circle around the center of the ring.
The ring man hollered and whooped each time a bid came in from the stands, but I was not listening. I kept my eyes fixed on Mule's big blue eyes and kept his head up high.
All at once there was a burst of applause and the exit gate opened. I had been so focused I hadn't even heard the auctioneer cry, “Sold!”
Outside the ring a man from the Cattlemen's Club was sorting steers onto trucks.
“Take him over there,” he said, pointing to a livestock trailer parked behind the barn.
“And don't forget your halter,” he called over his shoulder as I led Mule away.
“What?” I asked.
Suddenly, Dad was there.
“Don't forget to take your halter, the man said.”
I looked at Dad. This was it. My head ached with the pressure of every tear I had held back all day.
“Do you want me to do it?” Dad looked at me with understanding.
“No, I'll take him.”
I led Mule to the back of the truck, where two men waited to take him up the ramp. I removed his red show halter and stroked his clean, sleek black side one last time. I put both arms around his neck. He was so warm and soft and alive.
Mule's blue eyes blinked at me, and he took a step for-ward. He had no reason to linger there. He had no goodbyes to say. He simply wanted to move forward, just as I'd taught him to do.
I let go of him, and he was gone. I watched him disappear into the dark emptiness.
“Goodbye, Mule,” I choked.
I turned from the truck and into Dad's open arms.
Afterward, Dad and I wandered through the arena, Dad chatting with folks he knew while I searched the crowd for the one person I knew would understand my loss. Mayor Thompson approached Dad and, after they'd exchanged a few words, Dad motioned me over.
I really didn't feel like talking, but I forced a smile as the mayor shook my hand and congratulated me on my Reserve Champion steer and sale.
“I'm proud of you, young lady,” he boomed as he shook and shook and shook my hand until I thought my arm had turned to Jell O.
Apparently, he wasn't the only one who wanted to con-gratulate me. Mom finally caught up with me (for once without Frannie attached to her leg), ready to gush.
She wrapped both arms around me and held on for a long moment. “You did so great tonight, Lib! I've never been so proud!”
“Thanks,” I sighed. Everyone kept acting as if this night were something to celebrate. But I didn't feel like celebrating. I felt like leaving. Because everything at the fair reminded me of Mule.
“I know you really wanted to bring Piggy to the fair, but just look how well Mule did. Next year”—she grinned—“maybe it will be Grand Champion for the Ryan family!”
“I don't know,” I answered. I had a head full of doubt that I would ever do this all over again. “Maybe I'm not cut out to show steers.”
Mom looked surprised.
“Really? You're kidding. Libby, you should have seen yourself out there. You are a natural showman!”
“I am?”
“You bet you are. You've got animal smarts that most kids your age don't even know about. And in the ring, you and Mule were such a good team.”
“But, Mom, I don't know if my heart will ever get over losing him,” I choked out. The tears that I thought had dried up were back.
Mom nodded knowingly.
“Oh, Libby, that feeling you have tonight is one I under-stand all too well. I showed my first steer when I was thirteen.”
“You did?” Why hadn't I ever heard this before?
“I didn't want to tell you, kiddo. Because after I found out how hard it was to let go that first year, I gave up. I never showed again, and I've always regretted it.”
I certainly understood how she could give up. The pain of saying goodbye was so real and so awful, I really didn't want to do it again.
“But you know what?” Mom went on. “You have the potential to love and care for a lot of steers in the coming years. If you give up, some pretty sweet animals will miss out on your care and attention. Besides, they've also taught you a valuable lesson. They helped you learn how to say goodbye.”
Fresh tears spilled out as Mom said, “Come here, kiddo.”
I laid my head on her shoulder as we walked back toward the barn for the last time. The atmosphere across the entire fairgrounds was one of an ending. The amusement company had begun the task of tearing down and pulling out before dark. The concessions shut down, and a steady stream of livestock trailers poured out the gate. The Practical County Fair was over until next year.
Mom's words echoed in my head in the weeks that followed, when I'd walk into the big hip-roof barn and feel its emptiness. At first I was sure it was missing Mule that tugged at my heartstrings, but when the summer days started to cool and autumn leaves began to glide gracefully to the ground, I felt the emptiness turn to yearning.
If I closed my eyes, I could hear the rustle of cattle as they lumbered to their feet for their morning grain. I smelled the unique aroma of straw, grain, and manure. I saw the excitement of the show ring, the impressed look on the judge's face when he stood before my steer, and Dad's approving nod. But when I opened my eyes, I saw nothing, only barepens and empty feed bunks. Perhaps it was time to fill that lonely barn with a fresh, new experience.
“You think this nice weather will hold through harvest?”
“Hope so.”
Dad and Granddad both leaned their arms over the top rail of the white fence and gazed out over Granddad's pasture. The breezy, warm early-autumn evening would be one of the last before the frost came and the farmers began their harvest. Already the cornfields had turned from green to brown, ears pointing to the ground, a sure sign that picking time was just around the corner.
Mom, Frannie, and I surveyed the prospects. I wished Ronnie hadn't gone back to Purdue already. He would have had an opinion regarding the next star steer to come out of Ryansmeade. Granddad had quite a few calves, and some of them were pretty sleek.
As usual, the friendly ones were right there, licking and sucking our fingers. One skinny young Hereford tipped his curly red head back and stretched his neck when I lifted my arm in the air to avoid being devoured. His eager pink nose reached out time and time again. Persistent, that was what he was.
Several others skittered around the lot, charged by the evening air, the presence of new people, and the promise that feeding time was not far away.
On the far side of the lot, away from the others, there stood a lone Angus calf that caught my eye. He was just as young as the others, yet his sturdy frame was already beginning to show muscle. Indifferent to the rest of the herd or to the audience Frannie provided, he turned briefly in my direction and stared hard at me for one long moment. Then he slowly turned away.
Wow, he's got an attitude, I thought.
But animals with attitudes could change. So could peo-ple with attitudes, for that matter. I had learned that over the past year. It seemed that a negative attitude was sometimes the result of negative experiences. Ohma Darling was proof positive that a little kindness could go a long way.
Our last year at Nowhere Middle School had started. Carol Ann and I ate lunch with Ohma every day. Frannie had started kindergarten and hadn't mentioned her grandchildren in more than two weeks. Maybe she'd decided she didn't need them anymore. But to be honest, I kind of missed Eugene and Esmerelda Emily. I kind of wished I had tolerated them a little more when they were around, for Frannie's sake.
I guess that was what Mom, Dad, and Granddad did for all of us Ryan kids. They supported our dreams
and decisions, no matter how big or odd they seemed. They helped me set up a savings account, and my check from selling Mule was the first to go in it. Funny, all along I thought Mule's purpose was to be the best steak he could be. But he did something even more meaningful—he made the first contribution to my education fund.
“Are you ready to get your new calves, Libby?” Dad asked.
I nodded.
“Why don't you tell me which two you'd like this time?” Granddad said as evening turned the cornfields of Practical County a circus-peanut shade of orange.
I scratched the head of the little red-haired calf that hadn't left my side or let go of my fingers since we'd arrived.
“I like this little fella right here,” I told him.
“Good choice,” Mom agreed.
“Whoopie!” cheered Frannie.
Dad surveyed the rest of the herd.
“You've got one more. Which one's it going to be, Libby?”
I didn't hesitate.
“I'll take that Angus way over there.”
Maybe he wasn't the friendliest one of the bunch. But thanks to Granddad and Dad, I'd developed a good eye for quality, and that little steer showed a whole lot of potential.
Granddad nodded in approval. “Looks like a winner to me.”
“That's that,” said Dad. “Let's load them up.”
When we got the two little guys into the trailer and closed the gate behind them, they jumped around and bellowed, not at all certain they wanted to leave their pasture home.
“What are you going to name these sweet little fellows?” Mom asked me as we all piled into the pickup truck.
“Oh, Mom!” I declared with a wink in Dad's direction. “Don't you know that fair calves don't need names?”
Dad returned the wink, and two new calves were on their way to our barn, on their way to unknown adventures, and, maybe, on their way to the Practical County Fair.
The barn didn't seem nearly as lonely once we'd unloaded the calves. They looked safe and comfortable in their new home. They looked like they belonged there.
“There you have it,” said Granddad proudly. “There is the future of Ryansmeade.”
Everyone nodded as they gazed at the new calves. But Granddad wasn't looking at the calves. He was looking at me, Libby Ryan, the next generation of the Ryan family farm.
MICHELLE HOUTS began her writing career with a retelling of “Jack and the Beanstalk.” It earned her three metallic stars and a great deal of praise from her first-grade teacher. With no sequel in the works, she finished school, earning bachelor's and master's degrees in education. While at The Ohio State University, she met the farmer of her dreams. They married and made their home on a grain and livestock farm in west central Ohio, where they are raising their three children, along with cattle, hogs, a golden retriever, and a goat who believes he is a golden retriever. Ms. Houts is an elementary school special-education teacher and an adjunct faculty member at Wright State University, Lake Campus. The Beef Princess of Practical County is her first novel.
Published by Delacorte Press
an imprint of Random House Children's Books
a division of Random House, Inc.
New York
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents
either are the product of the author's imagination or are used
fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead,
events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2009 by Michelle Houts
All rights reserved.
Delacorte Press and colophon are registered trademarks
of Random House, Inc.
Visit us on the Web! www.randomhouse.com/kids
Educators and librarians, for a variety of teaching tools, visit us at
www.randomhouse.com/teachers
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
is available upon request.
eISBN: 978-0-375-89186-1
The text of this book is set in 12-point Goudy.
Random House Children's Books supports the
First Amendment and celebrates the right to read.
v3.0
The Beef Princess of Practical County Page 16
