Half the county was in that barn. Winnie had one shot at that ring this year. I was not going to hand my daughter a scene to remember instead of her steer. That is the plain answer.
Darwin was at the rail by the time her class was called.
He came in from the far door with his cap pushed back and a cup of lemonade, and he leaned on the pipe next to Winnie’s grandpa as if he had been there all along.
He clapped when she led in. He clapped like a man with nothing on his mind. I stood on the other side of the ring and watched him do it.
The judge was a young fellow from up by Waverly with a quiet voice. He had nine steers in the class.
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He walked them in a circle twice, then lined them up head to tail, then walked down the line with his hands behind his back.
Winnie set Biscuit’s feet in four moves. I counted. Back left, back right, front, front.
She kept the stick under his belly and her eyes on the judge, the way Dad taught her when she was nine and could barely reach the halter.
The judge ran his hand down Biscuit’s back and pressed on the loin and stepped back. He looked at her and nodded once. You learn to read that nod after enough years at a rail.
He pulled the class into its placings and sent her to the second spot. Second out of nine.
Then he took the microphone and said something about her steer having the most natural thickness in the class, and that she had shown him like she meant it.
Winnie cried a little when she came out of the ring. The good kind. She wiped her face on her shoulder and tried to look like it was sweat.
I hugged her hard with Biscuit standing there blowing on both of us. I smiled at every single person who walked by and said thank you, and yes, she worked hard, and yes, he’s a good one.
I want to be honest about that part. I was not being a saint.
I was holding a door shut with my whole body, and smiling was the only way I knew to keep it shut until she was done.
Darwin walked over to the stand the pork producers run under the big tent and came back with a breaded tenderloin as big as a hubcap, the bun sitting on top like a hat.
Winnie laughed and ate half of it standing in the aisle.
He handed me a napkin. He would not look at me. He looked at the steer, at the rafters, at the ribbon pinned to the stall card.
He knew. I don’t know how. Maybe the way I said thank you.
Amanda was not in the barn. I did not look for her. I already knew where she would be, which was not anywhere near me.