Free Bittersweet by Susan Wittig Albert Page B

builda barbed-wire corral on the plaza in front of the Alamo. He drove some long-horned cows into the corral to demonstrate that barbed wire could contain animals as big and tough as the wild cattle. He bragged that the new fence was ‘light as air, stronger than whiskey, and cheap as dirt.’” I chuckled. “Old Bet-a-Million was pretty much right. And that was the end of the open range. The end of the wild Longhorns, too, as it turned out.”
    Caitie frowned. “I guess I don’t see—”
    â€œSam’s great-grandfather bought enough of the new barbed wire to fence his entire ranch. Once he did that, he could put his own brand on the best of the Longhorns he rounded up and keep them
inside
the fence. Then he bought some cows from up north and added them to his herd, to improve it by selective breeding.”
    â€œOh, like breeding chickens!” Caitie exclaimed.
    In her spare time—that is, when she’s not playing her violin—my daughter is a chicken fancier. She started with three Rhode Island Red chicks and three white leghorn chicks who grew into six highly productive laying hens, blessing us with more eggs than a small family can eat. (At Caitie’s insistence, we were bringing two dozen to share with her grandmother.) Then came Rooster Boy, a handsome red-feathered fellow with an iridescent ruff and a sweep of colorful tail. Rooster Boy’s first seven offspring are just beginning to display their curiously mixed red and white heritage, and Caitie has had fun speculating which babies came from which moms. Chicken Breeding 101.
    â€œYes,” I said, pleased that she saw the analogy. “Like breeding chickens, except that the process takes a little longer. Ezekiel’s northern cows had more meat and fat on their bones, and the fat made the beef taste better. Breeding them with the wild long-horned animals, he got cows that werestrong and adaptable and tasted better. And that was the beginning of the ranch.”
    â€œWow,” Caitie said with satisfaction. “That’s a great story. Maybe Sam knows more.”
    Sam. I bit my lip, and the apprehension that had been hovering at the back of my mind all during the drive suddenly flooded through me. His surgery, followed by “complications.” I wished I had pressed Leatha for more information. What was his prognosis? Was he going to be okay? If there was more trouble, how would Leatha handle it? Would she—
    â€œI’ll ask him,” Caitie said, unburdened by any of these worries. She knew that Sam was in the hospital, but she had no idea how serious it was. She began digging in her pink nylon backpack and pulled out a book. “I brought
Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows.
It’s a great story, too. Is it okay if I read for a while now?”
    â€œPerfectly okay,” I said. I’m not exactly crazy about Harry Potter, but anytime one of my kids wants to read a book, any book, I’m all for it. I flicked on the radio and found some country music—an old Waylon Jennings song, “Ladies Love Outlaws.” It seemed to fit the territory.
    A little later, we were turning off the highway, Route 187 south of the village of Utopia, and onto the ranch road. The turnoff was marked by a large painted sign that said “Bittersweet Nature Sanctuary on the Sabinal River—A Birder’s Paradise.” Beneath that:
Fishing, Swimming, Hiking. Come for the day or for a long stay
, with the address of the ranch website and a phone number. A paper banner announced:
Opens January 1!
I was surprised by the sign, and especially by the announced opening date. Together, they gave the project a worrisome reality. If Sam couldn’t help, how was Leatha going to manage all this?
    The gravel lane was lined with the brightly festive autumn foliage ofCarolina buckthorn and yaupon holly. As we drove up, I saw that Leatha—already back from the hospital—was standing on