“It doesn’t feel right,” he answered, still looking at the tree line. I shifted in my saddle, the hair on the back of my neck rising. “What doesn’t feel right?” “Something is coming,” he said. The crack of a whip in the distance snapped him out of it, and he shook his head. Clearing my throat, I twisted my torso, looking over to the herd. “When do we go to auction?” “End of September.”
