The calf slowed, seeming to respond to her tone. Its head turned toward the barn, ears perked at the sound of its mother’s calls.
“That’s it.” Alice took a slow step forward. “Just a little closer…”
The moment shattered as the calf spooked, bolting straight at Clint with the speed and determination of something three times its size. He braced himself, arms spread wide, ready to make the catch—and slipped. His boot heel shot out from under him on the mud-slicked ground, arms flailing as he fought for balance. This was insane. How could one little calf turn two seasoned ranchers into a routine worthy of the Keystone Cops?
Again the mother cow called and the calf flicked an ear toward the bawl, then bolted along the fence line—toward the alley this time.
“That’s you!” Clint shouted.
Alice moved like she’d been born in a barn. The calf checked, swung, and there it was, lined up on the run that led straight to the barn door.
“Go,” Alice breathed.
They went.
Clint kept pressure steady, not crowding, eyes on hips, not head. If you moved the hip, the front end followed. The calf zigged once more at the broken pallet by the wall, found nowhere to go, and took the center like it was his idea.
“Door?” Alice asked.
“Leave it open.” He stole a glance in her direction. “We’ll close behind.”
Frantic to find her calf, the mama’s bawl rolled over them, even louder now, and the calf answered with a thin, ridiculous sound.
Clint opened his palm to wave at the confused calf and the animal hurried down the center aisle toward the sound that belonged to it.
“Stall three.” He pointed. “If she’s in there—”
“She is.” Alice nodded. “Boots is on four. We moved the pair last night.”
He liked that she knew where every animal slept without checking a board.
The cow threw her head when she saw them, whites showing, big body swinging to guard the stall door, then swung again when her nose caught the calf. A different sound came out of her, relief and irritation braided together. Alice was already at the latch, fingers quick. “On your count.”
“Now.”
He slid, she pulled, and the door eased open just enough to let a calf through and not a freight train of a worried mama. The calf shot inside. The cow dropped her head, checked the baby like she was counting toes, then bumped it toward the udder with all the softness a thirteen-hundred-pound animal could manage. The calf latched. The cow blew. Horses shifted in their stalls. Only then did he let his shoulders fall.
“You okay?” Her voice was low enough not to rile the cow.
He nodded. His lungs were still dragging at the air like it was heavy. Sweat cooled at the base of his neck. “He’s got legs.”
“He’s got opinions.” The corners of her mouth lifted in a smile. “We should name him Houdini.”
The cow lifted her head and huffed at them. Alice huffed back, softer. “We’re going,” she told the cow.
They stepped back from the stall in unison. Backs against the wooden walls, each heaved a relieved sigh. Slowly, Alice slid to the ground, her legs stretched out.
Clint slid to sit beside her. His head resting back against the wall, he shook his head. “I don’t think I’ve worked that hard in years.”
“Tell me about it.” Her shoulders began to shake and for a moment, he thought she was crying. Then he heard it—laughter. Not the polite chuckle he’d occasionally heard from her over thelast several months, but full-bodied, unrestrained laughter that seemed to bubble up from someplace deep and genuine. “The look on your face,” she gasped between fits of giggles, pushing herself up slightly to look at him. There was mud on her cheek, in her hair, and her eyes were bright with tears of mirth. “When that calf charged you…”
Suddenly, inexplicably, Clint was laughing too. The absurdity of it all—the dignified foreman and the ranch matriarch sprawled in the mud, outwitted by thirty pounds of stubborn calf—struck him full force. The laughter felt rusty, unfamiliar, but it came anyway, rumbling up from a place he’d thought long since gone quiet.
Chapter Three
“Morning, Mooooom.” Carson stopped in his tracks as Alice slowly made her way from the stove to the table. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing a long soak in a very hot tub won’t solve.” She’d hoped she’d be done with preparing breakfast before anyone came downstairs. The moment she’d returned to the house, she’d stripped out of her very muddy clothes, hopped into the longest hot shower she dared take and still get breakfast on the table, and then with every move she made, the aches in her sore muscles seemed to escalate exponentially. She hurt in places she’d forgotten she had muscles.
