But when a calf is stuck, grudges don’t matter. Or at least they shouldn’t.
I quickly change into jeans and boots and pick up my kit, which I always restock the moment I use anything, so it’s ready to go.
Sliding into Dad’s old Ford, I crank the engine. It coughs before settling into a low rumble. The seat is worn to fit him, and now it fits me. The cab smells faintly of hay, leather, and the aftershave he used to splash on Sunday mornings for church.
For a second, I almost expect to see him climbing in on the other side.
The road out to the Dunn ranch cuts through the heart of Wildflower Canyon. At night, the canyon is both eerie and beautiful. The sky’s so wide it swallows you whole, scattered with stars so sharp they look close enough to rope. The moon spills pale silver over the mountains, throwing long shadows across the pastureland.
Every few miles, I pass the glow of a distant barn light or the faint shimmer of eyes at the fence line. The air smells of damp earth and mesquite. The March air carries a chill that slips under your collar, stubborn despite the day’s warmth.
I grip the wheel tighter. I am ‘adrenaline alert’.
It’s not my first calving season. I know what to expect. Doesn’t make it easier.
By the time the truck jolts onto the rutted dirt drivethat leads to the Dunn place, the eastern sky is still black as ink. The Dunn ranch is one of the older spreads in the canyon, fences patched with rusted wire, barns leaning like tired old men.
My headlights catch on the sagging barn and the figures moving inside, shadows thrown against wood like a scene from a play I already know I don’t want to be in.
I hear a cow bawl inside the barn, the sound desperate and guttural. It raises the hairs on my neck.
I park and jog up to Bodie, sliding my gloves on as I do.
His sleeves are rolled, and his arms are slick to the elbow. His face shines with sweat under his hat.
“About damn time,” he mutters, though his relief is plain. His arm is tired. It’s happened to me a few times, and I’m half his age.
“You’re welcome,” I retort good-naturedly.
He grins.
“How’s it going?” I ask.
“It’s like every damn heifer wants to drop at the same time.”
I chuckle. “You know how it is—one goes into labor, and the others follow.”
I check the cow and grimace. “We’ve got maybe twenty minutes before she or the calf crashes.”
Bodie nods. “Yeah. That’s why I needed you here.”
Before I can respond, Lyle Dunn’s voice rings out across the barn. “Well, look who crawled back into the canyon. You really think we want you here, girl?”
His words land like spit on my boots. I ignore himand keep moving, tugging on the long plastic sleeves and snapping them into place.
“You want that heifer alive, you need her help,” Bodie snaps.
“She should be in jail, not playing vet.” The venom in Lyle’s voice doesn’t surprise me, but it doesn’t mean it doesn’t sting.
The cow groans, her body straining, muscles trembling. “Then maybe you’d better roll up your own damn sleeves,” I shoot back.
That’s when another voice slides into the barn—smooth, sharp, and far too familiar.
“What’s going on?” Cade steps into the light, broad-shouldered, jaw tight, his hat shadowing the eyes I’d once loved.
Beside him, like a shadow in silk, is Noelle. Her manicured hand brushes his arm as if to remind me exactly where he belongs, and also to tell me this woman is no rancher.
My throat closes, but Lyle fills the silence for me. “This is what we’ve come to, Cade. Town whore parading as a vet.”
