“That’s what I thought,” I mutter under my breath as I crouch down to the newborn calf sprawled in the straw. “Well, sweetheart, looks like it’s just you and me now.”
I keep my eyes on the calf, blinking hard against the unexpected sting.
Seeing Cade with her—the way she’s allowed to lean into him, the way he doesn’t push her off—is a knife between my ribs.
By the time the calf is nursing steadily, and the heifer is lying quiet in the straw, my entire body is aching, and my back is one long knot. I smell like iodine and birth fluids.
It’s been hours of hard, dirty work.
I’m about to gather my kit when a young ranch hand jogs in, cap pulled low, face flushed.
“Doc? Got another one out in the south pen. Cow’s been laborin’ all night, and she’s down now. Won’t get up.”
I want to ask him if his boss knows he’s come to me, but I don’t bother. It’s none of my business.
I swallow a groan and push myself to my feet. “Show me.”
He leads me across the yard, mud sucking at my boots, the sky just beginning to pink at the edges. The cow is on her side, ribs heaving, eyes wild with exhaustion. I crouch, sliding my hand along her flank, feeling the tremor in her muscles.
She’s weak, dehydrated, and likely suffering from hypocalcemia—milk fever. I dig through my kit, pull out the calcium solution, and quickly insert the needle.
“Easy, girl.”
The cow moans.
The ranch hand shifts nervously, glancing toward thehouse. I ignore him, keeping my hand on the cow’s side, murmuring low until the tremors ease. She blinks slowly, and after a few minutes, she makes a clumsy attempt to stand.
“Good girl.” The knot under my breastbone loosens, slack like a dropped rope.
“She ain’t droppin’ a calf today?” the ranch hand asks.
“Not today.” I straighten, stretch. “She’s not in labor—she’s crashing. Calcium levels tanked. Without it, her muscles stop firing right, she goes down, and if she can’t get up, she dies.” I nod toward the cow, still wobbly but standing. “That shot bought her time. She’ll need another dose later. Keep her on good forage. Don’t slack, or you’ll be hauling her out with a tractor.”
The ranch hand blinks, clearly out of his depth. “Right. Got it.”
I smirk faintly. “Don’t worry. I’ll leave notes and additional doses for your boss, so you don’t screw it up.”
By the time I finish checking her and re-wrapping the calf in the barn to keep it warm, the sun is climbing over the canyon rim.
My arms feel like they’ve been through a meat grinder, and I know I’ll carry the smell of this night into the shower and probably half the day beyond.
But one calf is alive, and two cows are standing. That’s the job.
As I’m about to leave, Lyle Dunn blocks my path. I’m too tired to deal with his assholery, and I’m about to tell him that when he surprises me.
He tips his hat. “You did right by her, Doc. I know…I wasn’t welcomin’, but you still stuck it out. So, thank you.”
The apology is gruff, reluctant, but it’s an apology all the same.
“Did it for her.” I tip my head toward the heifer, who noses her calf with tenderness.
Lyle gives a short laugh, like he agrees with that more than he wanted to. “Fair enough.”
I hand him a bag with extra calcium doses, electrolyte packets, a bottle of iodine dip for the calf’s navel, and a couple of antibiotic doses in case the heifer spikes a fever.
“I’ll send you an email with notes—dosing, timing, what to watch for. Just follow it and call me if she crashes again.”
He shoves his hat back on and takes the bag. He looks at me and then gives a half smile.
