She inserts her hand, brow furrowing as she concentrates on what she’s feeling. The cow shifts, grunting in discomfort, but Quinn shadows the movement, murmuring soft reassurances. This isn't just skill. It’s instinct. The way she moves with the animal, steady and sure. It makes something in my chest warm.
Watching her do her job—calm, focused, and in control—it’s hard not to stare. I love watching her mind work.
Finally, after what feels like several long minutes, she slowly pulls her arm free.
“It’s a uterine torsion. Her uterus twisted and the calf can’t get through the birth canal.”
“Shit,” Wes mutters. “What do we do?”
“We need rope. We’ll have to tie her, roll her, and hope it untwists the uterus.”
“I’ll grab it,” Wes says, already turning away.
“That actually works?” I ask.
“Sometimes.”
“And if it doesn’t?”
Her eyes meet mine, steady and unflinching. “Call Dr. Dillard. Tell him we’ve got a dam with a 200-degree counterclockwise uterine torsion. We’re attempting correction by rolling. But he should prep for an on-site cesarean in case it doesn’t work.”
“Got it,” I mutter, pulling my phone from my pocket.
I shouldn’t be turned on right now. But watching Quinn in the middle of a crisis, calm and capable and commanding, is a goddamn sight to behold. I am in absolute awe of her.
A Little Dirty
Quinn
I’m sweaty, sore, and covered in all manner of disgusting things. I hadn’t even bothered changing into scrubs before tacking up Cash and rushing out to the pasture. Luckily I hadn’t still been in town visiting Pops when Tripp called.
I might have spent the years since I graduated working in the city as a small animal vet, but I did large animal rotations in school, not to mention spending every summer out here watching Dr. Dillard and Pops whenever anything went wrong.
Thankfully, rolling the dam worked. Once the uterus was untwisted, she calved with no secondary complications.
“You did good, sis,” Wes says from the corner of the stable where he’s hanging up Luci’s saddle while Tripp adds hay to the feeders.
I close my eyes and lean against the stable wall, exhaustion settling over me. “Just doing my job.”
“Sawyer’s got dinner ready for us at our house,” he says. His gaze drifts over my filthy clothes. “After you shower.”
I snort, glancing at the streaks of mud and God knows what else plastered on his jeans. “You’re no better.”
He shrugs, grinning. “My girl likes me dirty.”
“Oh, gross. Wes!”
“Nothin’ wrong with a girl who isn’t afraid to get a little dirty.”Tripp winks. "Isn't that right, Quinnie?"
“I know you're not stupid enough to be making dirty jokes about my sister right in front of me,” Wes growls. "I'll fucking throttle you."
I shoot Tripp a warning look, but my lips twitch when his dimples flash with that playful smile.
“Behave,” I mouth.
He shakes his head back and forth. “Oh, I never behave, Quinnie. You should know that by now,” he says, voice low.
“I’ll see you two back at the house in a bit. Hurry up. I’m starving, and Sawyer won’t let me eat until everyone’s there.”
