I stop at the edge of the creek bed, knowing that if I walk through, the water is going to be well over my boots. “I’ll be right back,” Grayson says, and I nod, crossing my arms over my chest to stop the sudden chill that's racking through me. Grayson turns away from me, wadingthrough the knee-high water and the stream parts around his careful steps.
The mama cow that stands alone continues to bellow, taking a hesitant step back and moving a little to the side as Grayson approaches. “I know, I know, mama, what’s wrong?” His faint words carry over the water. He gently reaches a hand out, but not trying to pet her like he does the other animals. He already warned me that these types of cows are a lot more skittish since they’re not exposed to people as often.
She must have some trust in him, however, because as he approaches, she continues to yell at him, but she doesn’t run. It’s then that I hear another moo, this one much lighter and a little more faint.
Grayson crouches down to a squat with an elbow resting on his knee as he talks to something in the thicket.
He tells the mama cow to hold on, and then he heads back in my direction, wading through the stream a little quicker this time.
“What’s going on?” I ask once he’s within reach. I follow Grayson back up the little hill to the UTV, and he digs in a tool box that’s nestled in the back. He grabs a huge pair of cutting pliers, and when he goes to walk by me, he pauses, reaching a hand up to gently squeeze my elbow.
“Her baby is stuck in the thorns, but don’t worry, he’ll be alright.”
He must see the worried expression on my face, or the slight tremor that’s now racking my body, because his previously determined expression falls. He sets the cutters on the seat next to him and starts to roll down the sleeves of his flannel before shucking it off and wrapping it around my shoulders. He helps me slide my arm through each sleeve, and as soon as it’s on, a warm blanket of comfort washes over me. The twitching in my legs stops, and I smile, wrapping my arms around my core. “Thank you.”
Grayson winks once then reaches for the pliers again and heads back through the stream toward the anxious mama.
Once he’s at the thick bushes, he crouches down so the top half of his big body disappears amongst the wide branches. His arms move and muscles flex as he chops branches, grabbing them with his bare hands and tossing them aside. Within a few minutes, there’s a tug, some grumbled words, and then a baby calf emerges from the bushes.
With a little cry, he runs to his mom, circling around to immediately start nuzzling her. His mom finally stops calling out, and she begins sniffing him, cleaning themud from his face and body. Grayson watches them for a minute, and a soft smile grows on his face before he gestures for them to cross the creek and join the other cattle.
The mom must want the same thing, because she starts to walk with Grayson through the water, but when her baby reaches the edge of the stream, he stops walking and starts crying.
The mama runs back to her baby, both of them crying with one another, and she throws a look back to Grayson that I swear says “help me.” With a heavy sigh, Grayson tucks the cutters in his back pocket and reaches down. He tries to wrap his arms around the calf, but the calf is so skittish, bucking and kicking at him as he does.
“Hey, hey, buddy, shhh…” Grayson whispers to the calf with a soothing tone, and then the calf is up, lifted into Grayson's arms before he maneuvers its front legs over one shoulder and its back legs over the other. My ovaries nearly explode when that man carries a half-kicking, half-screaming calf through the muck and water, bringing it to safety on the other side.
The mom follows close, crying out her concern that he has her baby, and I wish I could tell her that her baby could be in no safer hands than with Grayson. The moment he sets the calf down it scampers away, its momchasing after it with her full utters jostling. Once the calf stops, she circles around and goes back to licking. The calf nuzzles her udder hungrily, beginning to feed once she gets closer.
I'm standing frozen in my spot, completely mesmerized at what I just saw.
“You all right?” Grayson asks, smiling at the expression on my face.
“What the hell?” I scoff. “Is this just another day in the neighborhood for you? Do you realize you just carried that calf like it was nothing?”
He shrugs a shoulder. “It’s still a baby, not quite a newborn, bet it only weighs around a hundred pounds.”
I scoff again. “Only a hundred pounds. You didn’t even struggle. I’m starting to think you could sling me over your shoulders like that.”
Grayson's eyes meet mine, and the heat that passes between us has me wanting to duck and cover. Or maybe run to him and see if he can do just that. Because I’ve never felt something like this. This carnal, raw urge. This attraction to pure masculinity that Grayson seems to pull from me.
Grayson Hart: cat rescuer, cattle saver, ovary exploder.
We stand in peaceful silence for a few more minutes, watching the mom and her baby work together. He busieshimself eating dinner and she works tirelessly to clean him. Looking around, I notice in general that the other cows seem to be standing next to their own baby, protectively, ready to ward off any predator.
“We should head out,” Grayson finally says with a tilt of his head toward the setting sun. “It’ll be dark soon. We don’t want to be out here during nightfall in case any coyotes start howling.”
“Coyotes!” I squeal, and with an abrupt spin, I try to turn and run toward the side-by-side. But I only make it one step, because when I go to lift my back foot, I can’t seem to move it at all. I look down at my frozen feet, realizing that I had been standing in the same spot of muck for so long, my boots have solidified with the clay.
“Ahhhh,” I squeal again, trying to swing my arms to give me some momentum. Grayson reaches for me, and I take his hand. With a firm grasp, he tugs me forward, and my foot comes unstuck, but not my boot.
I don’t have time to think because his momentum continues to pull me forward, and the next thing I know, my bare foot, sans boot, squishes into the mud and muck in front of me. I cry out when the cold clay squeezes between my toes, and Grayson releases a deep belly laugh at my dilemma.
“I think I’m stepping in poop,” I push out, laughing so hard that tears begin to well in my eyes.
“Oh, you’re definitely stepping in poop,” he teases as he holds onto me with one hand and reaches down to tug my still-booted foot free. He gives it one tug, then another, and then we both pull at the count of three.
My foot comes free, again with no boot, and I stumble forward, both bare feet now firmly planted in the muck. “Grayson!” I wail with laughter. I swing to face him, losing my balance with the twist, and my arms flail, swinging in wild circles as I do my best not to faceplant into the mud.
