‘Oh, love, you know I’d come, but I’m out for dinner, our anniversary. I’m an hour away. Have you called the vet?’
‘Left a message.’
‘Call Jago.’
‘What?’ Rita could barely hear him for the wind whistling around her ears.
‘Call Jago. He’ll know what to do.’
She stared at her phone. Rain streaked down her face. Her hair was stuck to her cheeks in strings. She hadn’t spoken to Jago since everything unravelled. Since she’d started wondering if Archie had ever told her the truth about anything.
But Camilla was bleating again. Worse now. Urgent.
Rita wiped at her eyes with the back of her equally wet sleeve and pressed call.
The phone had barely rung twice before he answered.
Jago’s voice, low and unmistakable, cut through the storm like a lifeline.
‘It’s Rita. I… I need help. Camilla’s in labour and it’s not going right. Teo’s out. I can’t reach the vet. Stan said to call you.’
He didn’t ask questions. Didn’t hesitate. Just a firm, ‘I’m on my way.’
She hung up, heart hammering, and turned back to the pen.
Camilla was lying on her side now, legs kicking, her cries more desperate. Rita stroked the goat’s flank, whispering sweet nothings she didn’t believe herself, trying to remember everything Archie had taught her about breech births and calm energy and staying low to the ground.
Then came headlights, slicing through the rain like a miracle, and Jago’s Defender came rumbling up the track, tyres spitting gravel and mud, its headlights sweeping across the barn as it slid to a stop. He was out before the engine even died, coat flapping behind him like a cape, boots already soaked through. Running at full pelt up to the goat pen.
He barely glanced at Rita as he dived into the pen. Crouching beside the goat, he pulled a pair of medical gloves from his pocket, quickly put them on, then pressed one hand gently to her side.
‘She’s trying. But something’s off. It’s OK, girl. I’ve got you. Try the vet again,’ he demanded.
‘Can you…?’ Rita wailed, dialling the number and getting an engaged tone.
‘I’ll do what I can. But I’m going to need you. Can you get warm water and a couple of towels? Let’s try and get her as comfortable as we can.’
Rita nodded, legs like jelly, and ran.
When she came back, soaked, with a bucket of steaming water and two old towels, Jago was already up to his elbow in goat.
He looked up briefly, his eyes locking with hers. ‘I need you to talk to her. Keep her calm.’
Rita dropped to her knees beside him, stroking Camilla’s head, murmuring her name over and over. The storm crashed around them, rain slamming at them like gravel.
It was over in a sudden, noisy rush. With one final cry, Camilla gave a mighty push, and out slid the tiny, slick form of a kid, a dirty white and trembling, ears twitching, the smallest flicker of life in the stormy chaos.
Jago moved with surprising gentleness, clearing the airways with a towel, rubbing the baby briskly until it let out its first thin, wavering bleat.
‘It’s a boy!’ he shouted animatedly.
He placed the new life down for Camilla to lick clean, but before anyone could take a breath, her sides contracted again. Another push. A second kid, smaller, darker, slipped into Jago’s waiting hands. ‘Twins!’
Rita held her breath as he worked quickly, clearing the little one’s nose and mouth, coaxing life into its limp limbs. Then, a second cry, softer, like an echo of the first.
‘Another boy.’ He popped the newborn down nextto its mother. Camilla turned, already licking them both with slow, rhythmic care.
Rita’s hand came to her mouth. Her eyes, brimming with tears and rain, met Jago’s.
