“Horses, then,” the towering man says. I notice the lack of enthusiasm threading through his tone.
“If we stick to the woods, we might have a chance of surprising him.”
“That’s what we’ll do, then,” he says.
Fifteen minutes later, we ride silently side by side, great puffs of white shooting out in front of us when we breathe. I turn my collar up against the chilly air, and Arlo tugs his Stetson lower.
For a man who claims he grew up in the saddle, he sure looks awkward. But I don’t want to push things, bring up his injuries again. No telling what he’s been through. All I know is now—in the creeping quiet of our pursuit—he looks sharper. Awake. Like this is familiar ground.
When the herd is finally in view, I sigh with relief, counting them twice for good measure. “All accounted for. All good.”
“Maybe,” Arlo mutters, eyes on a fresh set of boot prints, an unlatched gate, and truck tracks.
“God,” I exhale.
“I’ll handle it.” He resets the gate, tests it twice.
The air feels cold. Quiet. I scan the pasture, eyes straining.
Then, I hear the crunch of snow. Turning, I see Arlo crouched on the far side of the trough.
My chest tightens as I maneuver Buttercup toward him.
He looks up at my approach, kneeling next to a newborn calf. His face tightens. “Looks dead.”
I dismount, kneeling beside Arlo. So close I can feel the heat radiating from him. “Still breathing.. I think.” But cold and stiff like the kits I saved this morning. “We’ll bring him back with us. See what warming up and milk will do.”
“Not your bra?” Arlo says drily, and so deadpan it takes me a second to realize he’s joking.
“Can you manage him?” I ask, eyeing the horse. A true test of a cowboy.
“‘Course,” is his only reply, bristling at the question as if I shouldn’t ask. But when I watch the clumsy way he carries the calf, eyeing me hesitantly before he drapes it over the saddle, I no longer feel regret for asking. When he acts like he’s going to lead the horse back, I freeze, stunned by the move.
“No, you need to be in the saddle, giving him some of your body heat.”
He nods, eyeing the unmoving calf and the saddle like they’re his enemies. Then, he mounts slowly, tenuously. A moving contradiction.
“This goes without saying, but keep him over the pommel, as close to your body as possible. That way, we start the warming-up process before we reach the ranch.”
Gratefulness flashes behind his eyes, then, with a tip of his hat, he nudges Thunder forward, holding the baby like it could break, eyes still scanning the dark.
At the ranch, we stop in front of the stables, and I jump down, heading for the calf. “We’ll keep him here tonight, just to make sure he’s in the clear.”
Arlo grunts. “Starting to move now. Reviving a bit.”
“Nothing a little warmth and milk won’t fix. Wasn’t expecting this arrival so late. Bred for fall calves,” I add, grunting when he transfers the little guy to me. “Light. Too light.”
Arlo jumps down, grimacing at the landing. Then, he reaches out his arms, the surest he’s looked around livestock since arriving. “I’ve got him.”
I nod, grabbing the reins to lead both horses. He doesn’t say another word, just follows behind me.
“Extra stall there.” I watch as Arlo deposits the baby in a soft mound of straw, hands steady as he arranges stray grass around him like a nest. The little one lifts his head finally, big black eyes filled with trust.
Arlo’s eyes meet mine for a split second, and the stables go warmer and safer. We work in silence, untacking our mounts. Every chance I have, I side-eye him, puzzled by the practiced care and precision. He could almost convince me …almost.
Back in the house, I work on reconstituting powder into fresh, warm milk. When I enter the stall with a big calving bottle, the cowboy sits in the straw, rocking the calf like a human infant.
“Already perking back up. Glad we found you,” I whisper, kneeling beside them. “Here,” I say to the cowboy, and our fingers brush as he takes the bottle. “Done this before?”
