“You got a rope in your truck?”
“Uh, yeah—”
“Good. I figured you did. Listen—the Thomases’ cow isn’t bringing to birth properly. I’ve got to get out there immediately.” She paused. “And all my stuff’s back at the house.”
“You want me to drive you home?”
She shook her head, and Dean began to envision the Thomases’ barn as part of his immediate future. “There isn’t time, if my hunch is correct. That’s why I asked about the rope.” She thrust out her hand. “Congratulations. You are now an honorary veterinary assistant. Say your goodbyes and meet me at your truck in five minutes.”
“Our clothes…?”
“Believe me,” she tossed over her shoulder as she swished off toward his truck, “the cow won’t care.”
Chapter 12
In spite of her obvious anxiety, Wilma burst out laughing when she saw Dean and Sarah get out of the truck.
“Lordy, lordy—if it ain’t Cinderella and her Prince Charming.”
“Very funny, Wilma,” Sarah called as they trudged to the house through a undulating maze of squawking chickens, her hem already dragging in the driveway mud. Dean saw her gather up several handfuls of skirt, then let it drop again with a shake of her head. “I need a bucket of water,” she told the widow when she reached the porch steps, “the mildest soap you’ve got, and some old towels.” She patted the skirt. “And some safety pins, if you have any. Meet you in the shed.”
Honey greeted them with a skull-rattling moo as they entered the sweltering lean-to that passed for a barn. The stench made Dean’s stomach lurch; the cow had obviously relieved herself more than once since her labor had started. That, and the rank smell of hot, confined cow nearly knocked him over.
“You okay?” Sarah asked him, her brow puckered. He nodded, afraid to open his mouth. “I’m sorry,” she said. “It won’t seem so bad after a few minutes.”
“If I live that long,” he said, forcing the words out.
She gave him a smile that momentarily took the edge off the nausea. “You’ll live. Trust me.”
He still wasn’t sure about that when Wilma appeared with the requested supplies.
“Great.” Sarah took the full bucket from her, positioning it close to the cow. “Any pins?” Judging from Sarah’s grin when Wilma proffered her hand, there were. Sarah scooped them up, then said gently, “You can’t stay.”
“I figured,” the older woman said, her gaze wandering to the cow. “I take it you expect trouble?”
She rubbed Wilma’s arm reassuringly. “She would’ve delivered by now otherwise. You know that. Which is why you called me, remember?”
“Yeah, I reckon. Okay…” Wilma raised her hands. “I’m gittin’.” She gave Honey one last glance, then disappeared into the sunlight on the other side of the door.
The instant Wilma left, Sarah went into action. As if such an activity was part of the normal, day-to-day routine for calving, Sarah began to corral the unwieldy dress with the pins, somehow flattening and shortening it at the same time. That done, she twisted her head and scowled at the sleeves.
She thrust out her hand, several pins glinting on her palm. “You’ll have to do the honors. I can’t manage with one hand.”
Dean stepped over to her, taking the pins. He picked at the sheer balloons, his mouth twisted. Funny, he couldn’t smell cow anymore. Just Sarah. He closed his eyes and inhaled.
“Dean.”
“Yes?”
“I don’t give a damn how you do it. Just pin ’em. The object here is to get ’em out of my way.”
“Gotcha.” So he pinned. And took unfair advantage of the situation.
Sarah squirmed.
“Dean…?”
“Hmm?”
“You’re tickling me.”
He let his mouth drop closer to that luscious point where neck and shoulder meet. “Like this?” He gently blew on her neck.
“Dean!” She twitched, the tiny diamond earrings in those perfect little lobes throwing shards of light across her cheeks.
“Yes?”
“Stop that!”
He chuckled, savoring the flush of color along that gloriously long neck, the rapid rise and fall of her breasts not six inches from his lips. “Yes, ma’am.” He fastened the last pin and stepped away from her. Looked at her. Laughed. “You look absolutely ridiculous.”
She snorted, moving closer to the cow, then flashed him a bemused look. “Says the man in the tux standing in the middle of a barn. I didn’t bring you along just to pretty up the place, you know.” She flapped her hand at him. “Strip to the waist, buster.”
“You didn’t.”
“Just…do as you’re told,” she shot back. Blushing.
Dean sighed and removed his jacket and shirt, taking them outside and parking them on a bale of hay that seemed to be planted in the middle of the yard for no other purpose. By the time he returned, Sarah’s right arm had disappeared into the cow, her brows nearly meeting with determination. She suddenly winced; he saw every muscle tense as she just stood, frozen. “Oh, yeah,” she said after a few seconds, “her contractions are just hunky-dory. Okay…the calf seems to be fine. Just contrary.”
“Meaning?”
“Backwards,” she said, not looking at him. “If I could just…” She closed her eyes, concentrating.
Dean just stood, watching. Wondering what his part was to be in all this.
“I’m trying to turn the calf around so it comes out head first,” she explained, then blew out a stream of air. “The operative word here is trying.”
“Not working?”
“Not yet.” He saw her take a deep breath, reach in more deeply, if possible, then issue a series of not very ladylike grunts and groans. She repeated this process several more times, then finally slipped out her arm, immediately sloshing water from the pail all over it. The front of her dress was already stained with things Dean didn’t wish to think too hard about, but she seemed unperturbed. About the dress, anyway. The delivery was something else again.
“He’s not budging.”
“He?”
“Only a bull would be this recalcitrant.”
Dean cocked his head. “Isn’t that a little chauvinistic?”
“Ask me if I care.” Then she let out a harsh breath, rubbing the cow’s sweating flank. “I really don’t want to do a C-section, especially without the proper equipment. So-o-o, I guess that means we try to deliver him breech.”
“We?”
The corners of her mouth lifted, but her eyes were worried. “It’s why I invited you to the party. Where’s that rope?”
He retrieved it from the corner where he’d thrown it when they’d arrived, held it up.
“Can you do slipknots?”
“Ye-e-es,” he replied. “I’m not a total doofus.”
“Not total, no,” she conceded. “Okay, two slipknots, one on each end. I’ll try to loop them around baby’s hooves, then we’ll have to pull him out. God willing, Honey’s contractions will keep up enough so we can work with them. Now, the problem is, the calf will try to breathe as soon as it hits air, so we have to work quickly. At the same time, we don’t want his hips or shoulders to get caught in Mama’s pelvis, nor do we want a torn cow. Got that?”
“Oh, sure,” Dean muttered. “Piece of cake.” He handed her the slipknotted ends of the rope. “Okay, Doc—go for it.”
After a few minutes of more blind maneuvering, Sarah flapped the protruding rope at Dean. “Okay. I think we’re set. Loop this around your waist, hold the two pieces, and pull slowly and gently when I say.” She shut her eyes for a second, splayed a hand across her chest and sucked in a deep breath, then darted him a not-real-confident smile. “You ready?”
He nodded.
The crease between her eyebrows said it all. But he also knew how dedicated and stubborn and good she was at what she did. There she was, filthy and smelly and paying him less mind than if he were a cow plop, and all he cou
ld think of was how much he wanted her.
Brother.
“Now. Pull!” she directed, her arm once again inside the cow. She nodded, concentrating. “Good. A little more…stop!” After a few seconds: “Again, pu-u-ull. Slo-o-owly…come on, baby…Damn!”
Dean saw sweat dripping into her eyes, automatically grabbed a towel and wiped her face. She offered a grateful smile, then took a deep breath. “He slipped back,” she said, unnecessarily. “Ready to try again?”
“I’m just along for the ride,” he said gently, repositioning himself. “Maybe you should be talking to the calf, not me.”
She managed a choked laugh. “Good point. Okay…”
Several tries and too many minutes later, the calf was still firmly entrenched inside Honey and Sarah was soaked with sweat and cow crud.
And near to tears.
For at least the fourth time, she bent over the bucket, washing up. Not looking at him. The cow bellowed, rolling her eyes, looking as if she might go down. Sarah jerked up her head, wiped her face with the back of her arm. Dean touched her wrist, and her eyes snapped to his, as if she’d forgotten he was there.
“Scared?”
Her eyes widened, then she nodded. Then, a deep breath, hauling in another round of determination. “Frustrated.”
Something occurred to him. “You’ve never done this before, have you?”
Now he could hear the near hysteria in her voice. “How’d you guess?” She hauled in another deep breath, then another, then admitted, “I’ve always been able to turn ’em around. Or been able to do a section. But, after a half hour of intimate acquaintance with this calf, I can tell you that this is one big sucker. A big sucker in no hurry to be b-born.”
“Hey, baby—” He plopped a kiss on top of her damp, disheveled head. “You can do this.” He paused. “We can do this.”
“You think?” she replied with a small, exhausted smile.
“I know.” He took hold of the rope. “Now, get your hand back in there, woman, and this time, don’t take ‘no’ for an answer.”
The laugh was real this time.
One more deep breath, then she reinserted her hand. “Pull,” she commanded softly, then, after a moment, her eyes closed. “Okay…good, good…pull again…yes!” He saw her face relax, the crease begin to fade as her voice rose with excitement. “Yes! Yes! Yes! Pull, Dean, pull!… Okay! Here we go…” He saw her other hand grasp a tiny hoof, gently work it down, followed by the second hoof, then legs and rump…
“Okay…” She was guiding herself now. “Maneuver the head under the pelvic bone…come on, Sarah…come on, little guy…”
Suddenly, in a huge rush of unpleasant-smelling liquid, the calf spilled to the straw-covered floor, its embryonic sac still clinging to its face. Sarah quickly tore the membrane away, then took a towel and started rubbing it. She cupped her hands around the bull’s chest, then shook her head. “Oh, no you don’t!” she said sharply, making Dean jump. She hauled the calf up by its hind legs and swung it back and forth, then shook it up and down. “Breathe, damn you!”
Dean stood there, fascinated. Horrified. Amazed.
At last, the calf coughed up a bunch of junk from his throat; Sarah immediately laid it down and began rubbing it again, then raised her eyebrows at Dean. “Hey—I could use a little help here!”
He grabbed another towel and joined her. “Isn’t the mother supposed to be doing this?”
“Usually, yes,” she panted, watching the calf’s face as she spoke. “Sometimes, though, when the birth’s been hard, Mama spaces out for a minute. That’s why we’ve got to get Skeezix here up on his feet and start feeding as soon as we can.”
As if he’d heard, the little brown-and-white calf suddenly wobbled to his feet like a hungover cowboy. He bleated in Sarah’s face and she kissed him smack on the nose, then turned him around and shoved him underneath his mother’s udder. After some encouragement, the little guy figured out what he was supposed to be doing, and both Sarah and Dean laughed at Honey’s perplexed expression at having something foreign tugging at her teat. But after a moment, she lowed and nuzzled her baby’s rump.
And Sarah burst into tears—gulping, frantic sobs of relief and pent-up adrenaline. Startled, Dean pulled her into his arms. And chuckled, briskly rubbing her back.
She pushed a short laugh through her nose, rubbing her eyes with the heel of her hand. “Real professional, huh?”
He looked into her face, wiping away the tears with his fingertips.
“Just…real.” Planting a quick kiss on the tip of her smudged nose, he added, “Knew you could do it.”
For the first time that week, her smile brought to mind thousands of smiles from years gone by. “Thank you” was all she said.
And his heart melted into a puddle at his feet.
They sat in Dean’s truck, staring at Sarah’s house, for a full minute.
“Well. That was fun,” Dean commented at last.
Sarah was almost too tired to laugh. “Next time I’ll take you lambing. Talk about fun.”
Dean was silent for several seconds. Then, so slowly she almost didn’t notice, he skimmed one knuckle down her cheek. “Next time?”
Her hand closed around the door handle. “Just a figure of speech.” She pushed down on the handle, intending to open the door, get out of the truck, get away from what was coming.
She wasn’t quick enough.
“Sarah.” In one motion, Dean slid his hand down her arm, his fingers cuffing her wrist. “Honey, why are you fighting this so hard?”
“This?” To her acute disgust, her voice wobbled. “What ‘this’ might you be referring to…?”
“This ‘this’…” She had no idea how he accomplished it, but the next thing she knew, she was in Dean’s arms, his mouth vanquishing hers in a kiss that would surely go down in somebody’s record book as a kiss capable of changing the course of history.
It was certainly changing the course of Sarah’s history.
This was far more than the melding of lips and tongues, of mingling breaths and shared sighs. She’d joined lips and tongues and breath and sighs with a few other men in her time. However, all those other times, she’d pretty much been able to feel her extremities when it was over.
When Dean finally lifted his mouth from hers, she was no longer shaking. Her muscles were too far gone to shake. He just let her drift in the depths of those calm green eyes, smiling at her as if she were a miracle.
“I stink to high heaven,” she said.
“As if I’d notice?”
She laughed softly, but when he started to speak, she put her fingers on his lips and shook her head. Swallowed.
There was no place, no time, left to run.
“I’m going inside,” she said. “Then I’m taking a shower, throwing this god-awful dress in the garbage and fixing you some dinner, which is the least I can do for you after what I just put you through.”
She saw hope and disbelief war in his eyes, and fought to keep from blushing at the innuendo implicit in her invitation. Cooking dinner for him was not the least she could do for him. Certainly, it wasn’t the most she could do for him. For either of them.
But he didn’t say a word. About that, anyway. What he did was shift so she snuggled against his chest.
“You know…the only part of that that makes me a trifle nervous is the cooking dinner part.”
“I don’t…oooh, wait a minute.” She sat up, frowned at him. “Ed?”
“Mmm. I believe his words were ‘don’t accept a dinner invitation unless Vivian’s doing the cooking.’”
“He never will let me live that evening down.” She blew out a stream of air. “Everything went wrong that night. The oven screwed up, the roast was a terrible piece of meat, Katey hurt herself right when I was in the middle of making mashed potatoes so they burned. The list goes on. I’m sure the poor man thought I was trying to eliminate the competition.”
“Actually, he used the word poison.”
She smirked. “All I’m offering is an omelet and toast. Even I can manage that.”
“An omelet and toast would be wonderful.” He reached up, grazed his lips over her hair, putting every nerve cell right back on red alert. “But, as I’m no less disreputable-looking—or smelling—than you are, I’m going to run on home and shower and change. I’ll be back in half an hour?”
Suddenly, a half hour seemed interminable. And not nearly long enough.
“An hour. It’s going to take more than a quick shower to undo this damage.”
“An hour it is.” He kissed her again, far too persuasively for either of their good, then she forced herself out of the truck and up the front porch steps, giving him a little wave as he drove off.
The house’s emptiness was practically tangible. The dress swishing incongruously at her feet—she’d given Wilma back her pins—Sarah trooped down the hall and into the kitchen, suffused with pale amber light. A note was tacked to the refrigerator door, scribbled in her mother’s untidy hand. They’d taken Aunt Ida back to Montgomery, Ethel was with them, be back tomorrow evening, she hoped the cow was okay.
It occurred to Sarah she couldn’t remember the last time she’d been alone in the house. Not overnight, anyway. Feeling a little unsettled, she poured herself a glass of iced tea, pawed disinterestedly through the small pile of mail on the kitchen table, then pushed through the swinging door into the dining room.
Spears of brassy light pierced the dust-mote-laden air in here as well. One shaft picked through a dozen prisms hanging from an antique hurricane lamp on the buffet, splintering into a hundred tiny rainbows across the opposite wall. With a soft giggle, Sarah placed her hand “over” the rainbows, as if trying to capture them, a favorite game when she was little. But, of course, as always, the rainbows only danced on the top of her hand, mocking and eternally elusive.
Smelly and filthier than any civilized human being should ever be, Sarah stood smiling at the multicolored reflections. For right now, she thought she just might be able to believe in magic again. Just for the moment. Just for tonight.
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