by Emilia Finn
The foal’s first foot is already protruding, but I need a minute, just a minute more to prepare. Then I can help her get it out.
“You’re gonna be just fine, beautiful,” I coo. “You’re already doing so well.”
“Great bedside manner,” Beckett murmurs, as though checking the skill off a list. “Very good.”
“Zip it.” I lift Graciela’s tail and push it aside. “Wrapping this would be super helpful. Ya know…” I look to Beckett and lift a brow. “If you wanted to make yourself useful.”
“I am being useful. I’m performing administrative duties while my wife is busy being a badass babe doctor.”
“Not your wife.” I snag Graciela’s tail again when it whips out and slaps across my chest. Her body clenches as another contraction takes control, the foal pushes just a little further outside her mother’s body, and with it, more placenta. More fluid. “You’re being extremely un-useful right now, ya know that?”
“Yup.”
Samara giggles behind me. It’s watery and scared, tearful and shaky, but it’s a giggle nonetheless—and no doubt partially why Beckett is behaving the way he is.
“Where are your parents?” I ask without looking around. Graciela’s contraction recedes, her body relaxes, so I take my chance to finish cleaning her up. Straw sticks to her vulva, and dirt coats outside of that. “Samara? Where’s your mom and dad?”
“Sleeping?” She says it like a question.
In the same moment, a crack of thunder hits just outside the barn, followed by lightning illuminating the night sky.
Startled, my eyes whip to Beckett’s as he watches me close.
He’s playing, he’s silly, but that shield is barely there, and beneath it, he’s watching to make sure I’m okay. Getting kicked by a scared horse, or struck by stray lightning, isn’t on his list of things he’s going to allow tonight.
When the thunder passes, and the sky turns dark outside once more, I look back to Graciela and check that she’s clean—or at least, as clean as I’m going to get her in these conditions.
Snatching the box of gloves from the ground, I punch a hole in the cardboard and yank out two gloves. My hands shake; from adrenaline, from eagerness, from hope. But pulling one on, I toss the box at Beckett, and snicker when the corner hits his thigh.
He hisses from the pain, scowls and meets my eyes like he thinks being grumpy will scare me, then he goes back to loving on his other girlfriend. “She’s a meanie, huh?” He sets the box to the side and presses a kiss to her nose. “Tabitha Lawrence is a big ol’ meanie when she doesn’t get to finish the coitus.”
“Yeah, and now you know.”
Once my gloves are on, I probe around Graciela’s vulva and try to massage it a little looser. The foal’s foot has been free too long, while the rest of him remains stuck.
“Has Graciela ever had babies before, Samara?” I glance over my shoulder and find the girl eagerly watching over the fence. “Has she done this before?”
Samara shakes her head. Then nods. “One time, but the baby died.”
“Oh?” My eyes shoot back to Beckett. “Why did the baby die, sweetheart?”
“There was lots of blood,” her voice cracks. “I don’t know.”
“Red bag?” I look into Beckett’s eyes and hate that my stomach sinks. “What are the chances of that happening twice?”
“Too fuckin’ high,” he sighs. Patting Graciela’s neck one last time, he pushes to his knees and grabs a pair of gloves. “Guess I’m helping, then.”
My heart tugs for a moment. Insecurities. Hurt feelings. “Because I’m not good enough? You don’t think I can do the job?”
“You can do it.” He comes around behind me and drops a kiss on the top of my head as he lowers down. “I’m here for muscle only. The faster we get it out, the safer for the foal. This is still your show, Tabby. You’re the boss. What do you want me to do?”
“Pull.” I scoot a little to the left to give him room, and when Graciela contracts again, I massage her vulva back as Beckett grabs on to the protruding leg and starts pulling.
Nature has made it so that horses have done this for eons all on their own in the middle of a field, and it’s all worked out fine. But Graciela is old. She’s already lost one, and going by her body language, she’s already tired, so Beckett and I are here to lend a helping hand.
Beckett plasters his back to the wall of the stable, and when Graciela’s contraction pushes on, he rests his feet on the backs of her legs for traction. Using her, and using his legs, he tugs, and gains an easy six inches of foal before the contraction ends.
“She might need air.” I search the space around us, only to stop and find Samara standing at the open gate, holding the very apparatus I need.
She’s shaky and scared, and the truth of it is, she probably shouldn’t be watching this. Graciela’s age and history means the likelihood of survival for one or both horses is lower than that of a healthy mare. But Samara is a girl on the cusp of her teen years. She’s matured beyond her age, and she’s scared for her pet. Her companion.
And she still knew enough to grab the pump.
“Thank you.” I take it from her hands and turn back to face my work. “Just step back a little to give us space,” I tell her. “You don’t have to go outside, but give Beckett a little room to pull.”
“Okay.” Samara takes a single step back and shakily tucks long, black hair behind her ear. “I’m gonna be a vet, ya know? When I’m older, I’ll help animals like you guys do.”
“Yeah?” Beckett pulls on the next contraction. His shoulders bulge, and his jaw clenches, but he keeps his question gentle, his tone soft and inquisitive. “Even looking at this?” He jokes. “On the floor, in the muck, with dirty hands, this is what you wanna do with your life?”
“Yes.” I answer for her. “Because it’s more than dirty hands and hard work.”
I push the placenta back. Graciela’s vulva. I massage her skin and try to make room for the baby to pass through, but when a gush of red splashes onto the yellow straw floor, my heart clenches for a single beat.
“She’s ruptured.” I grab on to the foal’s legs too, add my strength, and when Graciela cries out in pain as another contraction takes control of her body, I pull.
Shoulder to shoulder, Beckett and I sweat as we work. More leg. Then a nose. A mouth. We pull until the foal’s eyes and ears are exposed, then I drop the legs I hold, and instead snatch up the breathing pump.
I leave Beckett to what he’s doing while our baby is half in, half out, and clearing away the mucus from its nose and mouth, I shove the tube over its muzzle.
“Breathe, baby.” I pump. Pump. Pump, and send a prayer up into the stormy sky.
Another boom of thunder sounds outside. A moment later, a bolt of lightning follows and illuminates the clouds.
“Come on, baby. Breathe for us.”
“She’s coming out.” Beckett grunts and uses all his strength to push with his feet, pull with his arms. “One more contraction and we’re done.”
I pump the foal and try to fill her lungs with air. Tears burn my eyes, and behind me, Samara cries. But I work hard to bring the foal back.
I remove the mask and open her mouth. “Come on, sweet baby. Breathe for us.”
“Is it dead?” Samara sobs. “Is the baby dead?”
“Relax for a second.” I bring the mask back to the foal’s face and tuck her muzzle inside. Pumping again, my shoulders burn from the effort, and right beside me, Beckett pulls hard enough that his face and neck turn red. “Come on, beauty. You got this.”
Beside me, the foal’s limp body quickly begins sliding out. Shoulders. Rump. Hind legs. With Beckett pulling and guiding the way, the foal drops to the straw floor.
Knowing the worst is past, Graciela’s body turns lax as she looks over her shoulder. She watches her baby, then stares into my eyes, and for a single moment, it’s like she’s asking me to do my best. To save her baby. To not give up.
> I continue pumping, pumping, pumping, and on the last, the foal’s body jolts as though a bolt of lightning outside got it.
The air explodes from my lungs, then I gasp for more and drop back with the pump in my hands. Because right in front of us, the foal works hard on cracking its eyes open.
It’s dizzy and confused. Stunned and a little weak, but it’s alive.
“It’s a girl,” Beckett chokes out with a smile.
This is his day job, standard business practice for him, and I doubt he gets emotional about all the animals he treats, but laid out in this barn, beneath a stormy sky with me by his side and a little girl crying just a couple feet away, his smile transcends the worry he worked hard to hold in, the fear, the premature grief he was bottling up.
Beckett drops his head back till it thunks against the wooden wall, then he throws a placenta-covered arm over my shoulder and pulls me in tight. “We did it.”
“We did.” My hands are filthy, my chest and thighs covered in blood and all sorts of other gross shit, so although I would like to reach up and fix the hair dangling in my eyes or swipe away the tears tracking over my cheeks, I do as Beckett does and relax back.
The foal lies in the straw, she drops her head to the ground and simply breathes. But her eyes remain open, her diaphragm moving as she inhales… exhales.
Graciela isn’t out of the woods yet. She has to expel the rest of the placenta, and soon, she has to stand and feed her baby. But for a minute, a single minute, we all chill the hell out and breathe.
“What are you gonna name her?” I ask the girl who wrings her hands.
Samara’s jaw quivers as she watches her newest horse, and her heart, no doubt, thuds in her chest.
“I figure, since you helped and all,” I smile, “you get to be the one to name her.”
“I helped?” Samara takes a step inside the stall. Another step. Slowly, quietly, so as not to spook either horse. “Do you really think so?”
“Uh huh.”
My heart races with the endorphin rush of a job well done. My brain swirls with thoughts of Darlene. I think of the cat who needed a home, and the veterinary practice that became that for both of us. I think of Doctor Bennett—geez, I miss Doctor Bennett.
But before I slide down the trap of missing my old home, my old family, I come back to Samara and grin. “I was about your age the first time I got to help. You were instrumental in this baby surviving. You brought the pump to me when I needed it.”
“I worried she wasn’t breathing,” Samara admits quietly. “I was worried—”
“You did the exact right thing,” Beckett says with a dopey grin. He’s riding the same high as me. The same glee. “Kinda fitting that two women were the boss of this show, and in turn, the foal is a girl. That’s a sign.” He looks to Samara. “Name?”
“Um…” She drops to her butt in the straw, exhausted and overwhelmed. “Uh… maybe Rose?”
Beckett hums, low and deep in his chest. “Rose?”
“Because Mr. and Mrs. Rosa delivered her, right? That fits.”
“I’m not his wife.”
Beckett chuckles and squeezes me against his side. “It totally fits. Excellent choice.”
“Do you think Mother and Father will be mad at me for being outside after dark?”
Absolutely.
“No. We’ll talk to them so they know you were a hero.” I meet her eyes, hold them for a moment, then grin. “It’ll be okay, I promise. Now come on.” I push off Beckett and rub a hand over Graciela’s thigh. “Help me get the rest out, then we can get Rose to her feet. She has to stand and eat.”
“Okay!” Like a newborn foal herself, Samara jumps to shaky legs and sways from too much excitement. “I’m gonna be a vet someday, so I’m ready to help.”
20
Beckett
the epilogue before the epilogue
As with any great love story, stormy skies make way for sunny days.
The clouds part overnight and move along on the gentle breeze left behind, so by the time Tabby and I wake around eight and make our way outside with coffee and bacon in our stomachs—thanks to Mrs. Murder—spring has finally made its appearance. The sun shines down on us, it sparkles against Tabby’s unblemished skin, it glows in her long hair, and when she turns her face up to absorb every last ray she can, I fall that much more in love with the woman of my dreams.
She’s not what I thought I wanted, and she sure as hell has more opinions than I realized I could love. But the things I wasn’t searching for these past few years—her independence, her tenacity, her mean streak and boldness—these are the things I love the most.
I was looking at all the wrong types of women, having fun, treating it all with an air of fun and brevity. Then Tabitha Lawrence walked into my life and turned it all on its ass.
Now, Saturday morning, while she smiles up at the sun, free and happy, I realize that she’s exactly who I need, the final piece to the puzzle of my life. And now that she loves me back, it’s my job, my fucking mission, to make sure she stays put.
The only way to do that, I know, is to show her she’s wanted, needed, cherished, and loved. It’s to prove myself, time and time again, that my happiness rests solely in her hands.
But then again, so does her ringing fucking phone.
When the device chirps for the hundredth time this morning, we both look down and see that name. His name. Mark. He interrupts her salute to the sun, he steals her smile, and when the call ends, only for another to start, Graciela and Rose startle a mere twenty feet away.
Mother and daughter are both healthy after a big night. Graciela grazes the lawn, and smiles—I swear she smiles. And when she’s not running circles around her mom, Rose ducks her head in low and takes a little milk.
The foal is strong. She’s healthy and confident, and despite the few minutes it took to get the chestnut girl to push to her feet last night, today, she’s running laps and throwing her head back to tease and taunt her elders.
Sighing, Tabby ends her call with a finger on the side button, then she snuggles into my side and ignores the elephant in the room. “They both made it through the night.”
“Because of you, Doctor Lawrence.” I press a kiss to the top of her hair, because I guess I’m good with not mentioning the elephant too. “I’m sorry for ever pigeonholing you to a desk. That was so shitty of me.”
“Well…” Tabby kills another call just as it begins and wraps her arms around my hips. “To be completely fair, that was the job you were advertising. You didn’t catfish me. And don’t worry; I’m not gonna quit now just because you’re feeling all sorts of appreciative for getting laid.”
“Oh thank god!” I look to the sky and snicker. “I was really worried you were gonna quit.”
“Nah.” Inhaling fresh morning air while Rose drops to the grass and rolls where her mother is trying to eat, Tabby squeezes me that much tighter. “I can’t promise forever. At Lakeside,” she amends quickly when I tense. “I can’t promise forever in my current job. Last night only proved my passion is with the animals. Not their humans and the invoicing. But I’ll stick for a little while. I’ll continue to do what we already do. But if something opens up in a town near enough that I can commute, it’s only fair you’re aware I’m going to consider it.”
“But you wouldn’t leave me, right? You might go treat animals in the next town, but you’re still gonna come home to me?”
“Well, we don’t live together or anything, and it’s not like I’m gonna—”
“Move in with me? Great. I’ll clear out a few drawers for you as soon as we get home.”
Huffing, Tabby only shakes her head—and ends another call. “We’ll discuss it on the drive home.”
“Speaking of…”
We both look across the driveway and stop on Reginald leaning into the engine bay of my truck.
His pants are stained, despite the early hour, and right beside him, Reggie junior packs away used tools. They work as a
team, but only a moment later, Reginald pushes up to stand tall. He grabs the hood and slowly begins lowering it.
For the first time in days, my engine is being left alone, the hood lowered, and my truck will get her privacy and dignity back.
When the front is down, Reginald steps off his stepstool and makes his way to the driver’s side door. His pants are too big, his shirt, too small. The guy who is shorter than Tabby, and his son, shorter than the terrifying-at-first-glance Samara, climbs into the cab of the truck and shuts the door. A moment later, the engine roars, and both men howl in victory.
Laughter bubbles in my chest.
This entire vacation, every minute spent on the murder farm, has been surreal. The dinner gowns, the psycho kids who speak in monotone. The no-sex-before-marriage rules, and the father who has quite possibly thought about wearing my skin at least once in the last forty-eight hours.
But then I think of everything else: Graciela and Rose. The magical lake, and the trees we have to pass through first to reach it. The legends of warring enemies who eventually become lovers. The picnic last night, then the evening spent in the barn. The bed Tabby and I shared until only an hour ago—and by bed, I mean the floor, since the actual bed is too noisy.
The lovemaking. The promises. The hearts given and received. The realization that there isn’t a single thing I won’t do now to make the woman in my arms happy.
Tabby’s phone chirps again, demanding and rude, but instead of getting mad or jealous about it, my heart sinks only because I know this hurts Tabby. She’s too kind for her own good, too forgiving, and she abhors conflict—with everyone except me, I suppose.
“You’re going to that dinner tonight, aren’t you?”
As though stunned I would bring it up so flippantly, Tabby glances up and meets my eyes. “Huh?”
“Mark.” I nod toward her hand. Her phone. “You’re gonna go to that dinner so he can have his say.”
She thinks on that for a moment. Considers. Watches Rose run laps around her mother. But when the phone chirps again, she sighs and hugs me that much tighter. “I have to.”