City Girl, Country Vet

by Cathy Woodman

  I smile to myself, thanking my lucky stars that I haven’t had the opportunity to put my foot in it. The beast isn’t a cow. She’s a heifer.

  Alex slips on a long plastic glove and starts to examine her. She groans with the onset of a contraction. The cowman scratches behind her ear.

  “Cush, cush, my lover,” Stewart murmurs.

  Alex looks across the back of the heifer. “He says that to all the girls.”

  “You have to know how to handle them,” Stewart says. “This one’s mother is a devil at milking time.”

  Alex stands back slightly as the cow lifts her tail and drops a spattering of dung into the straw. The boy collects an armful of clean bedding from the corner of the shed and sprinkles it over the top.

  “She’s a good-looking heifer, don’t you think?” Stewart comments.

  “She is,” Alex says, and I’m not sure whether they’re referring to me or the patient. “I’m afraid I’m going to have to go in.”

  “A cesar?”

  Alex nods.

  “The calf’s alive?”

  “For the moment—I felt it sucking on my fingers.”

  “Two vets—I hope it isn’t going to cost me double.” Stewart’s joking, but there’s an edge to his voice. Stewart could easily end up with a big bill for a dead cow and calf. He nods toward his son. “Sam, go and tell your mum to put the kettle on. We need hot water, and tea. Milk and sugar all round?”

  “No sugar for me,” I say quickly. “Thanks.”

  “Sweet enough already, eh?” Stewart teases. “I should’ve guessed you two were an item. Alex hasn’t stopped going on about you since you turned up.”

  “We aren’t an item,” I say coolly.

  “Pity,” Alex cuts in. “Still, it’s your loss,” he banters. “I’d make quite a good catch, wouldn’t I, Stew?”

  I’m still blushing some minutes later when Sam returns, struggling with a steaming bucket and accompanied by Lynsey, who carries her baby daughter in a sling across her front, and a tray. Sam puts the bucket down, the water sloshing out over the edge, and Alex washes his hands in preparation for injecting the local anesthetic to numb the cow’s flank for surgery.

  “Alex is here with the vet who murdered Cadbury,” Sam says, and immediately the last few weeks go into rewind, and I’m back in the operating theater with my hands inside a dead dog. I want to run away and never come back. Sam’s staring at me, and I can hardly look him in the eye, but I have to say something. I want him to know how much I regret what happened. I take a deep breath.

  “I’m very sorry, Sam,” I begin.

  “No, I’m sorry, Maz,” Lynsey cuts in. “She didn’t kill him, Sam. It was bad luck.” She rests the tray on a bale of straw. “You know what Alex said, that it could just as easily have happened if he’d done the operation.”

  Sam gives me the smallest smile, and I feel a rush of gratitude toward Alex for defending me.

  Lynsey clears her throat as a sign to her husband to say something, but he’s standing beside the cow, stubbornly staring at his mucky boots.

  “Go on, my lover,” she says. “It’ll clear the air.”

  “All right, all right,” he grumbles as he turns to me. “I’m sorry too, Maz. I said things I shouldn’t have. I was tied up with the farm, and the new baby.” And the fact his wife was threatening to leave him, I’d guess. “By the time I realized that Cadbury was really sick, he was too far gone. I must share the blame.”

  “Thank you,” I say, wondering if he knows how much his apology means to me. It’s like having a great weight lifted from my shoulders.

  “We buried his ashes in the garden,” Sam says. “I writ his name on a stone and put it on top of the grave: CADS RIP.”

  “We’re looking for another dog,” says Lynsey. “We were going to ask you if you knew of anything suitable, one of the rescues perhaps.”

  “There is one, actually. He’s called Raffles. He’s a funny-looking dog, but he’s very bright. I’m sure you could teach him to do some party tricks. Would you like to come and see him?”

  “Please, Mum,” Sam cuts in. “Please, please, please.”

  “We’ll pop in to the practice tomorrow,” Lynsey says. She takes me aside as Alex continues with his preparations to make the operation as sterile as it can be. The cowshed with its dusty cobweb hangings and squishy carpet of mucky straw is a far cry from the operating theater at Otter House.

  I notice how Lynsey pats and strokes the baby’s back. Every now and then, the baby thrusts her arms and legs out straight and draws them back again, like a pond skater. “We’ve called her Frances, for obvious reasons. She’s amazing, so much easier than the boys were. Stewart loves her to bits. We all do.” Lynsey smiles fondly in her husband’s direction and lowers her voice. “I don’t expect you to understand, Maz, but I’ve forgiven him. I knew when I married him that he had a wandering eye.”

  It’s more than his eye that wanders, I think, but never mind. It’s Lynsey’s choice.

  “Scrub up, will you, Maz,” Alex calls. From where he’s checking the sensation in the heifer’s flank with a needle, he gestures to the bucket. “We’re almost ready to go. It’s a big calf and it’s breech. Let’s make this quick.”

  But I don’t do cows, I think, half panicking as I prepare to assist.

  Minutes later, Alex is fishing about inside the cow’s womb, tugging at the calf’s fetlocks to pull it out.

  “Hang on to those for me,” he says. “I’ll have to extend the incision a bit more.”

  We work together, and with a rush of fluid the calf emerges. We lower it onto the straw, where it lies very still. Alex starts closing the long incision down the cow’s flank while I clear the fluid and membranes from its muzzle and watch the calf’s chest.

  “It isn’t breathing,” I say urgently.

  Stewart steps forward and hauls the calf up by the hind legs to drain any fluid from its lungs before putting back it down.

  “Anything?” he says, squatting down beside me.

  I shake my head, and Stewart swears. Lynsey and Sam look on, tense and silent. Alex keeps on with his suturing, knowing the sooner he finishes, the sooner he can help us. He was right when he said it was a big calf. It would be pretty distressing to lose it now.

  I rub the calf’s body with handfuls of straw, trying to stimulate it to take its first breath. I pause and lean my face close to its muzzle to see if I can detect the movement of air through its nostrils. Nothing.

  I’m just considering the practicalities of giving a calf mouth-to-mouth when Sam dives down onto his knees beside me and grabs a piece of straw. He sticks it up the calf’s nose, at which it sneezes and shakes its head. “That’s done it,” he says, eyes gleaming in triumph.

  “Well done, Sam,” I say, watching the calf struggle onto its brisket.

  “Boy or girl?” Stewart asks, the relief evident in his voice.

  Sam pulls the calf’s hind leg back.

  “It’s a heifer, Dad. That means she can stay on the farm and join the herd.” He turns to Alex. “One day, Dad’s going to let me do the milking all by myself.”

  “If we’re still in farming,” Stewart mutters, but I don’t think Sam or Alex hear him.

  “That’s great, Sam.” Alex ties off and snips the last knot. “I’m all done here. Sam, your next job is to make sure the calf suckles.”

  “Like our baby sister.” The boy manhandles the calf toward its mother, then helps it to stand. It wobbles like a drunk, then nudges against the cow’s udder, latches on to one of her teats, which is already dripping with the first milk, and sucks noisily.

  “Perfect.” Alex washes his hands in the bucket and dries them on a towel. I follow suit, then help him pack everything away.

  “So, how much longer are you staying in Talyton, Maz?” Stewart asks as he follows us back to Alex’s car.

  “She came to see me to say good-bye,” Alex says, his voice taut. “She’ll be off soon, back to the bright lights of the cit
y. I’m going to miss her.”

  If I’d had any doubts left about the wisdom of staying on in Talyton, they’ve gone, banished by the warmth of Lynsey and Stewart’s welcome.

  “Actually, I’m not going anywhere,” I say, smiling at the look of surprise on Alex’s face. “Emma’s asked me to be her partner at Otter House. I came to tell you I’m staying on.”

  “Why didn’t you say so before?” Alex asks. His tone is scolding, but there’s a smile on his lips.

  “I tried to tell you when I arrived at the manor, but you took over and rang the Barnscote, and I decided I’d wait and tell you at dinner.”

  Stewart glances at his watch. “It’s a bit late for dinner at the Barnscote now. They keep country hours—I think they close at ten. You could eat with us. Lynsey has a pot of stew keeping hot on the Aga.”

  Alex looks at me. His eyes flicker with mutual understanding. Going out for dinner was never going to be about eating …

  “Thanks, but we have to get back,” he says. “I’ve got the kit to clean.”

  It’s dark by the time we’re back on the road.

  “What made you change your mind then, Maz?” Alex asks, his voice gently caressing.

  “Lots of things. Gloria’s funeral mainly. I realized how much I’d miss everyone, how much I’d miss Emma—and you.”

  At the bend at the old bridge, Alex changes down a gear, his hand brushing my thigh. The car shudders. My heart begins to pound with anticipation.

  When we arrive at the manor, the dogs bark, then fall silent. A horse whinnies from the stables.

  “That’s Liberty.” Alex opens the driver’s door and jumps out. “Are you going to stay there all night?” he adds impatiently, and I slide out the other side and join him in the yard as Liberty whinnies again.

  “Hi, my beauty,” Alex calls back.

  “How is she now?” I ask, following him across to Liberty’s stable, where a light flicks on, illuminating the front of the stable block.

  “Really well.” He gives her a mint from his pocket and caresses her neck. “I’m going to turn her out this winter to recuperate and bring her back into work in the spring.” He looks at me. “My parents tell me you don’t ride.”

  I giggle at the memory of Alex’s parents at the show. “They were horrified.”

  “I’ll teach you sometime, if you like.”

  I’m not sure about getting up close and personal with a horse as large as Liberty, but the idea of Alex in those jodhpurs of his … Well, I wouldn’t say no. I don’t say no. I don’t say anything as Alex takes me by the hand and leads me away from the stable, away from the car, and into the shadows cast by the barn.

  “What about the cesar kit?”

  “That can wait. I don’t want to waste any more time”—he lowers his voice to a whisper, sending tiny quivers of anticipation down my spine—“time I could be spending with you.”

  “Oh, Alex,” I breathe.

  “Since the fire …” He falters, and I realize we haven’t really talked about what happened on the night Buttercross Cottage went up in flames. “Since the fire,” he starts once more, “I’ve tried to live every second to the full. I remember the beams coming down and thinking, I’m not going to make it out of here.”

  I open my mouth. He touches one finger to my lips.

  “Shh,” he whispers. “You were thinking of Gloria. I didn’t have to go in after you.” He lets his fingertip trail down my chin, down my throat, stopping just short of the shadowy cleft between my breasts. “Maz … Can we start again?”

  “You bet.” I lift my hand and draw him closer until our lips touch, and my spirit soars as I realize that I’ve found what I’ve been looking for, and it’s here in the country, in a sleepy market town, in Alex Fox-Gifford’s arms.

  Acknowledgments

  I should like to thank my family; my UK agent, Laura Longrigg, at MBA; my U.S. agent, Barbara Zitwer; Christine Pride, senior editor; and the rest of the team at Hyperion for their wonderful enthusiasm and support.

  About the Author

  CATHY WOODMAN began her working life as a small-animal vet before turning to writing fiction. Cathy lives with her two children, three ponies, three exuberant Border terriers, and one very fluffy cat in a village in Hampshire, England.

  Author photo by Tamsin L. Woodman

  Copyright

  Copyright © 2012 Catherine Woodman

  First published in Great Britain in 2010 as Trust Me, I’m a Vet by Arrow Books.

  All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior written permission of the publisher. For information address Hyperion, 114 Fifth Avenue, New York, New York 10011.

  The Library of Congress has catalogued the original U.S. print edition of this book as follows:

  Woodman, Cathy.

  [Trust me, I’m a vet]

  City girl, country vet / Cathy Woodman.—1st ed.

  p. cm.

  Previously published as: Trust me, I’m a vet.

  ISBN 978-1-4013-4171-8

  1. Women veterinarians—Fiction. 2. East Devon

  (England)—Fiction. I. Title.

  PR6073.O6168T78 2012

  823’.914—dc22

  2011017833

  eBook Edition ISBN: 978-1-4013-4286-9

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  Cover design by Laura Klynstra

  Cover photograph by Martina Sandkuehler/Plainpicture

  First U.S. eBook Edition

  Original trade paperback edition printed in the United States of America.

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