A Cowboy Under the Mistletoe

by Cathy Gillen Thacker

  She rolled her eyes as if the mere notion was ridiculous. “I don’t have time for that. But what about you?” she asked curiously. “Has there been anyone since that girl you were engaged to when you graduated from college?”

  Hank shook his head.

  Ally walked over to test the wallpaper. She found it rigidly adhered to the wall in some places, practically falling off in others. She deposited a strip of paper in the trash, then knelt to examine the linoleum floor. The speckled yellow-green-and-brown surface was clean, but very dated and extremely ugly. “What happened to the two of you, anyway?” She ran her palm thoughtfully over the worn surface.

  Hank lounged against the counter. “Jo-anne was killed in a terrorist attack overseas.”

  Ally stood to face him again. “I’m sorry,” she said, genuinely contrite. “I didn’t know.” She paused and wet her lips. “Is that why…?”

  Hank guessed where this was going. “I joined the marines? Yeah.”

  Another silence fell, more intimate yet. “And since…?” Ally prodded softly, searching his eyes as if wanting to understand him as much as he suddenly wanted to understand her.

  “I’ve dated,” he admitted gruffly. He shrugged and took another long draft of strong coffee. “Nothing…no one’s… come close to what I had with Jo-anne.” He turned and rummaged through the fridge, looking for something to eat. He emerged with a handful of green grapes. “What about you?” He offered her some.

  Ally took several. “I was engaged a few years ago, before my mother got sick.”

  This was news. Hank watched Ally munch on a grape. “What happened?”

  “I brought my fiancé home to the ranch. Dexter was a real city boy and I expected him to share my lack of attachment to the place. Instead, he fell in love with Mesquite Ridge and thought we should both quit our jobs in Houston and settle here permanently.”

  Hank polished off the rest of the grapes in his palm. “Your mom and dad must have liked that.”

  “Oh, yes.” Ally made a face. “The problem was—” she angled a thumb at her sternum “—I didn’t. I’d spent my whole life trying to get away from here and—” She stopped abruptly and whirled around, staring toward the mudroom in concern. “Did you hear that? It sounded like…”

  A low, pain-filled moan reverberated.

  “That’s Duchess!” Without a second’s hesitation, Ally hurried toward the sound. “She’s obviously in some sort of distress!”

  YOU NEVER WOULD HAVE known this was a woman who didn’t like dogs, Hank thought as Ally knelt in front of the ailing pet. She looked alarmed as she watched Duchess circle around restlessly, paw the heap of blankets, then drop down, only to get up and repeat the procedure. “What’s she doing?” Ally asked.

  Hank gave Duchess a wide berth and a reassuring look. “She’s trying to make a bed,” he said in a soft, soothing voice. “Dams do that for up to twenty-four hours before they deliver.”

  Ally moved so close to Hank their shoulders almost touched. “How do you know that?”

  He resisted the urge to put his arm around her shoulders. “Kurt came by to examine Duchess while you were out. He confirmed she’s within twenty-four to thirty-six hours of delivering her pups.”

  The news had Ally looking as if she might faint.

  Hank slid a steadying palm beneath her elbow. “Kurt gave me the handout he distributes to the owners of all his patients, as well as a whelping kit and a warming box. I read through the literature before I went out to take care of my cattle.” Figuring Ally would feel better if she was similarly prepared, Hank walked back to the kitchen, with her right behind him. He found the folder and gave it to her to peruse.

  She skimmed through the extensive information, troubleshooting instructions and explicit pictures with brisk efficiency. “We can’t handle this!”

  It if had been a purely financial matter, Hank bet she would have said otherwise. He cast a glance toward the mudroom, where Duchess was still circling, pawing and preparing. “Sure we can.” Knowing the importance of a positive attitude, he continued confidently, “It’s been about fifteen years, but I’ve done it before. I helped deliver a litter of Labrador retriever puppies on our ranch, when I was a kid.” That had been one of the most exciting and meaningful experiences of his life.

  Ally put the pages aside and wrung her hands. “Can’t your cousin do this? He is a vet!”

  Annoyed by her lack of faith, Hank frowned. “There’s no reason for Kurt to do this when I can handle it.”

  Ally lifted a brow, unconvinced.

  Irritated, Hank continued in a flat tone. “Someone needs to be with Duchess during the entire labor and delivery process. Kurt has other patients and responsibilities. He couldn’t leave Duchess at home while he’s off working with other animals. And if he took her to the clinic, she and her litter would be exposed to the viruses other dogs bring in, and that could be lethal to the newborn pups.”

  That much, Ally understood. But she was still reluctant to participate. She threw up her hands as if warding off an emotional disaster. “Okay, I get that, but I still can’t do this, Hank! It’s just too far out of my realm of expertise!”

  He had thought it was a bummer that Ally Garrett loathed Christmas. With effort, he checked his disappointment about this, too. “Fine. You don’t have to help.” Holiday or not, he couldn’t magically infuse her with the spirit of sacrifice and giving. No matter how much he wished otherwise…

  “Good,” she snapped, appearing even more upset. “Because I’m not going to!” After taking one long, last look at Duchess, she handed the folder to Hank, and rushed out of the kitchen.

  THERE WAS ABSOLUTELY no reason for her to feel guilty, Ally told herself firmly as she went up to the second floor sewing room and checked out the bolts of upholstery fabric still on the shelves. Not when she heard the canine whimpering coming up through the heating grate.

  Or when Hank ran upstairs to raid the linen closet, and hurried back down again.

  Or when she heard him rushing back and forth below, his boots echoing on the wood floor.

  But twenty minutes later, when a loud whimpering was followed by an unnatural stillness, she couldn’t stand it any longer.

  On the pretext of getting the tape measure from the drawer in the kitchen, she went back downstairs to find the table had been pushed to one side.

  Duchess was settled in a child’s hard plastic swimming pool in the center of the kitchen. Hank knelt next to her. “Come on, girl,” he was saying softly, as the animal arched and strained. “You can do it.”

  Duchess let out a yelp, then looked at her hindquarters with a mixture of alarm and bewilderment. A dark blue water bag had emerged. “Get a couple of the towels. They’re warming in the dryer,” Hank directed.

  Figuring that was the least important of the chores, Ally rushed to comply. By the time she returned, Duchess had heaved again, and the pup was out completely.

  Duchess reached around, tore and removed the sack with her teeth, and cut the cord. As soon as that was done, she licked her newborn vigorously. The pup let out a cry.

  Ally’s eyes welled with tears at the sound of new life.

  Duchess turned away from the pup and began to strain again. Hank picked up the whelp, wrapped it in a towel and handed it to Ally. The pup was warm and soft to the touch. The joy she felt as she looked down at the pale gold puppy cradled neatly in the palm of her hand was overwhelming.

  Hank set the warming box on the floor, made sure the heating pad was turned to low, positioned it on one side of the plastic incubator, then covered it with a white, terrycloth crate pad. “We’ll give this a moment to warm up,” he said, “before we unwrap the pup and put him in.”

  Too overcome to speak, Ally nodded.

  Seconds later, Duchess strained yet again, and the second pup was delivered.

  Over the next two hours, eight more were born.

  Amid the squeaking and the squirming, Duchess cared for them all.

  U
ntil finally, she collapsed with a sigh.

  “Do you think that’s it?” Ally asked.

  “Only one way to tell,” Hank said. He counted the pups. “Kurt said there were definitely ten….”

  Duchess strained again, ever so slightly.

  A dark blue sack, tinier than the others, fell out.

  Only this time, Duchess merely nosed the pup and turned away.

  Please don’t let this last one be stillborn, Ally prayed. “What do we do?” she asked frantically.

  “Do our best to save it,” Hank muttered. He picked up the sack, quickly figured out which end contained the pup’s head, and tore the protective membrane open with his fingers. Amniotic fluid spilled out as he gave the pup’s nose a squeeze.

  There should have been a cry, as with the others.

  But there wasn’t.

  Knowing there was no time to waste, Hank grabbed the bulb syringe, pressed the air out of it, and then suctioned mucous from the lifeless pup’s throat and nostrils. Nothing happened. Again, he suctioned out the fluids. The puppy still didn’t respond.

  Hand pressed to her chest, Ally watched as Hank lifted the tiny form and made a tight seal by putting his own mouth over the pup’s nose and mouth, gave two gentle puffs, then pulled back and assessed her. Again nothing, Ally noted in mounting despair. No visible sign of life.

  Helpless tears streamed from her eyes as Hank repeated the puffing process, then rubbed the puppy’s chest while holding her head down.

  Still nothing, Ally noted miserably.

  Hank used the bulb syringe again, then lifted the puppy and attempted mouth-to-mouth resuscitation once more. And this time, to Ally’s overwhelming relief, their prayers were answered.

  THE SOUND OF THAT SMALL gasp, followed by a highpitched, rather indignant squeak, was nothing short of a miracle, Ally thought.

  With tears of joy rolling down her cheeks, she watched as Hank gently wiped the moisture from the tiny puppy and wrapped her in a cloth.

  Ally drew a quavering breath and edged so close to Hank their bodies touched. “That was…incredible,” she breathed, not sure when she had ever been so impressed by a man’s gallantry under pressure.

  He nodded, looking as amazed and grateful as she felt. “I didn’t think she was going to make it,” he admitted in a rusty voice.

  Ally studied the cute black nose and tightly closed eyes. The pup’s ears were as small and compact and beautiful as the rest of her snugly swaddled form. “You saved her.”

  Yet a trace of worry remained in Hank’s blue eyes, Ally noted as he passed her the newborn.

  A ribbon of fear slipped through her. She cuddled the tiny pup close to her breast, relieved to feel its soft puffs of breath against the open vee of her shirt. The whelp was breathing nice and rhythmically now, and felt warm to the touch. Yet…Ally searched Hank’s face. “What is it?” she asked quietly. “What aren’t you telling me?”

  His glance met hers, then skittered away, as if he didn’t want to be the bearer of bad news. “She’s really small,” he said finally.

  About a third smaller than the others, Ally noted. She nuzzled the top of the puppy’s head as she followed Hank back to Duchess’s side. “So?” She felt the tiny pup brush its muzzle against her collarbone and snuggle even closer. Unbearable tenderness sifted through her and she stroked the dog gently with her free hand. Was this the connection dog lovers felt? Why many considered canines not just pets but members of their family?

  All Ally knew for sure was that she felt fiercely protective of this tiny being. And would do anything to help her thrive. “Isn’t there usually a runt of the litter?”

  Hank admitted that was so, then frowned. “But it’s not just that.” He bent down to tend to Duchess.

  Ally watched him remove the placenta and gently clean away any remaining afterbirth with the skill of a veteran rancher. “Then what’s wrong?” she pressed. She lowered her head and heard a faint purr emanating from the whelp’s chest. “I mean, she seems to be breathing okay now.” The other ten puppies were okay, too. All snuggled together cozily in the warming box, which had been placed inside the whelping pen, within easy reach of Duchess.

  Hank brought a bowl of water to Duchess, and knelt down next to the golden retriever. Shakily, the dam got to her feet and lapped at the water, before sinking down once again. Surveying her with a knowledgeable eye, Hank said reluctantly, “It could just be that the pup you’re holding was the last of the litter to be born. And Duchess was exhausted.”

  Another shiver of dread swept through Ally.

  She watched Hank take a fistful of kibble and hand feed it to Duchess. Wondering what he still wasn’t telling her, Ally prodded, “I hear an ‘except’ in there.”

  Hank’s big body tensed. “Sometimes,” he allowed wearily, deliberately avoiding Ally’s eyes, “when a mother dog shows absolutely no interest in one of her whelps, it’s because the dam knows instinctively there’s something wrong with the pup. That it may not survive…”

  Shock quickly turned to anger. How could he even say that, after all they’d already been through? Ally wondered. “But the littlest one did survive,” she protested heatedly, still cradling the puppy to her chest.

  Hank nodded. And remained silent.

  “She’s going to be fine,” Ally insisted, and to prove it, placed the runt in the warming box with the rest of the litter.

  Again, Hank nodded. But he didn’t seem nearly as certain of that as she wanted him to be.

  Chapter Five

  Wary of fast wearing out his welcome at Mesquite Ridge in regards to Duchess and her puppies, Hank gathered up the soiled towels and cloths, and carried them to the washing machine. For the second time that night, he added detergent and bleach, and switched it on. He returned to the kitchen, spray bottle of disinfectant cleaner, paper towels and plastic trash bag in hand.

  He hunkered down to clean out the plastic whelping bed.

  While he worked, Ally knelt on the floor next to the warming bed that contained all eleven puppies. The whelping instructions Kurt had left for them were in her hands. She appeared seriously concerned and incredibly overwhelmed with the responsibility of caring for the dam and her litter. Duchess was right beside Ally, face on her paws, serenely keeping watch over her brood.

  Hank knew there was no need to burden Ally with this, too—she had enough on her plate, with the sale of the ranch, the task of sorting through her parents things and the possible loss of her job. “I think I can handle it from here,” he said gently.

  She stopped reading and looked up, as if she hadn’t heard right. “What?”

  Was that hurt he saw flashing in her eyes? Or just fatigue and confusion? It had been a long day for Ally, too. “I need to walk Duchess for a moment,” Hank told her. “But then I can handle it.” He paused, wishing Ally would hang out with them a little longer. She was turning out to be surprisingly good company. “Unless you want to stay,” he added impulsively.

  For a second, Ally looked truly torn about whether to stay or go. “I’ll stay until you get them all settled,” she said finally.

  “Thanks.” Deciding to leave her to her thoughts, he headed outside, with Duchess beside him.

  The retriever quickly got down to business, then headed back inside. This time she walked straight to Ally.

  Hank knew Duchess was waiting to be petted.

  Ally didn’t.

  Recognizing it wasn’t going to happen, at least not then, the dog sank down beside her, close enough that her nose was touching Ally’s thigh.

  Ally looked at Duchess briefly, tenderness flickering across her delicate features. Wordlessly, she smiled and went back to her reading.

  Hank folded a clean blanket in the bottom of the whelping pen, then encouraged Duchess to climb back in. “Come on, girl. I need you to get in here so you can take care of your puppies.”

  Duchess just looked at him, clearly understanding, but in no mood to comply.

  At the “standoff”
between him and his canine pal, Ally did her best to stifle a grin. Which showed how much she knew.

  “You want to try?” Hank asked.

  Her eyes twinkling, Ally tilted her head to one side and said drily, “I don’t think she’s in a mood to listen to me, either. But…” She rose gracefully and moved to the makeshift bed, patting it firmly. “Come on, sweetheart. You’ll be more comfortable in here.”

  Surprisingly, Duchess rose, climbed in and settled down immediately.

  Hank was stunned—and grateful. “Thanks.”

  “No problem.” Ally waved the papers still clutched in her free hand. “I think we’re supposed to introduce the puppies to Duchess next.”

  That was indeed the protocol. The only surprise was that Ally—a confessed dog loather—wanted to be present for this, too. But maybe tonight, Duchess and her big brood, were changing all that, as well as Ally’s feelings about being at the ranch. Which only went to show that miracles did happen at Christmas, Hank thought.

  Keeping his feelings to himself, he asked, “You want to do the first one?”

  Ally bit her lower lip, abruptly appearing shy and uncertain once again. “Maybe you better.”

  Figuring the littlest pup needed her mama most, Hank picked her up and laid her ever so gently in front of Duchess.

  Once again, the mother dog turned her nose away, prepared to go to sleep.

  Hank tried again, with the same result.

  For whatever reason, Duchess wanted nothing to do with her tiniest whelp.

  Ally shot Hank a look that mirrored his own consternation.

  The worry Hank had felt earlier, when they’d been resuscitating the pup, increased. “Let’s see if we can get the little one to nurse.” He put the tiny pup at a nipple. She suckled weakly and soon fell right back to sleep.

  Hank frowned in concern. “Let’s see how the rest of them do.” He picked up the hardiest pup, a male, from the warming bed and put him in front of Duchess.

  The retriever immediately nosed the whelp, kissing and licking him. Encouraged, Hank put him to a nipple. The pup immediately latched on and began to nurse.