Taming The Brooding Cattleman

by Marion Lennox

He’d have loved it better if she was a son.

  ‘Let’s see if this suits you better,’ Jack said, and slid another plate in front of her.

  She looked—and looked again.

  No sausages. Instead she was facing a small, fine china plate, with a piece of thin, golden toast, cut into four neat triangles. On the side was one perfectly rounded, perfectly poached egg.

  She stared down at the egg and it was as much as she could do not to burst into tears.

  ‘You’re beat,’ he said gently. ‘Eat that and get to bed. Things will look better in the morning.’

  She looked up at him, stunned by this gesture. This plate...it was like invalid cooking, designed to appeal to someone with the most jaded appetite. Where had this man...?

  ‘Don’t mind me, but I’m going back to my sausages,’ he said, and hauled them out of the oven and did just that.

  She’d thought she was too upset to eat, that she’d gone past hunger. He stayed silent, concentrating on his own meal. Left to herself, she managed to clean her plate.

  He made her a second mug of tea. She finished that, too. She wasn’t feeling strong enough to speak, to argue, to think about the situation she was in. She’d sleep, she thought. Then...then...

  ‘There’s not a lot I can’t do that a guy can do,’ she said, not very coherently but it was the best she could manage at the end of the meal.

  ‘No,’ he said. ‘But you wouldn’t want to stay here.’

  ‘Neither would any male vet I trained with.’

  He nodded. ‘I shouldn’t have let anyone come.’

  ‘You need me, why?’

  ‘I don’t need you.’

  ‘Right,’ she said, and rose. ‘I guess that’s it, then. Maybe I should say thank-you for the egg but I won’t. I’ve just paid the airfare to come halfway round the world for a job that doesn’t exist. Compared to that...well, it does seem an egg is pretty lousy wages.’

  CHAPTER TWO

  THE bedroom was a faded approximation to her dreams. It had once been beautiful, large and gracious, with gorgeous flowered wallpaper, rich, tasselled drapes, a high ceiling, wide windows and a bed wide enough to fit three of her. It still was beautiful—sort of. She could ignore the faded wallpaper, the shredded drapes. For despite the air of neglect and decay, her bed was made up with clean, crisp linen. The mattress and pillows were surprisingly soft. Magically soft.

  Soft enough that despite her emotional upheaval, despite the fact that it was barely seven o’clock, she was asleep as soon as her head touched the pillow.

  But reality didn’t go away. She woke up with a jolt in the small hours, and remembered where she was, and remembered her life was pretty much over.

  Okay, maybe she was exaggerating, she decided, as she stared bleakly into the darkness. She had the money to have a holiday. She could go back to Sydney, do some sightseeing, head back to New York and tell everyone she’d been conned.

  Her friends had been derisive when she’d told them what she was doing. ‘You? On an outback station? Man-of-all-work as well as vet for stockhorses? Get real, Alex, you’re too blonde.’

  The teasing had been good-natured but she’d heard the serious incredulity behind it. No one would be surprised when she came home.

  And then what? Her thoughts were growing bleaker. If this low-life cowboy kicked her off this farm...

  He didn’t have to kick her off. There was no way she’d stay here, with this ramshackle house, without a bathroom, with his chauvinistic attitudes.

  Bleak-R-Us.

  The silence was deafening. She was used to city sounds, city lights filtering through the drapes. Here, there was nothing.

  If there was nothing, she had to leave.

  Okay. She could do what her mother wanted, she thought. Concede defeat. Get a job caring for New York’s pampered pooches. Her mother had all sorts of contacts who could get her such a job. Unlike her dad, who’d loved the idea of her working with horses, and who’d used the only contact he had. Which just happened to be forty years out of date.

  And for a son, not for a daughter.

  Her thoughts were all over the place, but suddenly she was back with her dad. Why did it make a difference? She’d never been able to figure why her dad wasn’t happy with the son he had; why he’d been desperate to have another.

  Like she couldn’t figure why it was so important to Jack Connor that she was male.

  He’d cooked her an egg.

  It was a small thing. In the face of his boorish behaviour it was inconsequential, yet somehow it made a difference.

  He was used to invalid cookery, she thought. Maria had made meals like that for her when she was ill. The fact that Jack had done it...

  It meant nothing. One egg does not a silk purse make. He was still, very much, a sow’s ear. A sow’s ear she’d be seeing the last of tomorrow morning. Or this morning.

  She checked her watch: 3:00 a.m. Four hours before she could stalk away from this place and never come back.

  Admit defeat?

  Yes, she told her pillow. Yes, because she had no choice.

  She rolled over in bed and saw a flicker of light behind the curtains.

  Jack, heading for the outhouse?

  The outhouse was on the other side of the house.

  Someone was out there.

  So what? She shoved her pillow over her head and tried to sleep.

  It was midday in Manhattan. She was wide awake.

  The light.

  Ignore it. Go to sleep.

  Her legs were twitchy. She’d spent too long on too many planes.

  So what? Go to sleep.

  Or what?

  * * *

  Sancha was one of the stud’s prize mares. This was her second foaling. He hadn’t expected trouble.

  At two-thirty he’d known things were happening but the signs were normal. He’d checked the foal had a nice healthy heartbeat. He’d brought in thick fresh straw, then sat back and waited. Foaling was normally explosively fast. Horses usually delivered within half an hour.

  She didn’t.

  She was in trouble.

  So was the foal. The presentation was all wrong. The heartbeat was becoming erratic.

  He need a vet. Now.

  He had one in the house. But...

  He wasn’t all that sure he trusted her credentials. Besides, he’d sacked her. He could hardly ask her to help.

  But if he didn’t...it’d take an hour to get the local vet here and that heartbeat meant he didn’t have an hour.

  He swallowed his pride and thought, Thank heaven he’d made the girl an egg.

  * * *

  She hauled on her fleecy bathrobe and headed out to the veranda. Just to see. Just because staying in bed was unbearable. She could see lightning in the distance but the storm was past. It had stopped raining. The air felt cool and crisp and clean. She needed cool air to clear her head.

  She walked out the back door, and barrelled straight into Jack.

  He caught her, steadied her, but it took a moment longer for her breath to steady. He was so big.... It was the middle of the night. This place was creepy.

  He was big.

  ‘Are you really a vet?’ he demanded, and she stiffened and hauled away.

  ‘Does it matter?’

  ‘Yes,’ he said curtly. ‘I’ve a mare with dystocia. She’s been labouring for at least an hour and nothing’s happened. I can’t get the presentation right—there are hooves everywhere. I’ll lose her.’

  ‘My vet bag’s in the car,’ she snapped. ‘Get it and show me where she is.’

  * * *

  She was cute, blonde, female. She was wearing a
pink, fuzzy bathrobe.

  She was a veterinarian.

  From the time she entered the stables, her entire attention was on the mare. He was there only to answer curt questions she snapped at him as she examined her.

  ‘How long since you found her? Was she distressed then? Has she foaled before?’

  ‘With no problem. I’m sure it’s the presentation. I can’t fix it.’

  She hauled off her bathrobe, shoved her arm in the bucket of soapy water and performed a fast double-check. She didn’t trust him.

  Why should she?

  The mare was deeply distressed. She’d been moving round, agitated, lying, rolling, standing again. Alex moved with her as she examined her, not putting herself at risk but doing what had to be done, fast.

  Her examination was swift, and so was her conclusion.

  ‘After an hour’s labour, there’s no way we’ll get it out naturally from the position it’s in and it’s too risky to try and manoeuvre it. The alternative’s a caesarean, but I’d need help and I’d need equipment.’

  ‘I have equipment and I can help,’ he said steadily, but he was thinking, Did he have enough? And...to do a caesarean, here? He knew the drill. What they needed was an equipped surgery, sterile environs, equipment and drugs to make this possible. Even the thought of moving the mare and holding her seemed impossible. If he had another strong guy...

  He had a petite blonde, in a cute bathrobe.

  But she hadn’t seemed to notice that she was totally unsuited for the job at hand. She was checking the beams overhead.

  ‘Are you squeamish?’

  What, him? ‘No,’ he snapped, revolted.

  ‘I’d need ropes and more water. I’d need decent lights. I’d need warmed blankets—get a heater out here, anything. Just more of it. What sort of equipment are you talking?’

  ‘I hope we have everything you need,’ he told her, and led her swiftly out to the storeroom at the back of the stables.

  The Wombat Siding vet had equipped the store. With over a hundred horses, the vet was out here often, so he’d set up a base here. Three hours back to fetch equipment wasn’t possible so he’d built a base here.

  And Alex’s eyes lit at the sight of the stuff he had. She didn’t hesitate. She started hauling out equipment and handing it to him.

  ‘So far, so good,’ she said curtly. ‘With this gear it might just be possible. You realise I’m only aiming to save the mare. You know foal survival under these conditions is barely ten percent.’

  ‘I know that.’

  ‘You won’t faint?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘I’ve seen tougher cowboys than you faint, but you faint and your mare dies. Simple as that. I can’t do it alone.’

  ‘I’m with you every step of the way.’

  She stared at him long and hard, and then gave a brisk nod, as if he’d passed some unseen test.

  ‘Right,’ she snapped. ‘Let’s do it.’

  * * *

  It was hard, it was risky.

  She was skilled.

  She whispered to the mare. Administered the anaesthetic. Guided her down.

  Together they rolled her into position, and he was stunned at the strength of her. She didn’t appear to notice how much strength it took.

  With the mare unconscious she set up a drip. She’d teamed with Jack to rope the mare into position, using the beams above, but Jack still needed to support her. He was told to supervise the ventilator delivering oxygen plus the drip administering electrolytes and fluids.

  She delivered curt instructions and he followed. This was her call.

  There was no choice. If she wasn’t here, he’d lose the mare. Simple as that.

  She was a vet.

  She was wearing a pink bathrobe. She’d tugged her hair back with a piece of hay twine. She shouldn’t look professional.

  She looked totally professional.

  She was clipping the hair from the mare’s abdomen, fast, sure, then doing a speedy sterile prep. Checking instruments. Looking to him for reassurance.

  ‘Ready?’

  ‘I’m ready,’ he said, and wondered if he was.

  He had to be.

  He watched, awed, as she made a foot-long incision in the midline of the abdomen, then made an incision into the uterus giving access to the foal.

  ‘Say your prayers,’ she said, and hauled out a tiny hoof, and then another.

  This was a big mare. The foal was small, but compared to this young woman... For her to lift it free...

  He made a move to help her.

  ‘Watch that oxygen,’ she snapped. ‘Leave this to me. It’s mare first, foal second.’

  He understood. Emergency caesareans in horses rarely meant a live foal. They were all about saving the life of the mare.

  If the airway he was monitoring blocked, they’d lose the mare, so he could only watch as she lifted the foal free. She staggered a little under the weight, but he knew enough now not to offer to help. She steadied, checked, put her face against its nuzzle, then carried it across to the bed of straw where he’d laid blankets. He’d started a blow heater, directing it to the blankets, to make it warm.

  Just in case...

  Maybe there was a case.

  He kept doing what he was doing, but he had space to watch as she swiftly cleared its nose, inserted the endotracheal tube he’d hardly noticed she’d set up, started oxygen, then returned briskly to the mare. All in the space of seconds. She couldn’t leave the mare for any longer.

  The foal was totally limp. But...

  ‘There’s a chance,’ she said, returning fast to the job at hand. There was no time, no manpower, to care for the foal more than she’d done.

  She had to stitch the wound closed. He had to stay where he was, supporting the mare, keeping the airway clear.

  But he watched the foal out of the corner of his eye. Saw faint movement.

  The mare shifted, an involuntary, unconscious shudder.

  ‘Watch her,’ Alex ordered. ‘You want to risk both?’

  No. He went back to what he was doing. Making sure she was steady. Making sure she lived.

  Alex went back to stitching.

  He watched her blond, bent head and he felt awed. He thought back to the sausages and outhouse and felt...stupid.

  And cruel.

  This woman had come halfway round the world so she could have a chance to do what she was doing brilliantly. And he’d begrudged her an egg.

  There was no time for taking this further now, though. With the stitching closed, she removed the ropes. He helped her shove fresh straw under the mare’s side, then manoeuvred her into lateral recumbency, on her side.

  The foal...

  ‘Watch her,’ she said again, more mildly this time, and she left him to the mare and stooped back over the foal.

  ‘We still have him,’ she said, in a voice that said it mattered. Her voice held surprise and a little awe. She checked more thoroughly and he saw the foal stir and shift. ‘Her,’ Alex corrected herself, and there was no concealing the emotion she felt. ‘Let’s get the birth certificate right on this one.’

  A filly. Out of Sancha.

  If he got a live mare and foal out of this night... He couldn’t describe the feeling.

  But it wasn’t certain yet. She was setting up an IV line, then using more blankets to towel the foal. It...she...was still limp.

  Everything had to go right with a foaling. Foals didn’t survive premature delivery. They seldom survived caesareans. To get a good outcome...

  Please...

  Sancha stirred under his hands, whinnied, lifted her head.

  ‘Hey.’ He laid his head on her head, the way he used to do as a kid, the way his grandfather had ta
ught him. His grandfather was a cruel drunk, mean to everything and everyone but his horses, but Jack had watched him and learned, and the skills were there when he needed them. ‘There’s no need to get up,’ he whispered to her. ‘Your baby’s in good hands.’

  She was.

  They watched and waited. There seemed nothing of the Manhattan princess about Alex right now. She had all the time in the world, all the patience.

  Jack whispered to his mare, watched his foal—and watched this woman who’d transformed before his eyes.

  Finally the foal started to struggle, starting to search for her feet. Alex helped her up, a wobbly tangle of spindly legs and huge head, and Jack felt...felt...

  Like a horseman shouldn’t feel. He didn’t get emotional.

  He didn’t care?

  The foal whinnied and the mare responded. She struggled, as well, and Alex was suddenly back with him. The mare rose, as unsteady as her daughter, but finally with their help she was upright.

  She turned and nosed her daughter. The foal whinnied in response, and started magically to nose underneath her.

  Alex smiled and smiled. She guided the foal to the teat and then stood back.

  ‘I think we might just have won,’ she whispered, and Jack might have been struggling to hide his emotions but Alex surely wasn’t. Tears were tracking down her cheeks and he felt an almost irresistible urge to wipe them for her.

  He watched her. He watched the foal and the sensations were indescribable. The urge to hug this woman, to lift her and spin her in triumph, to share this amazing feeling...

  It had to be suppressed—of course it did—but nothing had ever been harder.

  So she wiped her tears herself, swiping her bathrobe sleeve over her face, sniffing, smiling through tears, then started to clear away the stained straw. Moving on. Being sensible.

  More sensible than him.

  ‘She’ll need to be kept quiet for weeks,’ she said, trying to sound brusque rather than emotional—but not succeeding. ‘This isn’t like a human caesarean—all her innards are bearing down on those stitches. The foal will need exercise, though. It’s imperative to allow her to run and frolic, so it’ll be hand-walking the mare every day while her baby has her runs.’

  She’d started loading her gear back into her bag. ‘That’s more work for you,’ she said, still brusque. Not looking at him. ‘A lot of extra work. You might need to think about finding extra help. Seeing as you’ve sacked me.’