Cathy Thacker - A Cowboy Under The Mistletoe

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.

Until 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.