Gena Dalton - Stranger At The Crossroads

Darcy glanced at him, then sat back on her heels and stared at Tara. Her face plainly showed that she was worried, yet there was a calmness about her that hadn’t been there out on the road when she was insisting on treating the mare.

“Go get a bunch of towels,” she said. “This baby may be sick, too, and we’ll have to keep it warm. Blankets.”

“Should I boil any water?” he said dryly. “Sterilize the scissors? Tear the sheets into strips?”

That made her look at him, and he realized, with a little shock, that that had been his intention all along. She smiled, and he felt positively triumphant.

“No,” she said. “My stuff is in sterile surgical packets. But if there’s anything else, I’ll let you know.”

Then she set her attention on the mare again, and Jackson felt lost. He turned and left the barn for the house, trying not to think about the deep green of Darcy’s eyes.

It took him a few minutes to ransack the cabinets—he just threw his towels in the washer and used the same ones over and over without ever looking to see what supplies were in the house. His grandfather had been the last person to live there before him, and he’d probably done the same.

In a cupboard in the bathroom he found stacks of towels his mother must’ve brought over—recently or in Old Clint’s time he had no idea. He grabbed one batch of them and two blankets from the old armoire in the bedroom, then hurried to the barn. Sometimes he’d give the ranch to be able to run across the yard again.

But at least he was alive, as his mother was fond of reminding him whenever she dropped by on one of her infrequent visits. Maybe someday he’d be glad of that.

He heard Tara’s groans before he entered the barn, and they made him forget all about himself. The tortured sound was so dreadful that it hardened his will even more. Tara—and her baby—would live if he had to send the ranch plane to fly Dr. Ward Lincoln back from Albuquerque.

Even as he had the thought, he knew it was as foolish as a desperate child’s. This would all be decided in the next thirty minutes, and this woman horse doctor was the only veterinarian of any kind, much less an equine one, in fifty miles.

And there she was, at her truck, getting something from her vet box.

“She’s getting nowhere,” she said, when she saw Jackson. “It’s uterine inertia.”

Jackson’s heart thudded painfully.

“What can we do?”

“Add calcium supplements to the IV fluids. She’s so weak we’ll probably have to get hold of that foal.”

She turned to the barn with her hands full of supplies.

“Let me put these things down and I’ll help you,” Jackson said.

“Not necessary,” Darcy said. “Let’s go.”

By the time he’d piled the blankets and towels in the corner of the stall, she was standing still, watching Tara thoughtfully.

“Let’s wait a little longer,” she said. “Maybe she’ll get a second wind and deliver on her own.”

Thirty minutes later, after three more valiant tries on the mare’s part accomplished nothing, Darcy spoke.

“She can’t take much more of this, and neither can I.”

She began pulling on a long, plastic sleeve. “Here,” she said, tossing one to him. “Put it on just in case I need you.”

For a second, his anger flared. He couldn’t fit his glove inside the plastic sleeve, and he wasn’t going to try.

“Don’t do it all yourself,” he said sarcastically.

“I’m not,” she snapped, flashing him a surprised look. “You’ll get your chance to be a hero.”

“That’s not what I meant, and you know it.”

There was a trace of hurt in her voice. Guilt nagged at him. She had no way of knowing what his hands looked like or why he wouldn’t take off his gloves.

Tara groaned again and strained terribly, but there was no visible sign that the baby moved.

“It’s always better not to pull a foal,” Darcy said. “But we don’t want to let her get too weak.”

She went down on her knees behind the mare and gently inserted her plastic-sheathed arm.

Jackson waited, watching her face, but it told him nothing.

“There’s a front leg,” she said, at last. “Now, where’s the other one?”

Finally, after an eternity, she nodded, and Jackson let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding.

“All right,” she said, “there it is, and there’s the nose—and, thank goodness, the sucking motion that says it’s alive. Let me get that muzzle tucked in between those little legs and out you come, baby.”

She worked for a bit, then pulled gently. Once. Twice.

“We’re getting him out, Miss Tara,” she said. “Come on, can you help me, girl?”

Tara groaned and tried again to respond, but she was clearly getting weaker.

Jackson awkwardly lowered himself to a half-sitting, half-kneeling position beside the veterinarian.

“Why don’t you let me help?”

“Because you would keep on saying women aren’t strong enough for this job,” she said, through clenched teeth.

She gave the foal another pull.

Sweat stood on her forehead.

“No, I won’t,” Jackson said. “Because you’ve nearly got him out, and I admit, right now, that you can do the rest. Let me help you.”

“All right,” she said.

She moved over, and he took hold of the small hoof that was visible through the blood and gelatin-like straw-colored fluid coming from the mare. He grasped it firmly.

“Ready?” he said.

“Just a second.”

Darcy reached inside to position the other forefoot behind the first one.

“To reduce the shoulders in diameter,” she said, “Tara will thank us.”

She took a deep breath.

“Now. Gently, gently.”

Together they pulled the baby out.

“Too little,” Jackson said, as they broke the sac surrounding it so it could breathe. “Not big as a minute.”

“Pretty head,” Darcy muttered, and reached for her tools. “Let’s clean out your nose, little one.”

She used a turkey baster from her bag to clear the foal’s nostrils.

“Towels,” she said. “Let’s get him dry and keep him warm.”

Jackson reached for the towels and began rubbing the colt. Darcy stepped back as he started trying to get to his feet. He wobbled and wavered, but finally he made it to a tremulous four-legged stance.

“Little or not, he’s got a lot of try,” Jackson said.

She craned her neck to look at the baby all over.

“Little colt,” she said. “How’s he bred?”

“Some backyard stud that got in with her at the wrong time of year.”

“That’s for sure,” Darcy said. “I heard on the truck radio the first cold front’s due in here today or tomorrow.”

She stripped off the plastic sleeve and reached for a towel.

“Lots of rubbing,” she said. “Keep going. I’ll help you.”

He handed her a towel.

“My stars!” Darcy said. “Jackson, these are fine, expensive towels you’ve brought out here! And they’re brand new, to boot!”

“Only ones I could find,” he said.

She smiled at him while her small hands moved the thick fabric firmly over the wet colt.

“Spoken like a true bachelor,” she said. “I’m guessing, but I’m sure.”

He nodded.

“Be sure,” he said.

Then he wondered why he’d said that. It didn’t matter one whit between them whether he was married or not.

Was she?

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