Marion Lennox - Taming the Brooding Cattleman

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.