Ruth Herne - Winter's End

Pete struggled more upright. “Why would we want someone different?” He glanced from one to the other before his gaze settled on Marc. His voice lost the fog of confusion. “What’s going on?”

Marc squared his shoulders, eyes narrowed. “Nothing, Dad. I just want to make sure your treatment is taken seriously, every step of the way.”

Kayla stared him down. He didn’t squirm. She lifted her left brow. “Laughter is the best medicine. Haven’t you heard?” Deliberately slow, she winked at the older man. “It aids in pain reduction, increased glucose tolerance, emotional bonding and vascular function.” She gave Pete a perky shrug and a smile. “All for the price of a belly laugh. Fairly cheap, I would say.”

“The price is right, sure enough.” Pete grinned back at her, restoring the twinkle in his eyes. The smile made him look more vibrant, more alive.

Marc’s expression noted that. His look softened. He reached out a hand to his dad’s head in a gesture of comfort. “I’ve got to take care of some things in the barn. My cell phone’s on.” He patted his side clip. “Call if you need anything.”

“I will,” Pete promised. “Sorry about that business last night.”

Marc frowned. “You remember that?” At his father’s look of surprise, he added, “You were pretty confused, Dad.”

“I’m not dead yet,” the older man retorted.

“But definitely incapacitated,” Kayla inserted. She kept her tone helpful and amused.

Pete DeHollander joined the game with a look Kayla’s way. “Under the weather.”

“Down, but not out.”

“Rounding third and heading for home.”

“And the crowd goes wild.” Kayla raised her arms and widened her smile.

Marc stood, glowering. “I’m glad you two find this so—” Face tight, he drew a sharp breath, his jaw rigid. “Whatever. Some of us have work to do.”

He strode out, his footfall decisive against the wide-planked floor.

Kayla watched him go with regret. She’d hoped a little humor might lighten him up, but no. She’d only angered him. Obviously the tact and diplomacy she’d been praying for needed fine-tuning.

Fine tuning? Her conscience prodded. How about major structural repairs? Run after him, Doherty. Maybe the guy’s got a paper cut. You can apply a salt-water rinse followed by a splash of fresh lemon. Really make his day. Kayla sucked a breath and sighed.

“He’ll be fine.”

She turned back to Pete. “You think?”

Pete nodded. “Had a rough night. Lost a cow and a calf. She got bred in the wrong season and Marc didn’t pick up on it. A lot going on, you know?”

Oh, Kayla knew. Doctor visits, hospitalizations, surgeries, tests, meds. All time consuming. And scary.

“By the time Marc realized she needed a C-section, it was too late.”

“They died?” Kayla opened her laptop and stood to record Pete’s vital signs. “They both died?”

“It happens.” He shrugged. “Not often with Marc’s cattle, though. He’s got a good eye for line and crossbreeding. Hybrid vigor. He’s made a nice business of it.”

“Has he?” Kayla tried to shroud the doubt in her voice. From the looks of the farm buildings, Marc could use a lesson in painting, and dead cows didn’t sound all that successful. And two at once? How sad.

“Farming’s like life,” Pete spouted, drawing himself up so she could examine him. “Full circle. Birth, death and everything in between.”

“I guess.” Kayla thought of the choices available in this day and age. Why would anyone farm?

She had no idea. Extremes of weather, fluctuations of market, never-ending days of slogging through muck and mud, snow and slush. What normal person chose that over climate-controlled nine-to-five, paid vacations, full benefits and a 401(k)?

Huh. She’d just answered her own question.

In her brief interlude with Marc DeHollander, she recognized normalcy as a relative feature. The father had it in abundance. Warm. Kind. Sociable, despite his illness.

The son was fresh out.

Marc finished loading the carcasses as his cell phone rang. He tugged off his gloves and fumbled the narrow instrument, his broad fingers awkward in the cold. “DeHollander.”

“It’s Stu,” the truck driver reported. “I’ve finished at Brall’s. I’m heading your way.”

Marc worked his jaw, regretful. Last night’s time glitch had cost him the life of a young cow and her calf, no small thing in the beef business. Even one as strong as his. “They’re loaded. I’ll wait for you at the end of the drive.”

“I’ll pull alongside,” Stu replied. “Sorry you lost ’em.”

“Me, too.”

They both understood how disease could spread from one farm to another via contaminated wheels and equipment. Even soiled boots could track pathogens into a barn. Marc took no chances. He’d worked too long, too hard to get his beef operation up and running. As a result, his business had grown strong, a credit to his time and patience.

Marc kicked himself for not calling his veterinary friend out sooner. He hadn’t notified Craig until it was too late, the calf trapped too long in the birth canal. A stupid mistake. Slipshod. And he was never careless with his business. That was why he turned a profit on both the feed store and his cattle production.

But Jess had mustered a bee in her bonnet over something crucial to a fourteen-year-old girl, Dad was disoriented after his new medicine and Marc hadn’t made it back to the barn in time to see something was dreadfully wrong.

He revved the engine and edged the tractor bucket off the ground. The animals jerked as the shovel lurched. The cow’s hock shifted and hung, midair. Marc frowned but relaxed as the bulk of the body settled into the crook of the shovel. Sighing in resignation, he shoved the tractor into gear and headed up the drive.

Looking way too stylish for a harsh North Country winter, the slim, blonde nurse approached her car as the tractor rumbled toward her. She watched him navigate the big John Deere, her blue-eyed gaze sweeping the sad load, the hock protruding from the bucket’s edge.

Her eyes narrowed. She stood still, despite the cold, the trendy pea coat no match for the frigid temperatures. The spunky jacket looked good on her, reminding Marc that appearances outweighed everything for girls like Kayla Doherty. Her face tightened at the sight of his loaded bucket. Disgust? Dismay? From his vantage point atop the enclosed tractor, Marc couldn’t be sure.

He winced. Was this what he wanted for his father’s care? His buddy’s old girlfriend, with her insensible shoes, expensive clothes and saucy attitude? Oh, yeah, he remembered Craig dating her, bemoaning her panache and love of style. Definitely not North Country material. No way. No how. But here she was, pert and pretty in his driveway, cringing at the thought of death.

Why did they need a nurse, anyway? Why was his father so anxious to throw in the towel? Was he that tired of the fight, that worn?

Where there’s life, there’s hope.

The adage came straight from Pete’s mouth, and Marc put stock in the saying. He’d brought some pretty sick animals back from near-death experiences. Maybe that’s why it hurt so much to wrestle the reaper and lose as he had last night.

The idea of waging a similar battle for his father had been wrested from his hands, and Marc didn’t like that. Dr. Pentrow tossed around terms like visiting nurses. End stage. Translation: Give it up. Party’s over. Call the undertakers, have ’em ready a spot.

Shoulders tight, Marc continued along the drive, not pausing until he braked at the road’s edge. As the nurse pulled next to him in her sporty red car, he averted his face. He didn’t need her disapproval at the nature of his work. In a way, it wasn’t much different than hers. You battled, you toiled and in the end, death came regardless.