Page 104 of The Cost of Forgetting You

“Believe me, I could stand here and look at you all night. But unfortunately one of the cows has other plans.”

“What do you mean?” I jog down the steps, aware of his gaze on my exposed midriff as I go.

“We’ve got a calf stuck.” He meets me halfway, loops an arm around my middle, and pulls me flush against him. “Our date has been derailed by childbirth.”

“I’m pretty sure my mother said something similar to my father about twenty-six years ago.”

His nose brushes mine. He’s so close I wish he’d close the distance and kiss me, but he doesn’t. He just holds me, gaze locked on mine, and breathes a laugh over my lips. “Funny, Temptress.” He gives my butt a firm pat. “It’s an emergency. Calf is coming backward.”

My eyes widen. The heat in my core subsides. “Why are we still standing here, then?”

“Jason’s with her. Doc’s on the way.” He tilts his head. “And I wanted to soak up this moment with you.”

I playfully slap his chest, but a blush highlights my cheeks. “Let’s go, lover boy. There’s a calf that needs pulling.”

A wry grin stretches his lips, and his dimple pops. “That’s my girl.”

I’ve only attended one other calving in my life, and I was too young at the time for Truett’s dad to let me get close. That calf was too big, his mama a petite heifer. He was gone before Waylon and his farmhands could get him free.

I cried. So did Tru, until his dad told him to stop.

I see it now, in the determined set of Truett’s shoulders and the hard glint in his eyes. He’s not letting this one go without a fight.

“Just be sure to give the mama some space, all right? She’s in a lot of pain and a bit unpredictable.” Truett squeezes my hand, offering me a tight smile. He’s all business now, that flirtatious man from before forgotten.

I think I like this version even more.

We veer to the right of the barn in the valley behind the main house, where a black pickup truck is already parked. The barn is a simple structure, with pens parsed out inside using more of that steel fencing they used to construct the WeightWatchers field. I chuff at the memory, but my laughter is cut short. Truett bounds ahead toward the farthest pen in the barn, where I can see the tall redheaded farmhand working with a cow. Truett strips off his shirt as he goes. The muscles in his broad back coil and unspool with the swing of his arms, and I watch, mesmerized.

“Watch where you step or I’ll be buying you another pair of shoes!” he shouts.

I glance down just in time to dodge a sizable patty and groan.

His laughter wanes quickly, replaced with the tight purse of his lips. The steel pen clangs loudly beneath his shifting weight as he hoists himself over the barrier and lands with a solid thud in the bed of hay on the other side. He sidles up to Jason, who’s working to tie chains around the dew claws dangling from the cow. Turns out, Truett taking his shirt off had nothing to do with vanity. Jason’s baby-blue T-shirt is covered in a mixture of fluids that will be impossible to remove. That shirt is going in the trash before the night is through.

I’ve hooked one leg over the pen when another voice calls from behind me, “Oh yeah, that calf’s backward all right.”

The shiver running down my spine nearly knocks me off-balance, but I manage to right myself on the steel fencing. I glance back, eyeing the short, wiry gentleman with a shock of white hair and a mustache so thick that a younger version of me once wondered how he breathes through it.

“Delilah Ridgefield, is that you?” He sets a bucket down at the barrier of the fence and peers up at me through narrowed eyes.

“Yes, sir,” I say, though it’s barely above a whisper.

“I’ll bet you don’t even remember me. I’m Doctor?—”

“Van de Berg,” I say. “I remember you.”

His hooded eyes widen in surprise. He’s right to think I wouldn’t. After all, the last time I saw him, I was about thirteen years old. My cat, Skittles, had developed kidney failure. Dr. Van de Berg sat with me and explained everything as he put her to sleep, his faint Dutch accent making the words sound more like a fairy tale than a tragedy. It was one of the worst days of my life up to that point, and he softened that blow as best he could. Even my dad, who loved that cat arguably more than I did, sobbed in the tiny back room of the local vet’s office. It’s the kind of day you don’t forget.

Which is why I was so shocked that Dad did, that first day when I arrived back into town.

He nods, his lips disappearing in what I assume is a smile beneath that bushy mustache. “Right, well, we’ll catch up after. Got a job to do.”

I salute him and he chuckles, unbothered by the apprehension pulling the air taut around us.

“Have we tried pulling with the chains yet?” He directs the question to Jason and Truett, who stand bracketing either side of the cow’s hind end.

“Nope, just got them secure,” Jason offers.

---