Page 13 of Buried Roots

Stay strong. Please let the foal be alive.

Owen pulls, then shifts and pulls, then shifts again. He takes a break, petting Eclipse’s hair. When he reaches in again, his arms reappear holding two tiny hooves. I exhale as he takes the chains from me and puts them around the foal’s ankles.

Another gag hits, but I close my eyes until it settles.

Then Owen yanks the triangles attached to the chains, slowly coaxing the hind legs out, along with some blood and other unsightly things I fight not to see.

As he works, I stand still, wishing I could say that I was as calm and collected as I appear on the outside, but I’m not. Inside, my ears ring, my vision’s blurry, and I feel like I’m coming apart at the seams.

I’m not watching, but I still can’t bear the thought of what these gentle animals are going through.

My skin grows cold, and I’m trying to catch my breath when Owen says, “Willow, stay with me, okay? I need you to pull while I reach in and make an adjustment.” His steely eyes—which I realize he got from his mother—meet mine. “You got this.”

I nod but can’t find my words. I focus on my job—gripping the two triangular bars—as I try to steady my trembling knees. When he gives me the go-ahead, I pull it until he orders me to stop.

Eclipse lets out another neigh—a cry of pain, and she kneels to the ground.

Owen and I kneel along with her.

“Just keep going, Willow. Eclipse is tired—this is normal.”

I don’t believe him, but I keep going.

Closing my eyes, I focus on tuning out the sounds, the sights, and the smells that come with birth. If I let them in, I’m going to be sick, pass out, or both.

When the foal’s hind legs are finally out, Owen gives Eclipse a hard pat to get her to stand again. “I need her up because something’s stuck.”

Eclipse obeys, fighting to rise.

“You got this. Good girl,” I say, giving her a soft, proud pat.

Then it takes both of us to hold the foal’s body, which is half out. On Owen’s count, we both pull. I don’t pray often, but I’m praying now. It has to work.

It doesn’t.

The foal’s legs start thrashing violently. “That’s a good sign, right? That the baby’s alive?”

“No,” Owen barks, his tone panicked. “It means he’s struggling. We’re losing him.”

“Oh, God.” A fresh wave of panic buzzes through me, sweat beading on my brow as tears glisten in my eyes.

Owen’s broad shoulders drop. “The forelimbs and head are stuck on the umbilical cord. Dammit.” His voice is terse but calm. “I need to get them off. Fast.”

“Okay.” I hold on to the baby, keeping my gaze moving along the details of the stable—the beams, the heavy oak doors painted white, the troughs, which need filling.

“I’m untangling the cord,” he says, more to himself. “Willow, come back to me.”

I force myself to look at Owen, who’s ready for me to pull again, so I take a wide stance for balance. I accidentally look at Eclipse, and her eyes are gray, drooping.

“We’re doing this one more time, and we’re doing this right, okay?” His jaw tenses. “Otherwise, I’m going to have to perform a Cesarean without the proper tools. Not to mention I’ll be delivering a dead foal.”

“Last time,” I repeat. “I’ll give it all I’ve got.”

And I do. So does Owen.

6

The Search

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