Page 31 of Saddles and Snowstorms
The cabin creaked around us as another gust of wind slammed against it. Outside, the storm showed no signs of letting up. The realization settled over me slowly—I wasn’t going anywhere tonight.
“You need to rest,” I said, standing up from the bed. “I’ll check on the calf.”
“You can’t go out there,” Brooks said, his voice stronger now, laced with concern. “Storm’s worse.”
“I’m already here, aren’t I? Besides, it’s not like you can walk right now.” I wrapped the scarf a little tighter around my neck. “All my vet gear is in the back of my truck, so I’ll get him stitched up.”
Brooks sighed, resignation etched across his handsome face. “Fine. But if you take too long, I’m coming after you.”
It was a cute gesture, but an unnecessary one. “I’ll be back soon. Keep warm.” I hesitated, then pointed at his phone on the bedside table, “Call me if you need anything. I mean it, Brooks. You could have a concussion, and I don’t need you dyin’ on me.”
He nodded almost imperceptibly, his eyes following me as I left the room.
Outside, the wind nearly knocked me off my feet. I clutched my hat to my head and trudged through the knee-deep snow toward the truck. Each step was a battle against the elements, but I kept thinking of the injured calf—and if I was honest with myself, the man back in the cabin. Quickly I gathered my supplies and headed for the barn that I could barely make out through the blizzard blowing in sideways all around me.
The barn door was heavy, but I managed to heave it open just enough to slip inside before shutting it against the howling wind. The sudden quiet was almost disorienting. I took a moment to catch my breath, stomping the snow off my boots and adjusting my eyes to the dim light. The scent of hay, animals, and leather filled my nostrils—familiar and comforting.
“Alright, where are you, little fella?” I murmured, scanning the stalls.
A weak bleat answered me from the far corner. I followed the sound and found the calf huddled in a bed of straw, a tight belt wrapped around one bloody leg. Brooks had done what he could before his fall, but he was torn up good. The poor thing was trembling, its dark eyes wide with fear as I approached.
“Easy there,” I said softly, crouching down beside it.
The laceration along its flank was nasty, about eight inches long and deep enough that I could see muscle tissue. No wonder Brooks had called me. This would definitely need stitches. I set my medical bag down and got to work, first cleaning the wound with antiseptic, then administering a local anesthetic, all while the cow stood guard. Still, this wasn’t her first calf, and I had a feeling she understood better than most what was happening.
I worked methodically, my fingers steady despite the cold that lingered in the barn. The calf flinched when I began stitching, but the local anesthetic did its job. Thirty-seven stitches later, I sat back on my heels and surveyed my work. Not my neatest job, but it would hold. At least the calf wouldn’t bleed to death.
“You’ll be okay, little one,” I murmured, running a hand along the calf’s neck. I administered antibiotics and gave it a vitamin shot for good measure. The cow nuzzled her baby protectively as I packed up my supplies and removed the tourniquet at last.
By the time I finished, my fingers were stiff with cold. The barn offered some shelter from the wind, but it was far from warm. I checked on Brooks’ other cattle, all accounted for and huddled together for warmth, before bracing myself to head back to the cabin.
The short distance between barn and house felt like miles in the howling storm. Snow had drifted even higher in the time I’d been working, and the wind cut straight through my denim jacket that definitely wasn’t built for this kind of weather. By the time I stumbled onto the porch, my teeth were chattering uncontrollably.
I knocked the worst of the snow off my boots and clothes before letting myself back into the cabin. The warmth hit me like a wall, and I realized Brooks must have gotten up to stoke the fire. Sure enough, when I stepped into the main room, there he was, sitting in a worn armchair near the hearth, wrapped in a quilt. Hank lay at his feet, perking up when I entered.
“You shouldn’t be up,” I chided, but my voice lacked conviction. The relief at seeing him conscious and alert overshadowed my concern.
Brooks fixed those deep brown eyes on me. “Calf make it?”
“Yeah,” I said, shrugging out of my soaked jacket and hanging it by the door. “Thirty-seven stitches and some antibiotics. He’ll be sore, but he should pull through.”
A slight nod was all I got in response, but I saw the tension ease from his shoulders.
“You, on the other hand,” I continued, approaching him, “should be in bed.”
“I’ve been in bed for the last hour,” Brooks grumbled, tugging the quilt tighter around himself. “Figured I could at least sit by the fire and make sure you came back.”
I noticed he’d managed to pull on a pair of sweatpants and a worn flannel shirt, not exactly dressed for company, but at least he wasn’t naked under that quilt anymore. The thought made my cheeks warm, and I busied myself with removing my boots to hide it.
“Well, I’m back,” I said, trying to keep my voice professional. “And you’ve got a concussion, so you shouldn’t be movingaround.”
“You don’t know I’ve got a concussion.”
“I’ve treated enough livestock with head injuries to recognize the signs.” I moved closer, studying his eyes. His pupils looked equal, which was a good sign, but there was a glassiness to them that concerned me. “Any nausea? Dizziness when you stood up?”
Brooks looked away. “Maybe a little.”
“Mmhmm.” I crossed my arms. “And let me guess—your head is pounding like a jackhammer.”
