Page 4 of Saddles and Snowstorms
“Come on, you ornery, old bitch…” I grumbled, glaring at the cow that kept trying to kick me every time I gave her half-born calf a tug.
The damn thing had been stuck half in and out of the world for ten minutes. I’d been up since five helping her bring this calf into the world, and she’d done nothing but snort and stomp at me the entire time. If she wasn’t such a good calver, I would’ve turned her into beef years ago. But goddammit if she didn’t get knocked up every chance she got. I did my best to try to time calves for the spring when the weather was more predictable, but this cow… well, she did what she wanted. And so did the bull that broke into her pen late last spring.
I gave another firm tug, arms burning, and finally felt the calf slip forward a bit more.
“That’s it, you stubborn thing,” I muttered, wiping sweat from my brow with my forearm, careful to keep my birthing-slick hands away from my face.
The morning sun was starting to beat down on my neck, and I could feel my shirt sticking to my back, sweaty from the effort of helping a stubborn cow all morning. January in northern Texas wasn’t exactly warm, but at least it wasn’t July sun beating down on me. Small mercies.
The moment the calf hit the ground, the cow turned around and started licking it. I cleared the mucus from its nose and mouth before glancing down at its belly. A bull. Not exactly what I was hoping for. But at least that meant he didn’t need a name. In a few weeks he’d become a steer, then after a good life on the pasture, he’d go into someone’s freezer. It was one of those hard truths about ranching that some folks didn’t like. But that’s the way it worked. If they wanted burgers, some of the cattle had to go to market.
“How about a heifer next time, huh?” I said, patting the ornery old cow on the way out of the barn. “That’s the least you could do for getting knocked up when you’re not supposed to.”
The cow just swung her head at me, eyes half-lidded in maternal exhaustion as she went back to cleaning her calf. I chuckled, shaking my head as I made my way out into the yard.
The January air hit my sweat-soaked shirt like a slap, sending a shiver down my spine. The Sagebrush hills rolled out before me, winter-brown with patches of stubborn green, stretching toward the horizon. This little slice of northern Texas had been my home for all thirty-eight years of my life, and I couldn’t imagine being anywhere else, even on days like this when every muscle in my body ached from wrestling livestock.
As soon as I was inside the cabin, I stripped down at the door, piling my sweaty and bloody clothes on the tile. My border collie, Hank, ran up to me immediately and started licking my naked thighs.
“Will you stop that?” I barked, swatting him away as I gathered up my dirty clothes. “You didn’t want to go out in the cold, remember? So, no weird cow fluids for you!”
Hank, looking rather dejected, headed back to his warm bed by the fireplace. He’d be fine. He had a penchant for eating, rolling in, or otherwise interacting with anything disgusting, so I was kinda glad he’d stayed behind. The last thing I wanted to do after helping that cow all morning was give the dog a bath because he had to berightin the splash zone. Dogs were gross. I loved him dearly, but that didn’t stop him from being gross. And he always had been, ever since I’d gotten him ten years ago as a pup. Sometimes it felt like he got more showers than I did.
As soon as my clothes were in the washing machine, I headed for the shower, desperate to be free of the stench of cow. The water ran hot overmy skin, washing away the sweat and grime of the morning’s labor. I let my head fall forward, watching the last traces of my early morning swirl down the drain. My muscles ached, especially my shoulders and lower back. Calving season always did a number on me. This year it was starting extra early.
“Getting too old for this shit,” I muttered to nobody but the shower tiles.
After toweling off, I pulled on a fresh pair of jeans and a flannel shirt, the fabric soft from years of washing. I made a quick call to the new vet in town, asking him to come out to check on everything. When I was done, I glanced over at the kitchen clock that read half past ten. Still plenty of day left to check fences in the north pasture. The wind had been fierce yesterday, and I’d bet money something had come down.
I was halfway through a ham sandwich when the sound of tires on gravel made me pause. Hank’s ears perked up, and he bounded to the door, tail wagging furiously. That must’ve been the vet I’d called to come check on the calf.
“Down, boy,” I said, peering through the window.
A dusty blue pickup I didn’t recognize had pulled up next to my barn. The driver’s door swung open, and a man I’d never seen before stepped out, stretching his back before looking around. He ducked back into the truck, grabbing a bag typical of most large animal vets. However, my attention was drawn elsewhere.
This new vet was nothing like the old Dr. Mercer I’d known for years. This man was young, probably in his late twenties, with a lithe, muscular body that exuded power and grace.
I watched him move across my yard with a kind of fluid confidence that didn’t seem to match the typical vets around these parts. His dark jeans hugged his strong thighs and ass just right, and his chambray shirt sleeves were rolled up to reveal tanned forearms despite the January chill. When he turned to look toward the house, I caught a glimpse of his face—strong jawline, full lips, and dark green eyes that even from a distance seemed to take in everything at once.
“Shit,” I muttered, suddenly aware I was staring. Hank whined impatiently at the door, eager to greet our visitor.
I grabbed my well-worn hat off the hook by the door and stepped out onto the porch, letting the screen door bang behind me. The new vetlooked up, and for a moment, our eyes locked across the yard. Something hot and unexpected flickered in my chest.
“Morning,” I called out, my voice rougher than I intended. “You the new vet?”
He nodded, shifting his bag to his left hand and extending his right as he approached. “Dr. Rowan Walsh. Everyone calls me Rowan, though.” His voice had a slight Texas drawl, like the ones they had down south. It was soft and smooth, not what I’d expected. As he got closer, I noticed a small scar on his jaw, a thin white line that somehow added to his appeal rather than diminishing it.
“Brooks Callahan,” I replied, taking his hand. His grip was firm, his palm calloused in places, but still softer than mine. Our handshake lingered a moment longer than necessary before I pulled away, suddenly self-conscious. “Thanks for coming out on such short notice.”
“No problem. That’s what I’m here for.” Rowan’s eyes scanned my face briefly before dropping to Hank, who was now circling his legs, sniffing enthusiastically. “Friendly guy.”
“Too friendly sometimes,” I muttered, whistling sharply. Hank reluctantly returned to my side. “Calf’s in the barn. Just delivered him about an hour ago. Mama’s a bit ornery, so watch yourself.”
Rowan smiled, a quick flash of white teeth that did something strange to my insides. “I’ve handled my share of ornery mothers in the past twenty-four hours alone. Lead the way.”
I turned, painfully aware of him following behind me as we crossed the yard. The barn door creaked as I pulled it open, revealing the dim interior. The cow looked up, her dark eyes narrowing suspiciously at the newcomer.
“That’s her over there,” I said, nodding toward the far stall. “Been giving me hell all morning.”
