Page 1 of Saddles and Snowstorms
Chapter 1
Rowan
“Oh fuck!” I cried, clenching my teeth as my arm felt like it was being ripped out of its socket. “Ow, ow, ow, ow, ow, ow!”
“Are you alright?” the old farmer asked. I’d already forgotten his name. “Should I get some help?”
“No, it’s fine,” I grunted through my teeth. “She’s just having a contraction.”
I stood there, shoulder deep in a cow’s uterus, forcing myself to breathe as her muscles tightened around my arm. It wasn’t exactly how I expected to be spending my first day as the new veterinarian in Sagebrush. After a long day of giving pets shots, doing checkups, and feeding meds to a rather obnoxious herd of sheep that needed to be dewormed, I thought I’d go back to my rented apartment and unpack my things. But the cow had been in labor all day with no progress. I was glad I took the call. She was exhausted and if I couldn’t get ahold of this calf, they were both going to die.
“First time with a breech birth?” the old farmer asked, his weathered face creasing with a knowing smile.
“Third,” I managed to say. “But my first solo. My first in Sagebrush.”
The contraction finally eased, and I exhaled slowly, sweat beading on my forehead despite the cool evening air. I could feel the calf now, itslegs bent in completely the wrong position. No wonder it wasn’t progressing.
“Got a name, doc?” the farmer asked, clearly trying to distract me as I worked my hand around the calf.
“Rowan. Rowan Walsh,” I said, concentrating on finding purchase. “Just moved from Austin last week. Got here on New Year’s Day.”
“Well, Dr. Walsh, welcome to Sagebrush. Nothing like getting your arm squeezed half to death by Lulabelle here to make you feel at home.”
I would have laughed if I wasn’t so focused. The rolling prairie outside the barn was fading into darkness, and the only sounds were the labored breathing of the cow and the occasional lowing of the rest of the herd.
“There,” I said, finally getting my fingers around one tiny hoof. “I’m going to try to reposition it. This might take a while.”
“Take your time, Doc. We’ve got nowhere to be,” the farmer said, handing me a towel for my sweaty forehead. “Lulabelle here’s a fighter. Her mama was the same way. Ornery as all get-out during birthing.”
I nodded, concentrating on the delicate work. The calf’s leg was completely folded back, making it impossible for it to pass through the birth canal. With gentle, persistent pressure, I began to straighten the limb, working between contractions. The silence of the barn was broken only by the occasional grunt from Lulabelle and the distant sound of coyotes calling across the Sagebrush hills.
“You know,” the farmer said after a while, “we haven’t had a proper vet around here in almost two years. Old Doc Mercer retired and moved to Arizona. His arthritis couldn’t take these Texas winters anymore.”
“Two years is a long time,” I replied, wincing as another contraction gripped my arm. When it passed, I continued working. “Got it! One leg in position.”
I felt a wave of triumph as I adjusted the first leg. Now for the second one. The old farmer leaned against a post, his silhouette backlit by the single bulb hanging from the barn ceiling.
“Sure is,” he agreed. “Folks around here been hauling their animals to Plainview or trying to manage on their own. Some did okay. Some didn’t.”
I nodded, not trusting myself to speak as I concentrated on finding the calf’s other leg. Lulabelle let out a low, mournful soundthat echoed through the barn. My fingers brushed against something—the second hoof. I carefully worked my hand around it, feeling the delicate bones beneath my fingertips.
“Almost there,” I murmured, more to myself than to the farmer or Lulabelle. “Come on, little one.”
Another contraction hit, and I gritted my teeth against the crushing pressure. My arm was going numb, pins and needles racing from my fingertips to my shoulder. When it passed, I managed to reposition the second leg, straightening it alongside the first.
“Got both legs now,” I announced, allowing myself a small smile. “Next contraction, I’m going to guide it through.”
“That’s good news,” the farmer said, stepping closer. “Lulabelle here produces the best calves in the county. Her last one fetched top dollar at the auction.”
It was not very useful or helpful information, but I was used to it. Farmers loved to talk, even if nobody was listening. Considering I was trapped there, I was a captive audience for him. I didn’t mind, though. Small town farmers were dead loyal to their vets. As long as I made sure this calf made it to the light of day, I’d have a loyal customer for life.
The contraction came sooner than I expected, and I worked with it, guiding the calf’s hooves toward the birth canal. My arm muscles screamed in protest, but I could feel progress now, real progress. Sweat dripped into my eyes, and I blinked it away, unable to wipe my face.
“Come on, girl,” I encouraged Lulabelle as she strained. “You’re doing great.”
The farmer grabbed a clean blanket from a nearby stack and laid it on the straw. “For the little one,” he explained.
I nodded, focusing on the delicate push-pull rhythm of guiding the calf. The hooves emerged first, tiny and perfect, followed by the nose. I carefully eased the head through, making sure the umbilical cord wasn’t wrapped around the neck.
