Page 70 of When We Were Us
She laughs.
“Always had odds and ends for the livestock, but it can sometimes be hours before Doc can get out here. So, I had him put together that supply cabinet when Jack and I started doing our own vaccines.”
“And do you still enjoy it?” I love how easily we seem to fall into conversation when we’re not bickering at one another.
“As much as I ever did.” The truth is, there isn’t much else I’d rather be doing with my life. It's always been that way.
She cuts a glance at me before she says, “It suits you.”
“Thanks. And what about you? Do you still love what you do?” I tighten my grip on the steering wheel and force my eyes back to the road as she licks her lips.
I already know that she not only completed vet school but also completely crushed it by making the dean's list multiple times and graduating with honors. Both of her grandparents were so proud of her accomplishments, and living in a small town made it easy to hear things through the grapevine.
For some reason, I don’t want her to know how much I kept up with her life after she left Timber Forge. Something that seemed innocent back then could absolutely come across as desperate after all this time. Especially after the bar. I don’t want to push her by asking too many personal questions. I won’t mentionhim.
She nods. “I’ve been in private practice for two years. Mostly racehorses.”
“Whereabouts?”
“Napa Valley area. We’re part of a large private animal hospital. Derek—” she cuts herself off abruptly and darts her gaze my way. She waves a handthrough the air and clears her throat. “Anyway, it’s been great,” she finishes and begins chewing the inside of her cheek before turning to look out the passenger side window.
Now that she brought him up, I really want to ask about him again, but I don’t get the chance because I spot Chief Lewis's truck pulled off to the side. We roll to a stop behind it. Wren unbuckles and pushes open her door, hopping out. She pulls the tote out and waits while I do the same, grabbing the halter and bolt cutters from the back.
We both approach the fence slowly. The calf is wedged in tight on one side, with its mama on the other.
“Chief, you remember Wren.” I nod at Chief Lewis and introduce Beau and Wren, who exchange pleasantries.
“Must have either been spooked or blindly walked in the gap between the old and new fencing,” Beau says and I nod.
The opening is wider on one end, but it narrows toward the other side and dead ends like a chute, with wood on one side and barbed wire on the other. With the tight space, she would have no way to turn around, and she is too disoriented or scared to back up the way she got in. There are a few blood smears on the metal T post and some fur along the barbed wire.
“Nothing looks deep,” Wren says from where we stand, letting her eyes roam the animal. “Seems exhausted more than anything.”
There’s about an eighteen-inch space between the bottom stringer and the ground, but again, she isn’t in the right state of mind to find her way through. It doesn’t help that her mama is on the other side of the fence, distraught.
Reaching through my side of the fence for the calf's forehead and shoulders, I try pulling it away from the barbed wire, and back or down toward the fence gap. But her mama won't let me get close, thrusting her head threateningly at me through the barbwire on her side.
“I tried loosening this up some,” Lewis says, indicating the barbed wire, “but she won’t budge.”
I nod at him, hands on my hips. “It's probably a good thing you didn’t. These cattle can be pretty unpredictable. Not docile at all, like those dairy cows you’re used to.” Chief Lewis and his wife, Marie, have two milk cows they’ve called me for help with over the years. “And, as you just saw, that mama will go after you if you get too close to her calf.”
He nods and shakes his head with a hearty laugh. “I’m sure the wife would never let me hear the end of it if I took a hoof to the gut.”
I huff a laugh out through my nose. “I imagine not.” He claps me on the back, and I pull my gloves from my back pocket and work them on.
“I’d like to cut this old fencing away, but I’m afraid the tension on the top stringer will pop her in the face if I do.”
I kneel down in front of the fence, trying to decide the best way to go about this. There are redwood posts on the old fence, but I don’t relish cutting through two-inch thick posts with a handsaw. And I’d like to keep the calf as calm as possible, so a chainsaw is out of the question.
Wren crouches next to me and points. “What if you pulled these nails out here and we pulled this back?”
I reach up and pull on the fence that she’s indicating. “That could work, sure. Let's throw the halter on her and that’ll give us some control of her head to pull her through.”
“Looks like there's some fresh tracks here, too, Hank. Coyote,” Beau says. He’s bent at the waist, inspecting the ground a few feet away.
Wren retrieves the halter from the ground. Keeping a cautious eye on the mama, she gingerly slides the halter over the calf's ears and down over her nose, securing a knot under her chin. The calf is clearly exhausted herself because she doesn’t put up a fight. That should work in our favor though because she’ll be less likely to bolt if she’s tired. The last thing we want is for her to get spooked further and have her get hung up on the fencing.
“Beau, there should be a crowbar in the silver box in the back of the truck.”
