Page 18 of Stuff My Turkey
After he disappeared into the bathroom, I lined up a couple of pillows down the middle of the king-sized mattress and then flopped back against the one I’d kept, staring at the ceiling. Thiswas supposed to be simple. Pretend to be Heath's girlfriend for a week, save our respective careers, go our separate ways.
But as I lay there, I couldn't stop thinking about the way his eyes crinkled when he laughed, or how he'd defended me to both the Vickerys and Buck Jessup without hesitation. My body thrummed with an electricity that made sleep impossible. The thin cotton of my top felt too heavy, too restrictive, and the pillow barrier might as well have been made of tissue paper for all the protection it offered against the magnetic pull I felt toward him.
I was already dying to fling not just those pillows across the room, but to peel away every layer between us until there was nothing left but skin against skin.
Oh, I was in trouble.
Chapter Four
Heath
The frantic pounding on my bedroom window jolted me from a dead sleep. For a split second, I thought it was part of a dream, until another round of knocks had me sitting bolt upright.
Jake's silhouette stood dark against the glass, his breath fogging the cold pane. I grabbed my jeans from the floor, yanking them on as I crossed to the window. Sliding it open sent a blast of frigid air into the room.
"Boss, it's Duchess," my farmhand said, voice urgent but low. "Water broke about twenty minutes ago. She's in active labor, but something ain't right."
"Shit," I hissed, glancing at the clock. 2:13 AM. "I'll be right there."
I shut the window and turned, nearly colliding with Honey, who'd appeared beside me. The pillow fortress she'd built down the middle of the bed had collapsed entirely, and she stood barefoot in her sleep clothes, hair tousled and eyes half-lidded.
"What's going on?" she asked, wrapping her arms around herself against the chill.
"Mare's in labor," I said, grabbing a flannel shirt. "Sounds like trouble."
Honey blinked, processing this information through the fog of sleep. "Do you need me to... do something?"
I hesitated. The sensible answer was no. She had no experience with livestock, and a difficult foaling was messy business. But having an extra set of hands could mean the difference between saving both mare and foal or losing one—or both.
"Actually, yeah," I decided. "Could use the help."
"Oh." Her eyes widened, suddenly more awake. "What should I wear?"
"Something you don't mind getting ruined," I advised, pulling on my boots. "It's gonna get messy."
While she scrambled into jeans and one of my old sweatshirts, I gathered supplies—clean towels, a first aid kit, my phone. By the time I'd finished, Honey stood ready, though her face betrayed a mix of apprehension and curiosity.
"Fair warning," I said, tossing her a pair of my old work boots that would be too big but better than nothing. "This might be intense."
"I'm a public defender," she countered, lacing up the boots. "I've seen plenty of intense."
"Not like this," I muttered, but led the way outside.
The November air bit through our clothes like barbed wire. Above us, stars pierced the black sky in brilliant pinpricks, the moon a sliver that cast just enough light to navigate. Honey stumbled once, and my hand shot out to steady her, lingering at her elbow until I was sure she had her footing.
The barn glowed with yellow light as we approached, the sounds of Duchess's labored breathing growing louder. Jake had readied the stall with fresh straw and stood near the mare's head, stroking her neck and murmuring reassurances.
Honey halted at the stall entrance, taking in the scene. Duchess lay on her side, sides heaving with contractions, her chestnut coat dark with sweat despite the cold. The massive pregnant mare, usually so dignified, now looked vulnerable and afraid.
"What do I do?" Honey whispered.
"For now, just hand me things when I ask," I said, rolling up my sleeves. "And maybe talk to her. She likes a gentle voice."
I crouched at Duchess's hindquarters, checking her progress. The amniotic sac had ruptured, but there was no sign of the foal yet. I pulled on a pair of latex gloves from the first aid kit.
"Is that...are you going to...?" Honey's voice trailed off, her face paling in the yellow barn light.
"I need to check positioning," I explained, keeping my voice calm for both women's benefit. "Foal might be turned wrong."
