Page 32 of Hearts of Briarwall

“I want the record to show,” Lydia said as she cradled the cow’s neck, “that this wasnotmy idea for this evening’s entertainment.”

“Duly noted,” said Andrew. “It is not nearly so odd as to be counted as one of your entertainments.” He grunted. “I have the foreleg.”

The cow bellowed, and Lydia growled, whether at her brother or the cow, Spencer couldn’t say.

“Now,” Andrew said.

Spencer tentatively pushed his way in, gripping the rope and finding Andrew’s fist, which wasn’t too deep now that the leg was positioned in the birth canal.

“The rope’s around,” he said, astonished that the move had worked.

“Now, Mr. Wooding, get that other leg up. Mr. Hayes, keep that rope taut else the hoof’ll go right back where it oughtn’t.”

Spencer kept a firm hold on the rope and gave Andrew space. He glanced at Lydia.

She was bent over the cow’s head, one knee resting against its shoulder, stroking the girl’s neck and speaking softly. Her face glistened with sweat in the lamplight, tendrils of hair sticking to her forehead and neck. Her jacket was gone, her sleeves rolled up, her slender arms holding strong and fast.

She’d held the same position in the warm barn for the other births, not a murmur of complaint. Then she had helped care for the calves, rubbing them clean with hay until they were up and suckling. She covered a yawn. He guessed it was sometime past midnight; the sky outside the barn was black as ink. He’d always respected Andrew’s work ethic, but his sister’s seemed to be as impressive.

Their eyes met, and he froze as if being caught reaching for a third helping of his mother’s mince pies.

“Spencer, now.”

Jolted, he moved with the second rope. Both hooves were visible now, and Spencer looped the other one.

“Now, pull on those legs, the both of you,” Latimer said. “Wooding, keep a hand in there. Make a way for him.”

“Lucky me,” Spencer grunted.

“C’mon, girl,” Lydia said. “You’re quite the warrior, aren’t you? Give us a big push. You can rest after this. We’ll get you the sweetest hay there is.”

Spencer and Andrew groaned with the effort.

“There you have it, gents. He’s a-coming.”

And then the hips were out, the middle and shoulders, and a matted dark head.

“Put his hind legs up over the rail there. Clear his mouth as it drains.”

They lifted the calf over a stall rail so it hung upside down. As Andrew stroked the calf’s throat and scooped his mouth, the cow nudged and lowed, attempting to get closer. Lydia stayed with her, but her eyes were on the calf, who wasn’t moving yet.

“He’ll live, won’t he, Latimer?” she asked.

“He’s a better chance of it now, hasn’t he?”

Andrew continued to try to clear the animal’s airway. Spencer picked up handfuls of hay as he’d seen Lydia do with the other calves and began rubbing the smaller body down from belly to limbs, over and over again.

“Is he breathing?” Lydia asked.

Neither men answered, though they exchanged a glance.

Andrew pulled back. “I think he’s gone.”

Spencer paused, eyeing the calf as if that would stir something in it.

“It was a good attempt,” Latimer murmured.

“Keep trying,” Lydia demanded as she pushed past her brother. She met Spencer’s gaze over the calf and nodded at the handful of straw he was holding. “We must keep trying,” she urged.

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