Part 8 (1/2)

d.u.c.h.ess lifted her nose and let out a very loud moooo.

You'd think she was the first cow to calf.

Just because it's her first doesn't mean it's the first.

If you'd relax, sugar, this would all end sooner.

d.u.c.h.ess swung her head right, then left. But because of the head gate, she couldn't see the others. Didn't stop her from ”talking” to them.

If you don't shut up I'm going to end you.

The cows s.h.i.+fted, huffed. I swear one even rolled her eyes. They were all named for the n.o.bility-d.u.c.h.ess, Lady, Countess, Marchioness, Majesty, Queenie, Princess, Victoria, Bess, Kate, and so on. Despite those names, they reminded me of a gaggle of housewives in a fifties hair salon.

I stifled a giggle at the idea of that image immortalized on velvet, then leaned my head against the warm rump of Her Grace for an instant.

”While you're at it, could you shut the door to the corral too?”

”Sure.” The door creaked. ”Good night, ladies.”

Well, I never!

We were just trying to help.

The nerve!

You'll be so- The door closed. The comments ended.

I knew their dialogue was all in my head, as were the pithy retorts of d.u.c.h.ess. That the laboring cow huffed and glared in perfect syncopation with the remarks was most likely her response to my heightened tension.

I wished my mind would stop its running commentary in animal voices. But I'd been wis.h.i.+ng that all my life, and my wish was never granted.

”Could you bring some warm water?” I called. ”There are buckets next to the sink in the milking parlor. Should be some soap up there too, if you'd squirt some in.”

”Got it.” A few seconds later the sound of water hitting the bottom of said bucket commenced.

I should have insisted that Owen get lost, but Emerson hadn't looked good. He was getting too old for this job, though I'd never tell him. Comments like those would only insure that he'd work even harder to prove me wrong and wind up with a hernia. Farmers were as stubborn as bulls. I swear the term bullheaded was coined just for them.

Unfortunately for Emerson, he and his wife had four daughters-all grown, married, and gone. Not one of their husbands was interested in taking over the farm, which meant Emerson would hold on to the place as long as he could, then sell it. Or he'd keel over trying to prove to me, or some other moron who'd said he should slow down, that he shouldn't, and his wife would unload the place so she could live in a condo on the lake. The farm that had been in the Watley family for so long that the road to the east had been dubbed Watley Road would be no more.

It was a common enough occurrence. Very few people of my age group wanted to be dairy farmers. Very few people in my age group had the stones for it.

In my family, my brothers-the twins Jamie and Joe-certainly didn't. At seventeen, they were strong and able and they did what they were told, but they also counted the days until they didn't have to any more.

My sister, Melanie, was the best bet for the next generation at Carstairs farm. She attended the University of WisconsinRiver Falls where she was studying dairy science.

I think my dad developed a permanent twitch in his right cheek after she told him that. He preferred hands-on learning to books, but Mellie had her own ideas. And as our mother said, ”At least one of them's interested.”

d.u.c.h.ess gave a low, annoyed moo-couldn't blame her, my mind had been wandering-and swung her head in my direction.

Get it out.

”Arm or calf?”

Get them both out of my a.s.s before I kick yours.

Funny how she sounded an awful lot like me. They all did. Because they were me.

”You okay?” Owen set a steaming bucket of water at my side.

Had I been talking to her out loud? G.o.d, I hoped not.

I glanced up. He only appeared mildly curious about the process and not concerned over my sanity.

”I'm peachy,” I said as d.u.c.h.ess bore down again.

I'm sure I had unmentionable gunk everywhere. Wasn't the first time, wouldn't be the last. If I had a problem with gunk, I wouldn't be a vet.

I fished around a bit more for a hoof, a nose, something, found nothing, and withdrew my arm.

”It's going to be a while,” I said.

d.u.c.h.ess stomped-once, twice, again.

”You'd almost think she understood you.”

”Almost.” I made use of the water.

Owen seemed as tired as I felt. It was after three A.M. Who knew how long he'd been awake. At this point I couldn't remember how long I had.

He sat on a hay bale just inside the stall door, leaned his head against the wall, and closed his eyes. ”Do you ever get called to a calving in the bright light of day?”

”Not yet.”

When a minute or more pa.s.sed and Owen didn't respond, I turned my head. His eyes were still closed, his breathing had evened out. I waited a while longer to make sure he was truly asleep before I crossed the distance and gently touched his too short hair. Spiky now, sharp where it had once been soft, the ends made my fingers tingle.

I drew back, then found my own hay bale and just watched him breathe.

Owen came awake, and he didn't know where he was.

What else was new? Lately, if he knew where he was that was cause for celebration.

He hadn't been dreaming. Hadn't heard loud noises and woken on the floor, or worse, in a corner or under the bed. He was in a barn, but not one he knew. The cow didn't look familiar either, but most of them looked alike to him.

”Reggie,” he said, but the dog didn't appear, and unease trickled over him. There was something about the dog he should remember.

Owen stood with a lurch, then nearly fell when his leg shouted with pain and gave out. He caught himself on the stall and sat again with a muted thud, as everything came back.