Page 92 of Tough Love

“Hello to you too, Adeline. I can’t be out there today. Would a nurse be enou?—”

Something bangs in the background where he is. Is he at the clinic?

“Sorry, someone is pounding at the front doors. All the locals know we are closed Sunday. Must be some out of towner. Call you back in a sec.”

Beep, beep, beep.

Fuck.

Even a nurse would be okay, if that’s all he can spare today. If this is one of his plays to set me up for trouble, I am not taking this one lying down. These are Hudson’s mares we are talking about. The phone buzzes in my hand.

Sending someone out now.

Thanks.

I have no idea why I’m still polite to that giant donkey’s ass—my parents’ civilized ways imprinted on me, no doubt. Hudson is talking to a mare in the stall. When I hear him shift in the hay, he calls out, “Addy!”

I fly into the stall. Two feet, legs, and a slick head spill from Vanity. She groans, rocking as the contractions take her hostage and the foal slips from her. Hudson clears away from her, still talking to the mama mare. A bay foal scrambles to his feet and face-plants in the straw. I chuckle and Hudson slips through the stall door and shuts it before leaning on it. I check Vanity over, making sure there is no excessive bleeding and her vitals are stable. I rub her face as she looks around for her foal. “Well done, Mama.”

Hudson’s gaze follows the foal before tracking to me. The broad smile on his happy face is everything. The afterbirth hangs when Vanity finally stands and starts to clean her baby. I wait, making sure it falls away.

When I walk toward the stall half door, Hudson lets me out. “She did so good.”

“Always does. It’s Whimsy we need to watch,” he says, and we track to the mare’s stall. She’s weaving against the barn’s half door when we reach her.

Shit—she’s distressed.

“Hold her head, Huddy. I need to check her.”

I run a hand down her neck and over her back and rump as I move to check her over. She swishes her tail urgently, and I try to hold it aside to check on her progress. I pull a long glove from my back pocket and stand close as I slip a hand in to check the foal’s position. When my fingers find a little rump instead of a nose and feet, my stomach plummets. She’s breech. Dammit.

This far into the labor, turning the foal is almost impossible. “This one is gonna hurt, Mama.”

“She’s breech?”

“Yeah. I can’t turn the foal, either.”

I pull my arm out as another contraction starts. Poor Whimsy, I can’t imagine how painful that must be. Peeling the glove from my hand, I slip out the barn door. I could really use that backup right about now.

I wander back to the bags and double-check I have everything I need to stitch her up after a bad delivery or to make the delivery easier. When I have organized everything I will need for whichever way this turns out, I do another round of checks on each mare.

Louisa walks into the barn carrying a tray of steaming mugs and a plate of something. “Thought you two could use something warm.”

“Thanks, Ma,” Hudson says, taking the mugs from the tray and handing me one. I wrap my hands around the hot cocoa and sip it. It travels all the way down to my stomach. Mmmm.

“Thank you, Louisa. We needed that; it’s going to be a long day, and most likely a long night.”

“Oh?”

“Whimsy, again,” Hudson offers.

“Every year without fail, that poor girl. Next year she gets a break, Hudson. There is only so much a woman can take.”

Hudson chuckles and nods, sipping the cocoa. But the humor slips from his face when his eyes meet mine. I’m not happy that she is breech and there are only the two of us. Far from it. I finish the cocoa and replace it on the tray. Louisa leaves with the tray but insists on leaving the cookies behind. I set them down on the bales of hay and head to check the first of the foals.

He is getting cleaned still when I lean over the barn door, and I take in the beauty of Mother Nature’s design for a moment. A low whinny, followed by thumping hooves, breaks me from my short respite. I turn to track the sound. Whimsy. She whinnies before dropping to the floor of her stall. God, here goes.

Hudson beats me to the stall and has the door flung open and is by her side a heartbeat later. I round her rump and move her flicking tail away the best I can. The foal is close. His rump appears with every contraction but sinks back down.Damn it, where is our help?I rush back to the bags and decide to pluck up both before running back to her stall.

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