Page 77 of Knotting the Cowboys

He leads me across the yard with the confidence of someone who knows exactly where they're going and why. His stride is purposeful but not rushed, and I notice how he automatically adjusts his pace to match mine. The clean linen scent that clings to him mingles with something medical—antiseptic and latex, the smell of someone who heals.

"Mavi mentioned you crushed the security drills this morning," Austin says conversationally. "Said you crawled through the attic access without complaining once about the dust or spiders."

Heat floods my face at the mention of this morning. "He's got an interesting teaching style."

Austin's laugh is bright and knowing. "That's one way to put it. Mavi believes in trial by fire. Or in this case, trial by cobweb." He glances at me sideways. "He also said you handle pressure well. That's going to come in handy right about now."

"Why? What are we—" I stop as we round the corner of a smaller outbuilding. A pen comes into view, and in it, a calf lies on its side in the straw. Even from here, I can see something's wrong—the listless way it breathes, the dull cast to its eyes.

Austin's demeanor shifts instantly from cheerful to professional. He vaults over the fence with practiced ease, already pulling latex gloves from his pocket. "Hey there, little man," he murmurs, kneeling beside the calf. "Not feeling so good today, huh?"

I climb through the fence more carefully, watching as his hands move over the animal with expert precision. He palpates the calf's stomach, checks its gums, feels along its legs with the kind of focused attention that speaks to years of practice.

"Colic," he says, glancing up at me. "Not uncommon in calves, but needs immediate attention. Come here, I'll show you what to look for."

I kneel beside him in the straw, trying not to think about what might be soaking into my jeans. The calf barely acknowledges our presence, too sick to care about potential threats. Up close, I can see the distension in its belly, the way its breathing comes shallow and pained.

"First thing—always check the eyes." Austin gently pulls back an eyelid. "See how they're dull? Dehydration. And here—" He presses on the calf's gums. "Should pink up immediately when you release. The slow return means poor circulation."

His teaching style is different from River's quiet guidance or Mavi's challenging approach. Austin explains everything as he goes, his voice taking on the cadence of someone used to training others. His hands work while he talks, preparing supplies from a medical kit that seems to materialize from nowhere.

"Temperature next." He produces a thermometer, and I try not to grimace as he shows me exactly where it needs to go. "103.5. Bit elevated, but not critical. The leg though..."

He runs his hands down the calf's right foreleg, and the animal flinches. "Secondary issue. Probably went down hard when the colic hit, twisted something." He sits back on his heels, already planning treatment. "Okay, here's what we're going to do."

The next few minutes are a whirlwind of medical efficiency. Austin shows me how to prepare the injection site, how to fill a syringe without air bubbles, how to wrap the injured leg with just enough pressure to support without cutting off circulation.His movements are confident but never rushed, and he explains each step like he has all the time in the world.

"I was an EMT first," he says while demonstrating the proper angle for an intramuscular injection. "Fire department, emergency response, the whole adrenaline junkie package. Loved it for years—the rush, the saves, the brotherhood."

"What changed?" I ask, watching him work with fascination.

"Got tired of only seeing people on their worst days." He caps the used needle with practiced movement. "Started thinking about what happened after we dropped them at the hospital. Who helped them heal, not just survive? So I went back to school, became a nurse practitioner. Traded the sirens for steady care."

He hands me a prepared syringe. "Your turn. Subcutaneous this time—under the skin, not into muscle. Pinch up a fold here, insert at a forty-five-degree angle."

My hands shake slightly as I take the syringe. The calf's hide is surprisingly tough, and I hesitate with the needle poised.

"You've got this," Austin encourages, his hand hovering near mine but not taking over. "Think of it as giving relief, not causing pain. Sometimes the quiet saves are the most important ones."

Something in his tone steadies me. I pinch the skin as he showed me, slide the needle in with one smooth motion, and depress the plunger. The calf doesn't even flinch, too sick to care about one more discomfort.

"Perfect!" Austin beams at me like I've just performed surgery. "Natural instincts. You'd make a good nurse."

I hand back the syringe, a surprising surge of accomplishment warming my chest. "I just followed your instructions."

"No, you did more than that." He starts cleaning up supplies, movements efficient. "You stayed calm, kept your hands steady,and most importantly—you cared about doing it right. That's not something you can teach."

We work in companionable silence for a while, Austin showing me how to massage the calf's distended belly, how to encourage it to stand. The animal seems perkier already, whether from the medication or the attention. When it finally struggles to its feet, wobbling but determined, I feel ridiculous pride.

"There we go," Austin croons, supporting the calf's weight. "Feeling better already, aren't you? Willa here helped fix you right up."

The use of my name in that context—as someone who helps, who heals—makes my throat tight again. Austin pretends not to notice, busy checking the leg wrap, but his next words tell me he understands.

"It's addictive, you know. Being useful. Making things better instead of just... existing." He glances at me, hazel eyes warm with understanding. "Bet you haven't had much chance for that lately."

The accuracy of the observation stings. "Not much call for financial auditing on a ranch."

"Maybe not," he agrees, helping the calf take a few tentative steps. "But there's plenty of call for someone who learns fast, works hard, and isn't afraid to get their hands dirty. Literally, in this case."

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