Page 238 of Wild Then Wed
Sawyer’s out at the far pasture today, checking on a first-time heifer that’s been acting off since last night. Calving season doesn’t exactly run on a schedule, and she’s been stalling for days now. He and Crew are out there with one of the hands, keeping an eye in case she needs assistance delivering.
Hank’s with him—loyal and slow-moving. Which means it’s just me and Winnie this morning. And I’m taking full advantage.
I change quickly—jeans, thermals, flannel—and grab Winnie’s leash off the hook by the back door. She bounces at my feet, circling twice before sitting, tail thudding against the floor like a metronome. I clip the leash to her collar, grab my jacket, and step out into the morning.
The air hits cold against my face, but the sun’s high and there’s a softness to it that wasn’t there a few weeks ago.
The snow crunches beneath our boots and paws as we walk across the yard, past the still-frosted fence line, and toward the round pen where I know Anna’s already started morning groundwork with one of the younger geldings.
Winnie trots beside me, her nose to the ground, ears up. She has no idea what she’s doing out here yet, but she’s eager.
She suddenly freezes, her ears snapping to attention. One sharp bark bursts from her, then another—louder this time—and before I can react, she’s lunging toward the barn closest to the round pen.
“Winnie!” I hiss, trying to keep her leash tight. “What is wrong with you?”
She doesn’t answer, obviously—just keeps barking and yanking with all of her determination, her paws slipping across the half-frozen dirt like she’s trying to drag me into battle.
I plant my boots and grip the leash with both hands, but she’s relentless, whining now, twisting her whole body toward the barn. I take one step closer, teeth gritted. “Okay, okay! You win. Just relax!”
And then I hear it.
Screaming. Raw and guttural.
Winnie lets out another bark, high and frantic, and I scoop her up without thinking. “Shhh. I know,” I whisper, even though I don’t. I have no clue.
My boots slip slightly as I take off, moving as fast as I can without eating it on the patchy ice. The wind slices across my face. My breath clouds in front of me in short, panicked puffs. The closer I get, the louder it gets. Another scream rips through the quiet morning, followed by a muffled sob.
Oh god.
I reach the barn and shove the heavy doors open with my shoulder. They creak like they always do, groaning against the cold. At first, I don’t see anything—just tack hung neatly on hooks, the smell of hay and horses and something sharp underneath it that my brain doesn’t want to name yet.
Then I see her.
Anna.
She’s halfway down the main aisle, hunched against the wall, one hand braced on a beam and the other cradling her belly. Her head is down, her blonde hair stuck to the sweat on her face, her whole body trembling.
Another scream tears out of her before I can even move.
“Anna?” My voice comes out soft, careful, like I might scare her if I’m too loud.
She turns, barely, eyes wild, her face pale and damp and full of panic. She opens her mouth, but no words come—just another sound, this one higher, tighter, as she bends slightly at the waist, both arms wrapping around her middle.
I look down. Her jeans are soaked through.
No. No, no, no. Not here. Not now.
She’s in labor.
I rush toward her, my heart pounding, my boots echoing against the concrete floor. “Okay, we’ve got to get you to the hospital.”
Anna shakes her head hard, clutching the beam like it’s the only thing holding her upright. “I can’t!” Her hazel eyes are wide, glassy, her whole face pulled tight with pain.
“You can.” I reach for her arm. “We just—come on, we’ll get you in the truck.”
But another scream rips out of her and she doesn’t budge. She pants through it, bent over, her body shaking, her hair clinging to her cheeks. “It’s coming. It’s comingright now.I can feel it. I swear, Wren—it’s happening too fast.”
I blink, my brain stuttering. “Right now? Likenownow?”
