Page 6 of The Front Runner
Mira:Fucking tell me about it.
It’s the only response I can muster as I shove my phone back into my pocket, grab the cup of steaming coffee, and wander back into the barn. I hear Ginger’s labored breathing and soft grunts now, all normal. I peek in and time another contraction, which are slowly getting closer together. She won’t be long now. Provided everything goes the way it’s supposed to, it rarely takes long for a foal to be born.
As I sip my coffee, I move back over to the small orphan colt’s stall and watch his tiny ribcage rise and fall where he’s snuggled up in the straw. I’m worried sick about him. I grew up on a farm. I’m a scientist, so I like to think of myself as rational. But as much as I’ve trained myself to look at much of what happens to animals in this line of work as the natural circle of life, now and then, you get one that just kicks you in the gut for no good reason. Something so unfair that it clenches your heart in a fist and won’t let it go. And this nameless colt is that for me.
I feel powerless to help him, and Ireallyhate that. It almost makes me want to wake him and feed him again, even though I can see from the chart on his stall that Hank was here only a few hours ago and gave him a bottle then. He needs to rest, and I recognize that I just want to wake him to comfort myself. To convince myself that he really will wake again and stand on those wobbly, gangly legs. This shouldn’t be how DD’s first foal hit the ground.
It should be a moment of celebration, not sadness.
When my phone rings in my pocket, I don’t even bother checking the number before I hit answer and say, “Go to sleep, psycho. I’ll call if I need your help.”
But it’s not Billie’s voice I hear. “Dr. Thorne? It’s Stefan Dalca.”
Stefan Dalca is pretty much everyone’s least favorite person. He’s solidified himself as Enemy Number One to most people at this farm for the arrogant shit he’s pulled, or for the arrogant shits he’s employed. And to be honest, the only reason I haven’t entirely written the guy off is because I kind of like him. He’s a good client at the clinic. He takes meticulous care of his horses, he pays his bills early, and he keeps his appointments—in a lot of ways he’s a good guy.
“Listen, if you’re calling in the middle of the night to ask me on a date, the answer is still no.”
Stefan is also relentless—and I kind of get a kick out of it. He asked me out six months ago as a joke. And now it istherunning joke. He smirks and offers a date in lieu of paying a bill. He winks and offers a date in exchange for throwing a race. A woman with better sense would tell him to back off, but I’ve always been drawn to the man—against my better judgement—so he usually gets a headshake, and an eye roll, followed by an ‘in your dreams’ with a small tip of my lips.
“I called the clinic but—”
“That’s because it’s closed. You can’t be calling me at all hours of the night, Stefan. I don’t even know how you got my personal number. I’m not on call. We open at nine—”
He cuts me off with a crack in his voice. “It’s an emergency. I need you at my farm as soon as possible.”
* * *
I pull straight upto the big barn doors at Cascade Acres. My footfalls echo in the otherwise quiet barn as I run down the alleyway to where lights are on at the back.
“Stefan?” I call out breathlessly. “I’m here.”
“Over here,” he barks back from only a few stalls ahead, just as I see his wide-eyed barn manager, Leo, step out into the aisle.
The man presses his lips together and shakes his head at me as I turn down into the oversized foaling stall. Stefan is hands-on with his horses, and it’s irritating that Leo, who is supposed to know something about this business, is standing here like a bump on a log while I’ve spent the drive over talking his employer through what to do to salvage a dangerous situation.
Stefan is down on the stall floor, kneeling beside a motionless foal, his hands braced on his knees, and his head bowed.
His voice comes out quiet and lightly accented when he finally speaks. “I’ve been trying to resuscitate her the way you told me to. I think she’s dead.”
I step in and check the chestnut mare, who is standing above the foal’s body, quickly. She looks tired but isn’t bleeding excessively. Thankfully, nothing looks emergent with her—it’s the foal that has me worried. “Mom looks okay for now.”
“I burst the bag just like you told me to.” His voice is thick, and blood covers his naturally tan arms and white T-shirt.
Red bag deliveries are dangerous, messy, and rarely end well. The placenta separates and the foal is born prematurely.
I take a deep breath and then kneel beside Stefan. “You did great. You did everything right.”
He looks at me now, his green eyes almost mossy in the low light. There’s no smirk on his face tonight. He looks genuinely gutted.
I drop his gaze, pull out my stethoscope, and listen for a heartbeat. Finding none, I place my hand gingerly over one of his. “I’m sorry, Stefan.”
He nods, unable to meet my eyes. I hate this part of being a vet. The dealing with people part. The dealing with feelings part. Animals live their life in the moment. They are eternal optimists—they don’t know any better. But people are complicated and traversing their emotions isn’t my strong suit. I’m not a talk-about-your-feelings type of gal.
With my other hand, I awkwardly pat his back. I’m aware my bedside manner leaves something to be desired, but I’m good with the animals, and in my book, that’s what counts. It’s moments like this where my tongue ties in a knot, and my otherwise quite exceptional IQ short-circuits.
“Did I miss something?” he asks, his voice so thick it makes me blink away unwanted moisture in my eyes.
I sit back on my heels and heave out a sigh. “You didn’t miss a thing. This is just...nature. It’s sad and gritty sometimes. But what you did saved your mare’s life. In the wild or without supervision, they’d both be gone.”
