Winter's End. Ruth Herne Logan

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      Chapter Two

      Marc finished loading the carcasses as his cell phone rang. He tugged off his gloves and fumbled the narrow instrument, his broad fingers awkward in the cold. “DeHollander.”

      “It’s Stu,” the truck driver reported. “I’ve finished at Brall’s. I’m heading your way.”

      Marc worked his jaw, regretful. Last night’s time glitch had cost him the life of a young cow and her calf, no small thing in the beef business. Even one as strong as his. “They’re loaded. I’ll wait for you at the end of the drive.”

      “I’ll pull alongside,” Stu replied. “Sorry you lost ’em.”

      “Me, too.”

      They both understood how disease could spread from one farm to another via contaminated wheels and equipment. Even soiled boots could track pathogens into a barn. Marc took no chances. He’d worked too long, too hard to get his beef operation up and running. As a result, his business had grown strong, a credit to his time and patience.

      Marc kicked himself for not calling his veterinary friend out sooner. He hadn’t notified Craig until it was too late, the calf trapped too long in the birth canal. A stupid mistake. Slipshod. And he was never careless with his business. That was why he turned a profit on both the feed store and his cattle production.

      But Jess had mustered a bee in her bonnet over something crucial to a fourteen-year-old girl, Dad was disoriented after his new medicine and Marc hadn’t made it back to the barn in time to see something was dreadfully wrong.

      He revved the engine and edged the tractor bucket off the ground. The animals jerked as the shovel lurched. The cow’s hock shifted and hung, midair. Marc frowned but relaxed as the bulk of the body settled into the crook of the shovel. Sighing in resignation, he shoved the tractor into gear and headed up the drive.

      Looking way too stylish for a harsh North Country winter, the slim, blonde nurse approached her car as the tractor rumbled toward her. She watched him navigate the big John Deere, her blue-eyed gaze sweeping the sad load, the hock protruding from the bucket’s edge.

      Her eyes narrowed. She stood still, despite the cold, the trendy pea coat no match for the frigid temperatures. The spunky jacket looked good on her, reminding Marc that appearances outweighed everything for girls like Kayla Doherty. Her face tightened at the sight of his loaded bucket. Disgust? Dismay? From his vantage point atop the enclosed tractor, Marc couldn’t be sure.

      He winced. Was this what he wanted for his father’s care? His buddy’s old girlfriend, with her insensible shoes, expensive clothes and saucy attitude? Oh, yeah, he remembered Craig dating her, bemoaning her panache and love of style. Definitely not North Country material. No way. No how. But here she was, pert and pretty in his driveway, cringing at the thought of death.

      Why did they need a nurse, anyway? Why was his father so anxious to throw in the towel? Was he that tired of the fight, that worn?

      Where there’s life, there’s hope.

      The adage came straight from Pete’s mouth, and Marc put stock in the saying. He’d brought some pretty sick animals back from near-death experiences. Maybe that’s why it hurt so much to wrestle the reaper and lose as he had last night.

      The idea of waging a similar battle for his father had been wrested from his hands, and Marc didn’t like that. Dr. Pentrow tossed around terms like visiting nurses. End stage. Translation: Give it up. Party’s over. Call the undertakers, have ’em ready a spot.

      Shoulders tight, Marc continued along the drive, not pausing until he braked at the road’s edge. As the nurse pulled next to him in her sporty red car, he averted his face. He didn’t need her disapproval at the nature of his work. In a way, it wasn’t much different than hers. You battled, you toiled and in the end, death came regardless.

      But at least he had sense enough to wear proper footwear.

      “Horses all set?”

      Jess nodded as she shrugged out of her coat. She kicked off her boots, pegged the khaki-green jacket and headed for the kitchen.

      “Jess.” Marc angled a look to the entry floor.

      Jess groaned, turned and righted the boots, exasperated. “Better?”

      Marc hid a smile as he stirred a pot of simmering soup. “Much. How old do you have to be before you just do it?”

      She laughed. “An indeterminate factor.” Grinning at the shake of his head, she hugged him around the waist and slid a look to the foyer. “You’d probably have to care, first.”

      No joke there. Marc mock-scowled. “That much I understand. I’ve seen your room.”

      “I know where everything is,” she claimed, grabbing a cookie from the counter. After the first bite, she snatched another. “Usually.”

      “Mmm-hmm,” Marc rejoined, skeptical. Hadn’t they been late for church because she couldn’t locate her favorite pants?

      It seemed peculiar to walk into the white clapboard building after so much time, then late, besides. They’d drawn looks as they proceeded to the front instead of sliding into the empty last pew. His fault for letting Jess pick the seat.

      Dad had gone with Jess these last years while Marc busied himself with farmwork. Always something to do on a cattle holding, regardless of weather, and Sunday mornings were no exception. Neither СКАЧАТЬ