Taming the Brooding Cattleman. Marion Lennox

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      ‘I know that.’

      ‘You won’t faint?’

      ‘No.’

      ‘I’ve seen tougher cowboys than you faint, but you faint and your mare dies. Simple as that. I can’t do it alone.’

      ‘I’m with you every step of the way.’

      She stared at him long and hard, and then gave a brisk nod, as if he’d passed some unseen test.

      ‘Right,’ she snapped. ‘Let’s do it.’

      It was hard, it was risky.

      She was skilled.

      She whispered to the mare. Administered the anaesthetic. Guided her down.

      Together they rolled her into position, and he was stunned at the strength of her. She didn’t appear to notice how much strength it took.

      With the mare unconscious she set up a drip. She’d teamed with Jack to rope the mare into position, using the beams above, but Jack still needed to support her. He was told to supervise the ventilator delivering oxygen plus the drip administering electrolytes and fluids.

      She delivered curt instructions and he followed. This was her call.

      There was no choice. If she wasn’t here, he’d lose the mare. Simple as that.

      She was a vet.

      She was wearing a pink bathrobe. She’d tugged her hair back with a piece of hay twine. She shouldn’t look professional.

      She looked totally professional.

      She was clipping the hair from the mare’s abdomen, fast, sure, then doing a speedy sterile prep. Checking instruments. Looking to him for reassurance.

      ‘Ready?’

      ‘I’m ready,’ he said, and wondered if he was.

      He had to be.

      He watched, awed, as she made a foot-long incision in the midline of the abdomen, then made an incision into the uterus giving access to the foal.

      ‘Say your prayers,’ she said, and hauled out a tiny hoof, and then another.

      This was a big mare. The foal was small, but compared to this young woman … For her to lift it free …

      He made a move to help her.

      ‘Watch that oxygen,’ she snapped. ‘Leave this to me. It’s mare first, foal second.’

      He understood. Emergency caesareans in horses rarely meant a live foal. They were all about saving the life of the mare.

      If the airway he was monitoring blocked, they’d lose the mare, so he could only watch as she lifted the foal free. She staggered a little under the weight, but he knew enough now not to offer to help. She steadied, checked, put her face against its nuzzle, then carried it across to the bed of straw where he’d laid blankets. He’d started a blow heater, directing it to the blankets, to make it warm.

      Just in case …

      Maybe there was a case.

      He kept doing what he was doing, but he had space to watch as she swiftly cleared its nose, inserted the endotracheal tube he’d hardly noticed she’d set up, started oxygen, then returned briskly to the mare. All in the space of seconds. She couldn’t leave the mare for any longer.

      The foal was totally limp. But …

      ‘There’s a chance,’ she said, returning fast to the job at hand. There was no time, no manpower, to care for the foal more than she’d done.

      She had to stitch the wound closed. He had to stay where he was, supporting the mare, keeping the airway clear.

      But he watched the foal out of the corner of his eye. Saw faint movement.

      The mare shifted, an involuntary, unconscious shudder.

      ‘Watch her,’ Alex ordered. ‘You want to risk both?’

      No. He went back to what he was doing. Making sure she was steady. Making sure she lived.

      Alex went back to stitching.

      He watched her blond, bent head and he felt awed. He thought back to the sausages and outhouse and felt … stupid.

      And cruel.

      This woman had come halfway round the world so she could have a chance to do what she was doing brilliantly. And he’d begrudged her an egg.

      There was no time for taking this further now, though. With the stitching closed, she removed the ropes. He helped her shove fresh straw under the mare’s side, then manoeuvred her into lateral recumbency, on her side.

      The foal …

      ‘Watch her,’ she said again, more mildly this time, and she left him to the mare and stooped back over the foal.

      ‘We still have him,’ she said, in a voice that said it mattered. Her voice held surprise and a little awe. She checked more thoroughly and he saw the foal stir and shift. ‘Her,’ Alex corrected herself, and there was no concealing the emotion she felt. ‘Let’s get the birth certificate right on this one.’

      A filly. Out of Sancha.

      If he got a live mare and foal out of this night … He couldn’t describe the feeling.

      But it wasn’t certain yet. She was setting up an IV line, then using more blankets to towel the foal. It … she … was still limp.

      Everything had to go right with a foaling. Foals didn’t survive premature delivery. They seldom survived caesareans. To get a good outcome …

      Please …

      Sancha stirred under his hands, whinnied, lifted her head.

      ‘Hey.’ He laid his head on her head, the way he used to do as a kid, the way his grandfather had taught him. His grandfather was a cruel drunk, mean to everything and everyone but his horses, but Jack had watched him and learned, and the skills were there when he needed them. ‘There’s no need to get up,’ he whispered to her. ‘Your baby’s in good hands.’

      She was.

      They watched and waited. There seemed nothing of the Manhattan princess about Alex right now. She had all the time in the world, all the patience.

      Jack whispered to his mare, watched his foal—and watched this woman who’d transformed before his eyes.

      Finally the foal started to struggle, starting to search for her feet. Alex helped her up, a wobbly tangle of spindly legs and huge head, and Jack felt … felt …

      Like a horseman shouldn’t feel. He didn’t get emotional.

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