Page 1 of Saddles and Snowstorms (Sagebrush Cowboys #4)

Rowan

“ O h fuck!” I cried, clenching my teeth as my arm felt like it was being ripped out of its socket. “Ow, ow, ow, ow, ow, ow!”

“Are you alright?” the old farmer asked. I’d already forgotten his name. “Should I get some help?”

“No, it’s fine,” I grunted through my teeth. “She’s just having a contraction.”

I stood there, shoulder deep in a cow’s uterus, forcing myself to breathe as her muscles tightened around my arm.

It wasn’t exactly how I expected to be spending my first day as the new veterinarian in Sagebrush.

After a long day of giving pets shots, doing checkups, and feeding meds to a rather obnoxious herd of sheep that needed to be dewormed, I thought I’d go back to my rented apartment and unpack my things.

But the cow had been in labor all day with no progress.

I was glad I took the call. She was exhausted and if I couldn’t get ahold of this calf, they were both going to die.

“First time with a breech birth?” the old farmer asked, his weathered face creasing with a knowing smile.

“Third,” I managed to say. “But my first solo. My first in Sagebrush.”

The contraction finally eased, and I exhaled slowly, sweat beading on my forehead despite the cool evening air. I could feel the calf now, its legs bent in completely the wrong position. No wonder it wasn’t progressing.

“Got a name, doc?” the farmer asked, clearly trying to distract me as I worked my hand around the calf.

“Rowan. Rowan Walsh,” I said, concentrating on finding purchase. “Just moved from Austin last week. Got here on New Year’s Day.”

“Well, Dr. Walsh, welcome to Sagebrush. Nothing like getting your arm squeezed half to death by Lulabelle here to make you feel at home.”

I would have laughed if I wasn’t so focused. The rolling prairie outside the barn was fading into darkness, and the only sounds were the labored breathing of the cow and the occasional lowing of the rest of the herd.

“There,” I said, finally getting my fingers around one tiny hoof. “I’m going to try to reposition it. This might take a while.”

“Take your time, Doc. We’ve got nowhere to be,” the farmer said, handing me a towel for my sweaty forehead. “Lulabelle here’s a fighter. Her mama was the same way. Ornery as all get-out during birthing.”

I nodded, concentrating on the delicate work.

The calf’s leg was completely folded back, making it impossible for it to pass through the birth canal.

With gentle, persistent pressure, I began to straighten the limb, working between contractions.

The silence of the barn was broken only by the occasional grunt from Lulabelle and the distant sound of coyotes calling across the Sagebrush hills.

“You know,” the farmer said after a while, “we haven’t had a proper vet around here in almost two years. Old Doc Mercer retired and moved to Arizona. His arthritis couldn’t take these Texas winters anymore.”

“Two years is a long time,” I replied, wincing as another contraction gripped my arm. When it passed, I continued working. “Got it! One leg in position.”

I felt a wave of triumph as I adjusted the first leg. Now for the second one. The old farmer leaned against a post, his silhouette backlit by the single bulb hanging from the barn ceiling.

“Sure is,” he agreed. “Folks around here been hauling their animals to Plainview or trying to manage on their own. Some did okay. Some didn’t.”

I nodded, not trusting myself to speak as I concentrated on finding the calf’s other leg.

Lulabelle let out a low, mournful sound that echoed through the barn.

My fingers brushed against something—the second hoof.

I carefully worked my hand around it, feeling the delicate bones beneath my fingertips.

“Almost there,” I murmured, more to myself than to the farmer or Lulabelle. “Come on, little one.”

Another contraction hit, and I gritted my teeth against the crushing pressure. My arm was going numb, pins and needles racing from my fingertips to my shoulder. When it passed, I managed to reposition the second leg, straightening it alongside the first.

“Got both legs now,” I announced, allowing myself a small smile. “Next contraction, I’m going to guide it through.”

“That’s good news,” the farmer said, stepping closer. “Lulabelle here produces the best calves in the county. Her last one fetched top dollar at the auction.”

It was not very useful or helpful information, but I was used to it.

Farmers loved to talk, even if nobody was listening.

Considering I was trapped there, I was a captive audience for him.

I didn’t mind, though. Small town farmers were dead loyal to their vets.

As long as I made sure this calf made it to the light of day, I’d have a loyal customer for life.

The contraction came sooner than I expected, and I worked with it, guiding the calf’s hooves toward the birth canal. My arm muscles screamed in protest, but I could feel progress now, real progress. Sweat dripped into my eyes, and I blinked it away, unable to wipe my face.

“Come on, girl,” I encouraged Lulabelle as she strained. “You’re doing great.”

The farmer grabbed a clean blanket from a nearby stack and laid it on the straw. “For the little one,” he explained.

I nodded, focusing on the delicate push-pull rhythm of guiding the calf. The hooves emerged first, tiny and perfect, followed by the nose. I carefully eased the head through, making sure the umbilical cord wasn’t wrapped around the neck.

“Almost there,” I said, my voice hoarse from the strain.

Finally, with a sudden rush, the calf slid into the world with a gush of fluid. I stumbled back, my arm finally free, pins and needles shooting through it as blood rushed back into my fingers.

“It’s a heifer!” the farmer announced, his leathery face breaking into a wide smile. He knelt beside the blanket where the wet, trembling calf lay. “Look at that, a little girl for Lulabelle.”

I shook out my arm, wincing at the sensation, then grabbed a clean towel and joined him. The calf was beautiful. Mostly black with a white star on her forehead, her eyes large and bewildered as she took her first breaths.

“She’s not moving much,” the farmer observed, his voice edged with concern.

“Give her a minute,” I said, rubbing the calf vigorously with the towel. “Come on, little one. Take a good breath for me.”

I cleared mucus from her nostrils and mouth, then rubbed harder along her ribcage. The calf suddenly jerked, coughed, and let out a weak “maa” that echoed through the barn.

“There she is,” I said, relief flooding through me. “Good girl.”

Behind us, Lulabelle let out a low, plaintive moo. She was struggling to her feet, maternal instinct overriding her exhaustion. I moved aside as she approached her calf, sniffing and licking the newborn with surprising gentleness for such a large animal.

“Should probably check for a twin,” I said, rolling up my sleeve again. “Sometimes with difficult births like this...”

“You think there’s another?” The farmer’s eyebrows shot up.

I shrugged. “Better safe than sorry.”

This time, the examination was quicker and less dramatic. “We’re clear,” I announced, stepping back and peeling off my long glove with a wet snap. “Just the one.”

The farmer nodded, watching mother and calf with obvious pride. “What do you think of her chances?”

“Good,” I said, washing my arms in a bucket of clean water he’d provided. “She’s breathing well, good color. Mom’s taking to her. Just make sure she nurses within the next hour.”

The calf was already trying to stand on wobbly legs, knees buckling as she struggled to find her balance. I watched with quiet satisfaction as she toppled over, only to try again with stubborn determination.

“Look at that,” the farmer chuckled. “Got her mama’s spirit already.”

I dried my hands and arms on a clean towel, wincing at the soreness. Tomorrow I’d have bruises from wrist to shoulder, but it was worth it. The calf finally managed to stay upright, swaying slightly as she took her first tentative steps toward Lulabelle.

“What’ll you name her?” I asked, packing my supplies back into my medical bag.

The farmer tilted his head, considering the wobbly newborn. “Been thinking ‘Midnight’ on account of when she came, but seeing that star on her head... maybe ‘Starlight’ instead.”

“Starlight,” I repeated, watching as the calf found her mother’s udder and began to nurse. “It suits her.”

We stood in companionable silence for a few minutes, only the sounds of the soft huffing of cattle and the occasional creak of the old barn settling. The cold prairie wind whistled through the cracks in the barn walls, carrying the scent of dry grass and coming rain.

“Starlight it is, then,” the farmer nodded decisively. “First calf of the new year in Sagebrush, delivered by our new vet.”

I smiled, feeling a warmth that had nothing to do with the physical exertion of the past hour. “I’ll check back tomorrow, make sure she’s still doing well.”

“You hungry, Doc? My Ellie always keeps a pot of something on the stove. Nothing fancy, but it’s hot.”

My stomach growled at the mention of food. I hadn’t eaten since a hurried sandwich at noon.

“That’s very kind, but I should get home. Still have boxes to unpack.” I glanced at my watch—nearly midnight. “And I need to be at the clinic by seven.”

The farmer nodded, understanding in his eyes. “Well, the offer stands anytime. Bringing Starlight into the world... that means something around here.”

As we walked out of the barn, the Texas night spread above us, a tapestry of stars brighter than I’d ever seen in Austin.

The rolling hills of Sagebrush stretched out in all directions, dark silhouettes against the night sky.

I took a deep breath of the crisp air, letting it clear my head after the close, humid atmosphere of the barn.

“Beautiful night,” the farmer remarked, following my gaze upward. “One thing about Sagebrush—we’ve got the best stars in Texas.”