“Mrs. Myers,” I snap sternly, lifting Charlton and setting him on the floor. “Not that it’s any of your business, but Natasha has been here for weeks already. Her sister wanted her by her side in her final days, and she’s been a lifesaver helping out with the children. I don’t want to hear you speak ill of her.”
She looks shocked, pressing her hand against her chest. “Of course. I would never…” she huffs before tilting her head to the side before she continues, “it’s just…”
“Mrs. Myers, I’m sorry to cut you short, but my next appointment is waiting. Your dog is fine. Any change in diet always takes a bit of adjustment, I’m sure his bowels will settle down soon enough.” I reach around her and pull the door open, revealing Lisa.
“I was about to let you know your next appointment is here,” she announces, bulging her eyes at me.
“Send them in, please. Mrs. Myers is just leaving.”
Lisa, hearing the tension in my voice, takes the older woman by the arm and guides her firmly down the hall.
Appointments keep me busy the rest of the morning and every single one starts with condolences. By the time noon comes around, I need some air. Maybe I’ll pop home and check on things there. See how Taz is doing now the kids are back at school.
I tell myself it’s out of concern for her.
“I’m going to grab some lunch.”
Lisa is at the reception desk, the phone at her ear, and holding a finger up. “Hang on, he just finished his last appointment.” She winces, shooting a silent apology with her eyes. “He can be there in ten.”
“Where am I going?” I ask when she hangs up.
“Van Duren’s farm. He found that new calf in a ditch, tangled up in barbed wire some idiot left out in the field. He says some of it has embedded deep.”
A few choice expletives escape me as I quickly collect what I need and rush out to my truck.
It’s not that these things never happen—they do—but that bull calf is special. Jeff Van Duren has a lot riding on that animal. It’s the only calf left since two of his pregnant cows lost their calves earlier this year.
One of his hands is waiting at the gate when I drive up.
“They’re on the far side, northwest corner, just left of those trees,” he says, pointing, when I roll down the window.
“Can I drive the truck out there?”
“Yeah, stick to the trail along the fence line.”
It’s not looking good. By the time I reach Jeff he’s standing on the edge of the gully looking down, hands clasped behind his neck.
“Careful.” He grabs my arm when I try to make my way down to the animal. “Every time I get close, dang thing struggles and hurts hisself more.”
“Can’t help him if I can’t get to him,” I point out.
“Ain’t you got a dart gun?”
“That’s not gonna work, Jeff. I have a better chance of keeping him calm if I can get my hands on him. Grab me that burlap sack from the back of the truck.”
It takes me a while to ease my way down to the calf, but I’m finally able to drop the burlap over his head.
“Bring my bag,” I call up, trying to get a grip on the animal without getting myself hurt. “Gonna need you to cut the wires while I hold him down.”
Halfway down the slope, Jeff loses his footing and starts sliding, startling the terrified calf.
Taz
The house is so quiet.
I’ve tried to stay busy, ever since Rafe and the kids left this morning, but the silence is starting to get to me.
With the last load of laundry in the dryer, the house clean, and dinner prep done early, I’ve run out of things to do. Sort of. More like I’ve run out of excuses not to tackle Nicky’s clothes.
Mom said something last week when she and Dad dropped by. Then Rafe suggested over the weekend that maybe I’d want to go through her closet.
I don’t. Not really. Touching her stuff, smelling her scent, feeling her absence—I’m not ready to leave this numb blanket I’ve covered myself under. I’m afraid if I even lift a corner, I’ll get sucked into an emotional vortex I won’t be able to find my way out of.
It’s safer this way.
I had a weak moment yesterday when my parents dropped by after church. Mom seemed flat, only making an effort to be engaged with the kids, but barely speaking to Rafe or me. When they left, Dad unexpectedly pulled me into a hug, whispering to me to “give her some time.”
It was more than I’d had from my parents since coming back, and it had me running up the stairs so I could deal with the wave of emotions it evoked in private. I didn’t expect Rafe to follow me, but I suddenly found myself pressed against his chest. I’m ashamed to admit I clung to him, selfishly grabbing the comfort he offered with both hands.
Selfishly—yes—because even after the tears dried, I didn’t make any effort to step away. I’m not sure how long we stood there, but Rafe ended up pulling my arms from around him and disappearing downstairs. It took me a while, but by the time I came down, I’d shoved all my emotions back under that heavy blanket of numbness.
It feels like we’re all on shaky ground, moving cautiously around each other, trying hard not to be the one to upset the fragile balance.
Unable to help myself, I walk over to the bay window and check to see if Rafe’s truck is there. I saw him leave a couple of hours ago, but apparently he hasn’t returned yet. It’s only two; it’ll be another hour and a half before the kids get off the bus.
Maybe I can bake cookies or something for their snack. It’ll give me something to do.
I check the pantry and pull out what ingredients I can find. Hope the kids like oatmeal raisin cookies, because the bag of chocolate chips only had five chips left. Looks like someone’s been snacking.
I’m about to shove the first tray in the oven when I hear the front door and Rafe comes walking into the kitchen—covered in blood.
“Jesus! What happened to you?”
I drop the tray and rush over, my hands already doing a cursory exam of his body before he has a chance to respond.
“I’m fine,” he says, trying to grab my hands but I brush his away. “It’s not all mine.”
I look up in his face and notice a pretty deep gash on the side of his forehead, in addition to a collection of smaller cuts and scrapes. “Wrestling feral cats today?” I mutter, pulling him over to the kitchen table and pushing him down in a chair. “Don’t move.”
He’s still sitting where I left him when I return with the first aid kit. I set it on the table beside him and dig through to find some gauze pads and hydrogen peroxide. I notice him wince when I start cleaning the gash on his forehead.
“Sorry,” I mumble.
“It was a calf.”
I stop and look down into his blue eyes, realizing how close we are. “What?”
“I was wrestling a calf,” he clarifies. “Except it was tangled in barbed wire.”
“I see.” My voice sounds breathless. “How is the calf?”
“He’ll live.”
Warning lights go off when his gaze drops down to my mouth and I force myself to focus on his injury. My hands shake slightly as I finish cleaning the wound and use butterfly bandages to close it.