Upon arrival, she and Capri stepped inside the barn, the earthy scent of hay mingling with the musky odor of manure, a pungent reminder of the rawness of life on a ranch. The straw beneath her feet had felt uneven and scratchy against her new boots.
“You afraid you’ll wreck those spendy things?” Capri teased as they made their way across the hard hay-packed floor to where an anxious Charlie Grace stood over Lila, who was bent down in the straw.
“You hush,” Reva told her. “I’ve about had enough of you tonight.” In a playful gesture, she shoulder-bumped her friend.
Lila yanked the black rubber glove off her right hand and squirted orange-colored disinfectant all over her fingers and palm, then up her arm. A resolute look filled her face as she placed the remaining gloved hand against the belly of the cow lying on its side. The poor thing bellowed as apparent pain shot through her body.
Reva’s eyes widened. “Oh, my goodness.”
Charlie Grace scowled in her direction. “Shh…let Lila concentrate.”
“Help me,” Lila instructed, motioning to her sleeves. “We’ve got a calf that’s breech.”
Without need for further instruction, Charlie Grace bent by her friend’s side and rolled the fabric up above Lila’s elbows.
“A little more,” Lila told her.
Reva and Capri exchanged worried glances as Charlie Grace complied.
Lila’s expression was now a mask of fierce determination as she faced the cow. “Ready, girl?” With her arm, she swiped perspiration from her brow.
The cow, large and anxious, mooed lowly as Lila’s full arm disappeared inside, searching, feeling for the calf’s hind legs. The tension was palpable, the air thick with anticipation and worry.
Reva had watched, her stomach churning, as Lila’s facial muscles tensed, her jaw set in concentration. The visceral, almost invasive nature of the act was both awe-inspiring and deeply unsettling. The sounds of Lila’s grunts, the cow’s distressed moos, and the squelching, wet noises of her arm maneuvering inside the animal painted a scene of raw, primal urgency.
Then, with a final, determined pull, Lila guided the calf’s legs into position. The cow pushed, and the calf slid into the world, hind legs first, coated in fluids and the stark, undeniable evidence of life’s messy entrance.
The calf lay there for a moment, steaming in the cool air of the barn before taking its first shaky breath. It was a moment of profound relief and triumph, nature’s ordeal culminating in the miracle of life.
Reva exited the highway and drove down the lane to her house.
Despite the discomfort and the gore, she couldn’t help but feel a surge of wonder and respect for the unyielding force of nature and Lila’s unflinching effort. Still, a fresh notion hit. Perhaps she wasn’t as anxious to give birth as she’d earlier thought.
As she pulled into her driveway, Reva was welcomed by her two-story log home with its soft lights shining through the windows.
Her house, built on the banks of the Snake River, was a showcase of mountain chic décor. While relatively simple in terms of form, she’d paid a lot of attention to luxurious details. Warm tones, local stone and timbers, inlays of metals, and lots of leather furnishings created an inviting interior. Soaring open-beamed ceilings and walls of floor-to-ceiling windows married her home and nature.
Inside, the quiet was palpable—comforting, yet isolating. She moved through her nightly routine almost mechanically, her mind elsewhere. The bathroom sink’s faucet emitted a steady stream as she brushed her teeth. Finished, she spit into the sink and rinsed.
In the soft, unforgiving light of her bathroom mirror, she traced the lines etched at the corners of her eyes and mouth. Each crease was subtle proof that her wrinkles grew more pronounced with every year. Wrinkles no expensive cream would stop.
She sighed, a mix of resignation and defiance mingling as she studied the evidence of time’s relentless march. What would it be next? Creaking knees? Bifocals?
Reva unwrapped the ties on her plush robe and kicked off her furry slippers. The bed welcomed her with cool sheets that gradually warmed to her presence. Her ruminations, however, refused to quiet.
Images of the day’s events unwound. The skeet shoot and the look on Doc Tillman’s face as he examined hers, searching for evidence that she’d purposefully missed the clay pigeon. She was nothing if not a great actress. She was a master at hiding her true feelings—a skill that had landed her in regular AA meetings.
She turned her thoughts to the funds raised and the plans for the community center. She’d be meeting with the architects soon and laying out plans to build what she hoped would become Thunder Mountain’s gathering place.
Well, that and the Rustic Pine. Nothing could replace Tom and Annie Cumberland’s bar and grill, where locals celebrated victories, soothed defeats, and marked the milestones of life against a backdrop of clinking glasses and hearty laughter.
The echoes of those joyful noises seemed to linger in her mind as the memories of the day’s warmth and revelry slowly drifted away, giving way to the quiet of the night. Reva yawned, fatigue from the day’s emotions finally catching up with her. She nestled deep under her down comforter, letting the gentle pull of sleep claim her.
A sharp poundingat the door downstairs jolted Reva from the depths of slumber. The loud, insistent knocking cut through the stillness of the night like a bolt sending her heart leaping and pulling her abruptly into startled consciousness.
Heart hammering against her chest, she reached for the Glock on her bedside table—a necessity for a single woman deep in the woods. The lights flickered on, casting her room in stark relief as she approached the window, her robe now clutched tightly around her.
Who could it be at this hour?
