When I’m done scrubbing, he holds both boxes out to me “Take one from this box,” he lifts the larger one, then the other. “And two from this one.”
From the bigger box, I pull out one long glove that looks like it could cover his entire arm, then two regular-sized gloves from the smaller box while Cal scrubs and disinfects his hands. When he’s done, he holds them up, and I help him first with the smaller gloves, then the long one which he calls a sleeve.
I did the same thing with the “doctors” on set when I played Nurse Paula. We had medical personnel there to tell us how to keep the scene accurate. What strikes me here is that Cal is going through the same detailed procedures for a horse that I learned on set to “care” for a human patient.
When he huffs with frustration, I stiffen, thinking I’ve done something wrong.
“I forgot my head lamp,” he says, and I relax. “Can you grab it out of the bin for me?”
I do as he asks, realizing as I bring it back that he can’t use his sterile gloves to put it on. He ducks down low enough that we’re face-to-face. I slip the lamp over the crown of his head onto his forehead. His dark hair is messy, sticking to his temples where his hat had been.
Our eyes meet, and he gives me a quick wink. I’ve never been this close to Cal. Close enough to see a spot of stubble near his ear he missed shaving and to really look at the scar in the corner of his right eyebrow. I make a mental note to get the story about it when the time is right.
“I’ll need you to hold her steady, Max. Think you can do that on your own, or do you want help?” Cal dips one gloved hand, then his entire gloved arm into the lubricant before walking to Jasmine with both hands in front of him.
I’ve never had a baby, but I’ve had pelvic exams. I know what Jasmine’s in for next, and I can’t help but wince in solidarity. But when Cal whispers softly to her as he moves slowly and carefully to examine her, Jasmine and I both relax. Me more than her, obviously.
He gently guides the visible leg back inside Jasmine, and I gasp. Jasmine snorts but Max keeps her steady.
“Keep her head straight and talk to her. Time to glove up, Fran. Stay as clean as possible. Max and I need to hold Jasmine.”
“Oh.” I blink, then move into action. I didn’t know I was “gloving up,” but I’m not about to tell Cal that when he needs me.
“Over here, right next to me,” he directs as I’m pulling on the gloves, and Jasmine’s breath grows quicker. “When she contracts, you pull with me. When it stops, you stop.”
I have a sort of out-of-body experience as I register that my hands areinthe mare. There’s a metallic smell of blood at the back of my throat, and sweat-slick horsehair inches from myface, but then two small hooves slide out, bringing my entire focus back to the miracle happening in front of me. The miracle I’ve become a part of.
When a second contraction comes, in his smooth, quiet way Cal says, “Don’t yank. Smooth pressure, same direction. Once the hips are through, we don’t pause.”
He does most of the work guiding the foal out of the birth canal. He’s gentle. Efficient, but not cold. Which—even though the moment is totally wrong for the thought—I findveryattractive.
Because of course I do.
When the foal is finally born, I towel it off and keep it breathing and warm, just like Cal instructs. After what seems like only minutes, but must be longer, the foal raises its chest. Slowly, it makes a wobbly attempt at standing.
Over the next hour, with each first the foal attempts, I hold my breath, letting out a small cheer every time it reaches a new milestone.
“Girl or boy?” I ask when Cal pulls off his gloves as the baby latches onto its mother to nurse, signaling everything is okay now.
“Girl. Max, find your grandpa.” Cal sighs with relief and turns to me. “Thanks for your help.”
I scoff. “You had it handled. Cheers forlettingme help.”
His gray eyes turn serious. “I didn’t let you help. I needed you, and you stepped up without hesitating. You were amazing.”
“Really?”
“Why would I say something I don’t mean?” He laughs then grabs a garbage bag from his tote and begins cleaning up.
I want to tell him that people say things they don’t mean all the time. Directors say they won’t make you do anything you’re not comfortable with. Friends say they’ll never go to the presswith anything you tell them. Husbands say they’ll protect you. Fathers say they love you.
The fact Cal believes what he’s said—that he believed in me to assist him in an emergency—isn’t something I’m used to.
And I doubt he has any idea how much his words, and his trust, mean to me.
Chapter 4
Cal
