Page 117 of Sunrise & Serenity

I run my hand down the mare’s neck, her coat hot and damp under my palm.

For years, my life has been airports and motel rooms and arenas packed with people screaming loud enough to vibrate my ribs. Standing here now, sawdust under my boots and my brother beside me, that life feels farther away than it has in years.

The mare paws at the bedding, then starts to circle. I move with her, keeping a loose hold on the halter.

Sage slips out of the way automatically, pressing against the wall as we approach. “You okay?” I murmur, hooking her fingers with mine.

She smiles down at our hands. “Yeah.”

I’ve just released her so we can pass by when another contraction hits, and the mare braces hard, nearly stumbling.

Chance moves instantly. “There we go. Hold her steady.”

He checks the foal again, working carefully, then relief loosens his expression. “Okay. He’s straightened out. Nose is between the legs now.”

The mare strains again.

“Come on, girl,” I mutter.

Sage takes a step forward, lifting her hands like she’s ready to help, but quickly comes to a stop.

Chance notices and says, “Actually, come here.”

She points at herself, her eyes widening. “Me?”

“Yeah. Stay up by her shoulder. Keep your hand on her neck. Calm and steady.”

She does as she’s instructed, moving carefully to the mare’s other shoulder, resting one tentative hand against her damp chestnut coat and murmuring soothing words.

The horse flicks an ear toward her voice, her nostrils flaring, but holds steady.

When the next contraction hits, she groans low in her throat, bracing, muscles shuddering under her skin.

“Come on, mama,” Chance mutters.

One tiny hoof appears, then the other a little behind it.

“Give her room,” Chance says, and Sage immediately backs away, eyes wide.

The mare turns once in the bedding, then lowers herself heavily onto her side. Another contraction tears through her, and she stretches out, legs rigid.

The foal’s nose appears above his forelegs.

“That’s it,” Chance encourages.

The mare groans again, and for a second, nothing happens. Then the foal slides free in a rush of fluid. As Sage exhales, Chance is already moving. I crouch beside him, years of muscle memory taking over.

The wet foal lies motionless in the straw, legs folded awkwardly. Chance clears the membrane from his nose while I grab one of the towels and rub it firmly over his neck and chest.

For one long second, nothing. Then his ribs jerk sharply and he sucks in a breath.

“There you go.” Chance looks up at me with a tired smile. “It’s a colt.”

The mare reaches around to nose at the little foal, nickering quietly. When he shakily lifts his head off the floor, Chance and I stand and step back, giving him and his mama some room.

The three of us watch in silence as the mare licks him vigorously, his damp, cream-colored coat beginning to fluff beneath her tongue as she dries him and encourages him to move.

He blinks, legs twitching beneath him. Soon, he stretches them out and tries to stand. They splay awkwardly before he gets them under him, but his little body doesn’t get far off the ground before they give out. After a few more tries, with the same sudden rush as the moment he was born, he’s upright, swaying unsteadily.