Page 3

For the first time, a war wound didn’t sound so bad.

She moved from rubbing Mira’s neck to gently pressing on the horse’s abdomen.

I stood next to the supplies, ready for her commands, and watched the woman, on her knees in the dirt and seeming not to care a lick, as she studied the horse with what appeared to be expert precision. Dr. Baumann had meant what he said.

She caught my gaze, and a flush filled her cheeks.

“Sorry to stare,” I said, tipping a smile. “I promise, I was just looking at the horse.”

“Have you used that line before?” She chuckled and kept running her hands over the horse’s stomach. “I’m trying to get a sense of whether the foal is properly aligned—whether the head and front hooves are pointed downward or if it needs to be turned.”

“Turned?”

She smiled, perhaps at the bit of panic in my tone. “Yes, it’s easier before she starts pushing.”

“How would one turn a foal?”

She angled her head, and the meaning was clear.

She wasn’t kidding about this being an involved affair.

“You’ve turned foals before?” I asked.

“Yes, sir.”

Perhaps it was the unique setting, but I wanted her to call me Warren. I realized then that I didn’t know her first name. Nor did I want to breach the protocol we’d come to live and breathe all these years of service.

Mira snorted and screeched a guttural, painful whinny. She flopped and kicked, her back leg nearly clipping the lieutenant.

I reached for her as if I could pull her free, but Lieutenant Bryant held up a confident hand. “Captain,” she said with polite authority, “I’ve got this.”

I sensed deep down that she did.

“Keep a hand on Mira to calm her,” she directed, her head dipped as she listened intently through the stethoscope. After a few moments, she lifted the stethoscope. “The foal’s heart rate has slowed. I need to get in there.”

“Just tell me what you need, Lieutenant.”

She stood and shook her head. “I’m not used to ordering a captain around.”

“I doubt that,” I fired back. She carried herself with a confidence that told me she was in charge whenever she needed to be.

She pointed to her bag. “Can you position that within my reach?” She settled behind the horse.

Over the next few moments, I watched her swiftly tend to the mare and unborn foal, never once showing uncertainty. She was quiet and efficient. Within minutes, the foal was turned, a nose and two tiny hooves emerging with each contraction.

The process seemed back on track, until all progress stopped. With the foal’s head and neck free of the birth canal, the mare began to thrash and moan.

“I need you to help me pull.” The lieutenant turned to me. “The foal is stuck at the shoulders.”

Stuck? We had to do what? And if we failed? Terror shot through me at the thought. This was Mira.

I stood beside Lieutenant Bryant, and we each grabbed the tiny little legs of the creature so desperately trying to make its way into the world. A world of war and death and yet also life and even love.

There was no stopping now.

Lieutenant Bryant leaned against me, her arms and face close to mine as we braced to pull the foal during the next contraction. Though the smell of the animal overwhelmed me, I caught a whiff of floral shampoo. Lavender. It was enchanting.

“Be ready,” she said softly. “Any moment now.”