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Tiffany assisted with the towels and antiseptic, silently praying for the life of the unborn horse. Her throat was hot and tight with the tension in the confining stall. Sweat began to bead on Zane’s forehead, and his intent eyes never left the mare. The muscles in his bronze forearms flexed as he worked on righting the foal. Tiffany’s heart was hammering so loudly, it seemed to pound in her ears.
Ebony Wine pushed down hard with all the muscles of her abdomen. As the mare pushed, Vance and Zane stood behind her and pulled down steadily toward her hocks in rhythm with the birth contractions.
With the first push, the tiny hooves and the head of the foal emerged. On the second contraction, the mare gave a soft moan, and the men were able to pull the shoulders, the broadest part of a foal’s body, through Ebony Wine’s pelvis. Once the shoulders emerged, the rest of the foal followed.
The umbilical cord broke.
Zane dropped to the floor and, mindless of the fluid pooling at his knees, he ripped open the tough amniotic sac. Vance was beside him and worked on the colt’s nose, so that it could breathe its first breaths of air.
Tiffany brought towels and held them near the foal so that Vance could take them as he needed them. Her eyes watched the little black colt’s sides as she prayed for the tiny ribs to move.Dear Lord, don’t let him die. Please don’t take this one, too.
Because the colt had to be pulled out of the mare, the umbilical cord had broken early, and he was shortchanged of the extra blood in the placenta that should have passed into his veins. Both men worked feverishly over the small, perfect body.
The foal’s lips and eyelids looked blue as it lay wet and motionless in the straw.
“Oh, God, no,” Tiffany whispered, as she realized that it had been far too long already since the birth. She dropped the towels and her small hands curled into impotent fists. “Not this one, too.”
Ebony Wine nickered, ready to claim her foal. Mac gently held the frustrated mare as she tried to step closer to the unmoving black body lying on the floor of the stall.
Zane held his hands near the colt’s nose to feel for breath. There was none. “He’s not breathing,” he whispered, looking up for a second at Tiffany before bending over the colt and pressing his lips to the nostrils, forcing air into the still lungs.
Vance knelt beside Zane, checking the colt for vital signs, while Zane fruitlessly tried to revive the colt.
“It’s no use,” Vance said at last, restraining Zane by placing a hand on his shoulder. “This one didn’t have a prayer going in.”
“No!” Tiffany said, her voice trembling and tears building in her eyes. “He’s got to live. He’s got to!”
“Tiff . . .” Vance said wearily. The vet’s voice trailed off. There were no adequate words of condolence. For a moment the only sounds in the building were the soft rain beating against the roof and the restless shifting of the mare’s hooves in the straw.
Mindless of the blood and amniotic fluid ruining her clothes, Tiffany fell into the straw beside the inert body of the beautifully formed black colt. Her throat was swollen with despair, her eyes blurred with fresh tears. “You have to live, little one,” she whispered in a voice filled with anguished desperation. She touched the foal’s warm, matted coat. “Please . . . live.”
Her fingers touched the small ears and the sightless eyes. “Don’t die. . . .”
“Tiffany.” Zane’s voice was rough but comforting as he reached forward and grabbed her shoulders. He felt the quiet sobs she was trying to control. “He was dead before he was born—”
Tiffany jerked herself free. “No!” Her hands were shaking as she raised them in the air. “He was alive and healthy and . . .”
“Stillborn.”
That single word, issued softly from Zane’s lips, seemed to echo against the rafters.
A single tear wove a solitary path down her cheek. Tiffany let her arms fall to her sides. “Oh, God,” she whispered, pulling herself to her full height and shaking her head. Blood discolored her silk blouse, and straw stuck in her angora vest as well as her hair. “Not another one.” Her small fist clenched and she pounded it on the rough boards of the stall. “Why? Why is this happening?” she demanded, hopelessly battling an enemy she couldn’t see . . . didn’t understand.
Ebony Wine snorted, and Tiffany realized she was disturbing the already distraught mare. She let her head drop into her palm, leaned against the wall and closed her eyes against the truth.Why the foals? Why all of Moon Shadow’s foals?
“Come on, let’s go back to the house,” Zane suggested, placing his strong arms gently over her shoulders.
“I should stay,” she whispered as cold reality began to settle in her mind. She felt a raw ache in her heart as she faced the tragic fact that another of Moon Shadow’s foals was dead before it had a chance to live. It just wasn’t fair; not to the mare, not to the farm, and not to the poor lifeless little colt.
“We’ll take care of things,” Mac assured her, giving Zane a look that said more clearly than words, “Get her out of here.” Mac was holding the lead rope to Ebony Wine’s halter, and the anxious horse was nickering to the dead foal.
“I’ll make some coffee . . . up at the house,” Tiffany murmured, trying to pull herself together. She was shaking from the ordeal but managed to wipe the tears from her eyes.
“Don’t bother for me,” Vance said, working with the afterbirth. “I’ll stay with the mare until Mac can watch her and then I’ll call it a night.”
“Same goes for me.” Mac’s kind eyes rested on Tiffany. “You just take care of yourself, Missy. We’ll handle the horses.”
“But—”
