Chapter 11
Ivy
"Ms. Ivy? We got a heifer in trouble. First-timer, and the calf's positioned wrong. Wyatt's already there, but he said to call you."
The fact that Wyatt had specifically asked for me sent something warm through my chest. I was out of bed before Jimmy finished talking, pulling on yesterday's jeans and boots, not bothering to change out of the old t-shirt I'd slept in—one I'd stolen from Wyatt years ago and never returned, though I'd never admit that to anyone.
The barn was lit up when I arrived, floodlights creating harsh shadows that made everything look like a painting.
I could hear the heifer's distressed lowing before I even got inside, the sound pulling at something primal in me.
Birth and death—the two constants on a ranch, the things that stripped away pretense and left only what mattered.
She was in the birthing stall, a beautiful Black Angus with wide, frightened eyes. The sweet smell of hay mixed with the earthier scents of birth—blood and amniotic fluid and that particular musk of laboring animals.
Wyatt was already there, sleeves rolled up past his elbows, kneeling beside her in the straw.
His hair was messed from sleep, sticking up in ways that made my fingers itch to smooth it down.
His shirt was hastily buttoned—missed one, I noticed—and half-tucked into jeans he'd obviously thrown on in a hurry.
He looked up when I entered, and for once, there was no anger or confusion in his eyes—just focus and concern and something else. Relief, maybe, that I was there.
"Breech?" I asked, dropping to my knees beside him, close enough that our shoulders almost touched.
"Worse. One leg forward, one back. Calf's stuck at the shoulders."
I could hear the frustration in his voice, the worry. He cared about every animal on this ranch and took losses personally. It was one of the things I'd loved about him—that huge heart he tried to hide behind gruff efficiency.
I washed my hands in the bucket of disinfectant Jimmy had ready, the cold liquid shocking against my sleep-warm skin.
Then I gently examined the heifer, trying to project calm.
She was young, maybe two years old, sides heaving with exhaustion, eyes rolling white with fear. She'd been at this too long already.
"Okay, sweet girl," I murmured, running a soothing hand along her flank, feeling her muscles trembling under her hide. "We're gonna help you. You're not alone."
"I've tried repositioning," Wyatt said, and I could hear the self-recrimination in his voice. He hated not being able to fix things, especially when lives hung in the balance. "Can't get the back leg forward without losing grip on the front."
"We'll do it together." I met his eyes, trying to convey confidence I didn't entirely feel. "You maintain traction on the front leg, I'll work the back one forward. We've done harder than this."
Something flickered in his expression at the reference to our past. "That was a long time ago."
"Not so long that I've forgotten how you work." The words came out more intimate than I'd intended. "I mean—how we work. Together."
He nodded, and we moved in synchronization, muscle memory from dozens of difficult births taking over.
Our bodies remembered this dance even if our hearts were still stumbling.
This wasn't consultant and ranch manager—this was just two people trying to save lives, falling into a rhythm as old as our history.
"Easy, Mama," I crooned to the heifer as I worked, my arm inside her up to my elbow, feeling for the trapped leg. The heat of her body, the powerful contractions—it was visceral, real in a way spreadsheets never were. "You're doing so good. Just a little more."
"Got it?" Wyatt asked. Sweat beaded on his forehead despite the cool night, and I had the absurd urge to wipe it away.
"Almost... there." I felt the leg shift, the calf's position changing under my guidance.
My fingers brushed against Wyatt's hand inside the birth canal, both of us working the calf, and even in this crisis, that touch sent electricity through me.
"Now, gentle traction on both. Let her contractions do the work. "
We worked together, our breathing synchronized without thought, both of us covered in birth fluids and sweat, neither caring about anything except the task at hand. The heifer bellowed, a sound that seemed to come from the earth itself, primal and powerful.
"That's it," Wyatt encouraged her, his voice low and soothing, the same tone he used to use with me when I was scared. "You're doing perfect, Mama. Just a little more."
Our eyes met over the laboring heifer, and time seemed to slow. Here in this barn, in this moment, we weren't two people separated by years and hurt. We were partners, working toward something bigger than ourselves.
It was just like that time when I was fifteen all over again.
"Head's coming," Wyatt said, his voice tight with concentration and hope.
"Keep steady pressure. Don't rush it." My hand found his arm without thinking, guiding the pressure. The muscle under my fingers was solid, familiar despite the years. "Together. Pull together."
The next contraction brought the head fully out, then the shoulders—the hardest part. We both held our breath. Another push and the calf slid free in a rush of fluid, landing in the straw with a wet thud that seemed to echo in the sudden silence.
For a terrifying moment, it didn't move.
"No, no, no," I whispered, immediately dropping beside the calf, my hands working automatically—clearing mucus from its nose and mouth while Wyatt rubbed its sides vigorously with straw, stimulating breathing. Our hands brushed and tangled as we worked, both desperate, both determined.
"Come on, little one," I pleaded. "Come on."
Wyatt's hand covered mine for just a second, squeezing. "Together," he said quietly. "Count of three."
We rubbed and stimulated in unison, and then—a gasp. A snort. The calf's eyes opened, dark and wondering, and it let out a weak but definite cry that was the most beautiful sound I'd heard in years.
"There we go," Wyatt breathed, and when our eyes met over the newborn calf, his smile was pure and unguarded, the same smile he'd given me the first time he'd said he loved me. "There we go."
The relief hit like a physical thing, like grace, like forgiveness for sins we hadn't even named. We'd done this—saved these lives together, working as one unit without thought or hesitation. My eyes burned with tears I refused to let fall.
The heifer, exhausted but instinct-strong, turned to inspect her baby, lowing softly—a completely different sound than her earlier distress. Within minutes, she was licking it clean with long, methodical strokes of her rough tongue, bonding fierce and immediate.
"It's a heifer," Wyatt said after checking, his voice soft with satisfaction. "Good genetics, too, from the look of her. Strong legs, good chest capacity."
"She's perfect," I agreed, watching the calf already trying to figure out what her legs were for, wobbling like a drunk sailor. "A fighter."
"Like you," Wyatt said quietly, and when I looked at him, he was watching me with an expression I couldn't read. "You haven't lost your touch, Ivy. Still the best hand with difficult births I've ever seen."
The compliment, so unexpected and sincere, made my throat tight. "You're not so bad yourself."
We stayed until we were sure both mother and baby were stable, the calf nursing successfully with loud, satisfied sucking sounds, her tail wiggling with enthusiasm.
The new mother stood patient and proud, occasionally turning to sniff her baby like she couldn't quite believe she'd made something so perfect.
It was nearly 4 AM by the time we finally stepped outside, both of us a mess of blood, fluid, and straw. The night air was cool against our overheated skin, carrying the scent of coming rain and fresh grass.
We leaned against the fence under the floodlights, shoulders not quite touching but close enough to feel each other's warmth, breathing in the quiet of pre-dawn.
The adrenaline was fading, leaving that particular exhaustion that came from successful crisis management—bone-deep but satisfying.
Somewhere in the distance, a rooster was considering whether it was time to crow, giving a few experimental coughs.
"Thank you," Wyatt said quietly, his voice rough with exhaustion and something else. "I couldn't have done that alone. Would have lost them both."
"Yes, you could have."
"Maybe. But it was better with your help." He paused, turned to look at me fully, and the floodlights caught the gold flecks in his green eyes. "Always was better with you."
I looked at him in the harsh fluorescent light.
He had straw in his hair, a smear of something I didn't want to identify on his cheek, and his shirt was definitely ruined.
He'd never looked more like the boy I'd fallen in love with—competent and caring and completely focused on what mattered.
But also like the man he'd become—broader, steadier, carrying responsibility like it weighed nothing.
"We make a good team," I said softly, the words escaping before I could stop them, carrying more weight than I'd intended.
Something shifted in his expression, became softer, more vulnerable. "Always did. Even when we were kids, we just... fit. Like two halves of something whole."
The words hung between us, meaning more than just tonight, more than just this calf.
We stood there, grimy and exhausted, and for a moment I could pretend the years hadn't happened.
That we were still those kids who worked together like breathing, who knew each other's moves without speaking, who could save things together.
"Ivy," he started, then stopped, running a hand through his hair and dislodging more straw. "Christ, I don't know how to do this."
"Do what?"
"Stand here with you. Work with you. Be near you without wanting..." He trailed off, jaw clenching.
My heart hammered against my ribs. "Without wanting what?"
He looked at me then, his eyes full of things we'd both been trying not to feel. "Everything. Nothing. Just... more than I have a right to want."
I couldn't breathe. Couldn't think. Could only stand there under the harsh lights with this man who'd once been my everything, feeling the pull between us like gravity.
"I should go clean up," I managed finally, my voice barely a whisper. "I have that meeting with the breeding committee at eight."
"Yeah. Me too. Ranch doesn't stop just because we were up all night."
But neither of us moved. We stood there as the sky started to lighten in the east, painting the world in grays and soft pinks that looked like the inside of a seashell.
The ranch was beginning to wake—a truck door slamming in the distance, cattle starting their morning chorus, the automatic feeders clicking on in the barn.
"That calf," Wyatt said suddenly, his voice thoughtful. "She'll be special. The ones born hard usually are. Fighters from the first breath. Survivors."
"Like Lucky's line?"
"Yeah. Like Lucky's line." He pushed off the fence, turned to go, then paused. His hand came up like he might touch me, then dropped. "We should do this again sometime."
My heart jumped. "Deliver calves at 2 AM?"
A ghost of a smile touched his lips, and for a second, I saw the boy who'd taught me to ride, who'd kissed me for the first time under these same stars. "Work together. Just... work together. Like we used to."
"I'd like that," I admitted, surprising myself with the honesty.
Something flashed across his face—surprise, hope, maybe fear. Then he nodded once and walked away, his long stride eating up the distance to his truck. But at the door, he turned back.
"Ivy?" His voice carried across the morning air. "You still wear that old t-shirt to sleep?"
I looked down, horrified, having forgotten that the shirt I had on was one of his old high school rodeo shirts, faded and soft with age. Heat flooded my face.
"I—it's just comfortable," I stammered.
His smile was slow and knowing. "Keep it. Looks better on you anyway."
Then he was gone, truck disappearing into the growing dawn, leaving me standing there with my heart racing and my skin burning and the memory of working beside him branded into my bones.
My phone buzzed. Mark, again.
I know it's early, but I couldn't sleep. Missing you. This break doesn't make sense, Ivy. We're good together. Just come home.
I deleted the message without reading the rest. Mark and I had been good together on paper—successful careers, similar ambitions, compatible lifestyles.
But we'd never saved anything together. Never worked in wordless synchronization.
Never looked at each other over a newborn calf and felt like we'd witnessed a miracle.
Never had our bodies remember how to move together even when our minds were trying to forget.
I headed back to my cabin, stripping off my ruined clothes—his ruined shirt—and stepping into the shower.
The hot water washed away the physical evidence of the night, but not the memory of working beside Wyatt, of that moment when we'd just been us again, of the way he'd looked at me like maybe, possibly, we could find our way back to something.
"We make a good team," I'd said.
"Always did," he'd replied.
And that was the problem, wasn't it? We'd always been good together—until we weren't. Until I'd made the choice that shattered everything.
But for a few hours tonight, in a barn with a struggling heifer, we'd found that rhythm again. And it had felt like coming home in a way that had nothing to do with geography and everything to do with the person standing beside me.
I pressed my forehead against the shower tile, letting the water run over me, and wondered if some things really didn't change. Or if we were both just fooling ourselves, trying to find something in the present that we'd lost in the past.
Either way, I knew one thing for certain—working with Wyatt, being near him, remembering what we'd been like together—it was getting harder to remember why I'd left in the first place.
Harder to maintain the walls I'd built. Harder to pretend I didn't still love him with every broken piece of my heart.
And that terrified me more than any breech birth ever could.