CHAPTER 20 #2
Colt counted. One. Two. Three. Four.
The smallest did not come.
He looked back toward the brush pocket. The calf had tried to follow and wedged a hind leg in a loop of old wire washed out of the fence. It thrashed once, then froze, breathing so hard Colt could see its ribs pumping from where he stood.
The water had risen another inch. Maybe two. It pushed muddy fingers into the pocket, slapping at the calf's fetlocks.
"Damn it," Tuck said.
Colt was already moving.
"Bolt cutters," he shouted.
Wren dropped the cube sack clear of the lane and ran for the pickup.
"Stay high," Colt called after her, then slid down toward the calf.
The bank gave under his left boot. Cold water surged halfway up his calf, strong enough to shove. He planted hard, caught a cedar root, and stopped before momentum put him where he could not stand. The calf thrashed again and tightened the wire.
"Easy," Colt said. His voice stayed low because the animal needed it, even if his pulse did not. "I've got you."
Tuck anchored above him, rope ready. "Water's coming up."
"I see it."
Wren appeared beside the pocket with bolt cutters in one hand and the calf rope in the other.
Colt's first instinct tore out of him. "Back up."
She stopped on ground still above the run, rain streaming down her face. "Tell me where to put them."
"Wren."
"Tell me where."
The calf bawled, high and raw. Water slapped harder against Colt's leg.
He swallowed the command that would make him feel better and cost them time.
"Rope first," he said. "Toss me the loop."
She did. Close enough to hold. He caught it, worked it over the calf's head, and drew it snug below the ears. The calf jerked. Colt held firm.
"Now cutters. Handles first."
Wren crouched and slid them down the mud instead of stepping into the water. Smart. He caught them by one handle, nearly lost them when a branch struck his boot, then got both hands on steel.
The wire was old but stubborn. He cut one strand, then another. The calf kicked, mud spattering his chest. Tuck held the rope above, keeping the animal angled uphill. Wren stayed where Colt had put her, one hand braced on a wet cedar post.
"Chain's slipping," she shouted.
Colt glanced up.
The hooked chain had shifted as debris hit the panel. If it let go, the panel would swing back across the funnel, maybe into the calf, maybe into Colt.
Tuck saw it too. "I can get it."
"No," Colt said. Tuck was the anchor on the rope. Wren was already looking at the post. Colt hated the answer before he gave it.
"Wren," he called. "Second link below the hook. Pull it tight and drop the pin through. Keep your hands clear if it jumps."
She stared at the chain for one second, then moved.
Colt could not watch her and cut wire at the same time. That was trust too, and it burned. He bent over the calf's trapped leg, found the last loop, and set the cutters. His right palm slipped. Wire scraped across his knuckles.
Above him, chain rattled hard.
He heard Wren grunt with effort.
"Pin is in," she shouted.
The chain snapped tight and held.
Colt cut the final wire.
"Pull," he told Tuck.
Tuck leaned back, slow and steady. Colt guided the calf's hindquarters free, keeping the loose wire away from its leg. The calf staggered upright, nearly fell into him, and Colt shoved from the shoulder, turning it uphill.
"Go on," he barked. "Get."
The calf lunged. Tuck gave rope, then pressure, and the little animal scrambled up the muddy lane. Wren shook the cube sack from behind the secured chain. The calf saw the others, bawled, and ran through the opening toward the cows.
Five.
Colt stood in the flood pocket with water over both boots and counted again because his mind needed proof.
Five calves clear. Cows on the rise. Tuck above the wash.
Wren on high ground, bent over with both hands on her knees now that no one needed her upright.
Relief hit hard enough to weaken his knees.
Then the creek slapped a log into the broken panel, and the whole rig shuddered.
"Out," Tuck shouted.
Colt climbed. Mud sucked, water shoved, and his left boot skidded out from under him. He went down to one knee, cold water driving up his thigh. The current grabbed at him with sudden strength.
Wren moved before he could tell her not to.
She dropped flat on the high bank, one hand around the cedar post, the other reaching down. She did not step into the water. She did not make herself heavier than sense. She made herself a handhold where one had not been.
"Colt," she shouted.
He caught her wrist.
Her fingers clamped around his sleeve with a strength that shocked him. Tuck caught the back of Colt's slicker from above. Between them, with Colt digging his free hand into mud and roots, they hauled him up the bank. He rolled onto wet grass beside Wren, chest heaving.
For three breaths, none of them spoke.
Then Wren said, "That was your no heroics rule?"
Tuck laughed once, short and breathless.
Colt turned his head. Wren lay beside him in the mud, eyes bright with fear and fury, yellow slicker smeared brown from shoulder to hip. Her hand was still locked around his wrist. He had never seen anything more beautiful in his life, and it scared him worse than the water.
He sat up first because staying flat felt like surrender.
His whole body shook from cold, effort, and the delayed knowledge of how close the flood had come to taking something from him.
He checked the pasture because work gave him somewhere to look.
The calves had reached the cows. Tuck was already counting above them.
"Five clear," Tuck called. "Gate's holding for now."
"Move them to the upper lot," Colt said. His voice came out rough. "Leave the low side closed."
Tuck nodded and headed uphill, giving them the mercy of work and distance.
Colt pushed to his feet and held a hand down to Wren. She took it. Her hand was cold enough to make his chest tighten. When she stood, she swayed once, then steadied herself.
"Truck," he said.
"I'm fine."
"I didn't ask."
Her eyes cut to his.
He heard himself then. The old command. The fear dressing itself as control because it knew the language.
He eased his grip on her elbow. "Please."
That changed her face more than any order could have. She nodded.
They walked to his truck because it was closer and higher.
The floodwater still slapped the lower step, but the cab sat clear.
Colt opened the passenger door and reached behind the seat for the blanket he kept for Beau, then stopped.
Mud covered Wren. The blanket had star stickers caught in one corner.
Wren saw his hesitation. "Don't."
"You're shaking."
"So are you."
"That blanket is Beau's."
"I know."
He looked at her then. She did know. She did not make him choose between comfort and a child's safe object, and the ache of that went deep.
He grabbed one of Junie's spare slickers from the supply pile instead and wrapped it around Wren's shoulders.
It smelled of feed dust and rubber. She let him, teeth beginning to chatter now that the work had stopped.