15. No Safety Nets
Chapter fifteen
No Safety Nets
Hayes
The pungent stench of wet compost burned my nose.
I pushed the rusted wheelbarrow through the morning sludge, digging the soles of my work boots into the earth for traction.
My blisters screamed against the wood. The scabs from the storm prep had torn open an hour ago, leaving raw skin exposed to the wood.
“Almost there,” I muttered to the mud. I squeezed the grips, refusing to let go.
I stopped near the edge of the winter garden, dropping the handles to give my burning forearms a break. Across the wide expanse of the yard, Sutton and Ruby leaned against the pasture fence. They held travel mugs. Plumes of steam curled up from the rims, dissolving into the crisp autumn air.
Sutton wore a cardigan, wrapped tight over her stomach. Ruby said something, gesturing toward the horizon. A genuine smile broke across my wife’s face.
Watching that quiet, peaceful exchange deepened my regret.
I stood in the filth, a hundred yards away, feeling completely written out of her life.
She had built a sanctuary here. She had a surrogate mother, a safe routine, and a grounded life that didn’t require me at all.
I was just the hired help allowed to exist in the background.
I wanted to cross the yard. I wanted to lean against the fence beside her, steal a sip from that mug, and listen to whatever joke Ruby had just told.
Instead, I shifted my weight, wiping a bead of sweat from my jaw.
I had to earn my keep in the dirt before I ever earned the right to stand beside her again. I reached for the handles.
A violent crack of splintering timber shattered the morning quiet.
The deafening sound erupted from the distant Rescue Shed. A second later, a terrified bellow ripped through the air. The side of the shed shuddered. The groan of bending wood echoed across the property as another board snapped under immense pressure.
My grip slipped. The wheelbarrow slammed down, tipping forward and spilling wet compost over the toes of my boots. I ignored the mess, my eyes locked on the shed.
Ruby dropped her mug. It hit the grass, splashing brown liquid across the frost. She bolted toward the collapsing structure without hesitation.
“Dammit, that’s Clementine!” Ruby shouted over her shoulder. “Stay right here on this side of the fence, Sutton!”
Sutton froze, covering her bump. The terror in her wide eyes erased any lingering hesitation in my mind. I didn’t care about boundaries or property lines. I abandoned the pile of dirt and broke into a dead sprint across the yard.
My boots tore through the wet grass, kicking up clumps of earth. Another horrific bellow echoed from the confined stall. I cut a direct path past the main greenhouse, desperate to back Ruby up before the wood buckled entirely.
“Ruby?” I shouted, my boots sliding through the gravel. “What’s happening?”
I hit the threshold of the shed and stopped. The air inside the claustrophobic space choked with dust and the suffocating heat radiating off twelve hundred pounds of panicked livestock. Clementine thrashed in the center of the stall, kicking up wet straw and manure.
Ruby stood inches from the hooves. She had managed to slip a canvas halter over the cow’s nose, but the animal fought the restraint with terrifying force.
“Hold still, you stubborn beast,” Ruby grunted.
Her boots slid backward through the sludge. She wrapped the trailing end of the lead rope around her forearm for leverage, digging her heels into the floor mats. It wasn’t enough. The cow was simply too big for the narrow stall.
Clementine let out another deafening bellow. She threw her head down and shifted her hindquarters, pivoting her weight toward the doorway.
The cow’s sudden lurch yanked Ruby off balance. Clementine surged forward, driving her backward. Ruby hit the exterior wall hard. Clementine kept pushing, pinning Ruby’s body between her massive shoulder and the buckling wooden slats.
The boards buckled under the pressure, bowing outward.
“I can’t hold her head!” Ruby shouted over the noise, struggling to maintain her grip on the rope as the cow crushed her against the boards. “She’s going to hurt herself before she drops the calf! Call Doc Miller!”
I spun back toward the yard. Sutton stood frozen at the fence line, the wind whipping her hair across her face. She held her smartphone pressed tight to her ear.
“The receptionist says he is at the lower valley farm!” Sutton yelled, her voice straining over the distance. “It’s going to take him at least thirty minutes!”
I looked back at my wife. She was forced to stand behind the fence and watch the only maternal figure she had left get crushed to death in the muck.
Thirty minutes was a death sentence for Ruby. The wood was going to snap long before a truck ever pulled up the driveway.
Every stunt coordinator in Los Angeles had choreographed my movements to ensure I never took a real hit. There were no safety mats in this shed. There was no one waiting to call “cut.” But the sight of Sutton’s terror overrode the instinct for self-preservation.
I abandoned the doorway. I waded directly into the filth of the stall, ducking under a low beam and sliding into the narrow gap between the massive animal and the wall.
The sludge sucked at my boots. Putrid heat radiated off Clementine’s damp hide, filling the cramped space with the smell of manure and panicked sweat.
“Let go of the line, Ruby!” I yelled, reaching right over her shoulder to grab the canvas. “I’ve got her!”
I ripped the line from her grip. Twelve hundred pounds of terrified animal surged against my hands. The fabric burned across my blistered palms, stripping a layer of skin with the sudden pull. I locked my elbows. I dug my heels into the rubber floor mats to stop the sudden pull.
In Los Angeles, I spent years falling onto hidden crash pads and breakaway wood. There were no safety nets in this shed.
If my grip failed right now, the cow would crush us both against the splintered wood. I hauled the line backward, fighting the staggering weight. I stepped toward the timber post in the center of the stall.
I whipped the canvas around the post. The rope caught against the grain of the wood, buying me a crucial edge. I threw my weight in the opposite direction, pulling the single wrap taut. The canvas screamed as the line bit into the timber.
“Ruby, get behind me!” I yelled over the chaotic noise. “I’ve got the line on the post!”
Ruby moved instantly. She scrambled away from the cow’s heaving flank and slid along the buckling exterior wall. The mud dragged at her boots as she cleared the immediate strike zone.
I grunted, bending my knees. I braced my legs against the base of the timber to anchor myself. The muscles in my forearms strained against the relentless, surging pull of the animal.
Clementine let out another ragged, breathless bellow. She kicked straw into my face, her hooves sliding in the muck. The wooden post groaned in protest against the force. I squeezed the canvas tighter, my knuckles aching.
“Lock it down, Gallagher!” Ruby shouted, backing toward the rear of the stall to get a clear look. “If she pulls that rope loose, she is going to take both of us down into the muck!”
I shifted my stance to free up my right hand.
The slick floor mats offered zero traction.
I braced my knee against the timber, attempting to keep the line pulled tight with just my left arm and my body weight.
The rough fibers bit deeper into my raw skin.
I needed to cross the excess slack over the primary wrap to form a snub knot.
“I’m securing it now!” I yelled back, my voice straining with the effort. “Just focus on getting a clear angle on the calf!”
I pulled the loose tail of the rope upward. The tension on the main line hummed like a plucked wire. I leaned back to maintain the pressure.
But before I could cross the slack and lock the knot in place, Clementine threw her head and surged backward.
The line ripped through my grip. The canvas tore through my ruined palms, ripping the wounds deeper.
The sudden pull yanked my boots right out from under me. I pitched forward into the muck. I slammed hard against the bottom slats, the impact jarring my ribs. I let out a sharp gasp, the wind completely knocked out of me. I lay in the wet straw for a second, the putrid mud soaking into my shirt.
Blood welled against the raw flesh of my hands. The pain was blinding across my ruined palms.
“Hayes, the rope is slipping!” Sutton screamed from the fence line. “She is going to drag you under her hooves!”
Sutton was watching me, terrified. I refused to let her see me fail in the dirt. I refused to let Ruby get crushed because I wasn’t strong enough to hold a tether.
I pushed myself up into a crouch in the filth. I dug my boots into the sludge, ignoring the slick floor mats. I reached out with my bleeding hands and grabbed the loose tail of the rope. The blood ruined my grip, but I clamped my fingers down, shutting out the urge to let go.
I yanked the slack upward. I threw my shoulders into the motion, forcing a second wrap around the post. I hauled the tail down tight, overlapping the canvas to form a secure snub knot. I leaned all my weight backward, locking the line against the timber.
“I’ve got the second wrap secured!” I yelled through gritted teeth, my voice ragged. “The line is locked!”
Clementine hit the end of the tether. The timber groaned, but the knot held. The sudden tension broke the animal’s momentum. Unable to bolt, her front knees buckled under her weight.
“She’s finally going down to push!” Ruby shouted, moving toward the rear of the stall. “Keep that head rope taut, Gallagher, so she doesn’t try to stand back up!”
I kept the tension locked, my bleeding hands gripping the line tight against the post. Clementine let out a low, exhausted bellow. She dropped onto her side in the wet straw as a brutal contraction seized her body.