14. Josephine
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Josephine
By ten in the morning, I’ve been bitten by a ferret, sneezed on by a sheepdog, and stared down by a rooster with more confidence than most men I’ve met.
So, naturally, the day can only get worse.
“Josephine,” Dr. Harris calls from the front desk, his voice pitched in that calm way that means there's absolutely nothing serene happening.
I pause with my hand halfway into the supply cabinet. “Please tell me Mrs. Sanderson’s cat didn’t escape again.”
“Worse.”
I turn.
He stands with the phone pressed to his ear, one hand covering the receiver. His expression is mild, but his eyebrows have lifted in a way I’ve learned to interpret as problem incoming.
“Calf down,” he says. “Young one. Weak, not standing properly. Owner says she’s gone off feed, and he’s worried she’s dehydrated.”
I’m already reaching for my field bag. “How long?”
Since last night.” Dr. Harris covers the phone again. “I’ve got the Anderson mare coming in any minute, and Penny’s uncle just called about that lame gelding.”
I grab gloves, thermometer sleeves, syringes, electrolyte packets, and my tiny emergency kit from the hook by the door. “Where am I going?”
He gives me the address.
I repeat it once, mostly to make sure I’ve heard correctly, then nod and sling the bag over my shoulder.
“Take the truck,” he says. “And call if you need backup.”
“I won’t.”
“I know,” he says dryly. “That’s why I’m telling you to.”
I give him a look.
He gives me one right back, gentler this time. “How are you feeling today?”
I’ve been doing very well at pretending the last few days haven’t happened. Or at least, I’ve been doing very well at appearing functional while internally reorganizing my entire life around two impossible flickers on an ultrasound screen.
“I’m fine,” I say.
He says nothing.
“I ate breakfast,” I add.
His brows rise.
“Toast,” I clarify. “And half a banana.”
“Progress.”
“I’m choosing not to be offended by your tone.”
“You do that.”
I tighten my grip on the bag strap. “I can handle a calf.”
“I know you can.”
The late June heat is already pressing down over Buckhorn, baking the dust into the road and shimmering above the hood of the clinic truck. I load my supplies, climb in, and give myself exactly three seconds before starting the engine.
Three seconds to breathe. Three seconds not to think about Clay’s message sitting in my phone. Three seconds not to think about the fact that I'm pregnant. With twins. Three seconds not to place my hand against my stomach like I’ve started doing without realizing.
Then the truck rumbles to life, and I drive.
Work helps. Work has rules, patterns, and steps. You assess, you treat, you monitor, you document.
No guessing what a man means when he disappears then reappears with a bit of drama. No wondering whether telling him changes everything. No imagining blue-eyed babies with reckless blood and the McCoy name before I’ve even made it through the first trimester.
Work is better.
I follow the road out of town, past the feed store, past the last cluster of houses, out where Buckhorn spreads itself thin into ranch land.
Fences run alongside the gravel road, weathered posts leaning slightly under time and wire.
Cattle dot the pasture in slow, dark shapes. The sky is wide and pale and cloudless.
I focus on the directions. Turn by the split cottonwood, follow the fence line, head to the second ranch road on the right.
The sign at the entrance's large, wooden, and sun-faded, but I’m concentrating on the calf, the supplies in my bag, and the faint, unpleasant twist in my stomach that may be nerves or nausea or both.
I don't read it. I should've. It'd make remembering the ranches a lot easier than relying on a list of turns every time I have to visit one.
The driveway stretches long, bordered by fencing and dry grass that shifts in the warm breeze.
The ranch house sits farther in, broad and lived in, with outbuildings scattered beyond it and a barn set back near the working pens.
It’s the kind of place that looks built by generations, every board and gate worn smooth by use.
I park near the barn and step out.
A dog barks once. I turn just as an old red heeler mix limps out from beneath the shade of a wagon, ears uneven, eyes narrowed with suspicion.
“Hello,” I say carefully.
The dog sniffs, studies me, then trots closer with the air of someone reluctantly accepting responsibility for my existence.
“Don’t let him fool you,” a deep voice says. “Rusty has already decided he likes you.”
I look up.
A man stands near the gate to the smaller pen, tall and broad-shouldered, with the kind of solid stillness that makes him seem carved from the land around him.
He removes his hat as he approaches. “Dr. Wright?”
“Yes.” I shift my bag higher. “Josephine is fine.”
“Boone.” He nods once. “Thanks for coming.”
“Where’s the calf?”
“This way.”
No wasted words. I appreciate that.
I follow him toward the pen, Rusty trailing close enough to supervise and far enough to pretend he isn’t interested. The barn smells of hay, dust, warm animal bodies, and old wood. “What’s her age?” I ask.
“About six weeks.”
“Any diarrhea?”
“No.”
“Coughing?”
“Not that I’ve seen.”
“Still nursing?”
“Less since yesterday. Mama’s been nudging her, but she won’t stay up long enough.”
He opens the gate for me, and I step through.
The calf is lying in the shade near the fence, small body tucked awkwardly beneath her. A black baldy, eyes dull but open, breathing a little fast. Her mother stands nearby, restless and unhappy, shifting her weight as she watches us approach.
I stop several feet away and let the scene settle before moving closer.
“She tried to stand this morning,” Boone says. “Got halfway up and folded.”
“Any chance of injury?”
“Could be. Didn’t see one.”
I crouch slowly, keeping my movements calm. “Hey, sweetheart.”
The calf lifts her head but doesn’t try to rise.
I set my bag down and pull on gloves. “I’ll need someone to keep mama from deciding I’m the problem.”
Boone gives a low whistle toward one of the ranch hands near the far gate. “Tommy.”
The man moves immediately, taking position near the cow. Competent people make everything better.
I open my bag and start with the basics. Temperature. Gum color. Hydration. Heart rate. Lung sounds. I work quickly, without rushing, letting my hands gather information before my mind commits to a conclusion.
The calf’s ears flick weakly when I check her temperature.
“Sorry,” I murmur. “Indignity is unfortunately part of medicine.”
Boone makes a quiet sound that might almost be a laugh.
I glance at him. “You’d be surprised how often I have to apologize to livestock.”
“Probably not as surprised as you think.”
The calf is mildly dehydrated. Weak, but responsive. No obvious respiratory distress, no severe bloat, no major injury that I can feel, though there’s stiffness in one hind leg that makes me pause.
I run my hand down carefully, palpating joints, watching her reaction.
“There,” I murmur when she flinches.
Boone steps closer. “What is it?”
“Possibly a strain. Maybe she slipped or got stepped on. But that doesn’t explain all of it.” I check her gums again, then reach into my bag. “She needs fluids, and I want to get some electrolytes into her. I’m also going to give an anti-inflammatory and see if we can get her stronger.”
“You think she’ll be alright?”
“I think you called before it turned critical,” I say. “That helps.”
He exhales through his nose, relief controlled but present.
I prepare the injection, keeping my hands still. This is what I know. This is who I am when everything else feels unstable. Calm voice, a clean needle, and the correct dosage. One step followed by another.
The calf barely reacts.
“Good girl,” I whisper.
Then I pull my small emergency kit closer.
It’s ridiculous, really. Penny teased me about it when she first saw it, calling it my “tiny apocalypse purse,” but I’ve carried some version of it for years.
Vet wrap, antiseptic wipes, extra gloves, thermometer, saline, bandage scissors, sugar packets, gauze, a penlight.
Things I don’t always need but hate not having.
Today, I need half of it.
The calf’s leg has a small scrape hidden beneath dirt and dried mud. Not bad, but irritated enough that it could be contributing to her reluctance to stand.
I clean it, flushing carefully while Boone watches. “You always carry all that?”
“Yes.”
“Prepared.”
“Anxious,” I correct before I think better of it.
His eyes flick briefly to my face.
I focus on the bandage. “Prepared sounds better.”
“Both can be useful.”
Once the scrape is clean and wrapped, I prepare oral electrolytes and coax the calf into taking some. She resists at first, then swallows.
“There we go,” I say softly. “That’s it.”
The cow huffs behind me.
“I know,” I tell her without looking back. “I’m bothering your baby. I’m also helping.”
Boone definitely laughs that time.
I glance over my shoulder. “You laugh, but cows appreciate transparency.”
“Do they?”
“Well… I do.”
That earns me a brief smile.
For a while, there’s only the work. Heat pressing against my neck. Dust clinging to my jeans. The calf’s warm body under my hands. The intense presence of Boone near my shoulder, quiet but attentive.
After a few more minutes, I shift back on my heels. A quick wave of dizziness cuts through me, sharp enough that I pause.
Boone notices immediately. “You alright?”
“Yes.” The word is too fast. His expression doesn’t change, but his attention sharpens. “I’m fine,” I add, because apparently my survival instinct is repetition.
“You need water?”
“No.” Then, because Dr. Harris would give me that look, I amend, “Maybe.”
Boone turns toward Tommy. “Grab a bottle from the cooler.”
“I can…”
He’s already gone.
I press my lips together and look back at the calf. “I don’t usually require this much supervision.”
“Didn’t say you did.”
“You implied it.”
“No, ma’am.”
Tommy returns with water. I take it because refusing would be foolish, and because my body has recently proven it cannot be trusted without oversight. The first sip helps more than I want it to.
The calf shifts.
All of us still.
“Come on,” I murmur.
She braces her front legs, tries to push up, wobbles, then drops back down.
“Not yet,” I say quickly. “That’s alright.”
Boone’s jaw tightens.
“She has strength,” I tell him. “That’s good.
We’ll give the fluids time to work. Keep her shaded, encourage nursing, monitor whether she stands.
If she worsens or won’t take fluids, call me immediately.
I mean immediately, not in twelve hours when everyone has decided worry is more practical than action. ”
One corner of his mouth lifts. “Understood.”
“I’ll leave written instructions.”
“I’d appreciate that.”
I stand carefully this time, grateful when the world stays where it belongs. Then I remove my gloves, clean up my supplies, and write notes against the hood of the truck because flat surfaces are a luxury in fieldwork.
Boone waits beside me. “You’re new in town?”
“Yeah, been here a couple of months.”
“You liking Buckhorn?”
I look toward the barn, the dust, the endless fences, the house with its wide porch in the distance. “It’s… observant.”
That makes him smile again. “That’s one word for it.”
“Nosy is another.”
“More accurate.”
I hand him the instruction sheet. “Small towns have a way of knowing things before they’re told.”
Boone folds the paper once. “You did good work.”
The compliment lands warmer than expected. “Thank you.”
Rusty chooses that moment to press his nose into my open field bag.
“Absolutely not,” I tell him.
He freezes.
I point at him. “I know biscuit theft when I see it.”
Boone looks down. “Rusty.”
The dog backs up with impressive reluctance, eyes still fixed on the bag as if I’ve personally deprived him of a meaningful future.
“He’s dramatic,” I say.
“He belongs here.”
There’s affection in Boone’s voice, dry but unmistakable.
I zip the bag shut and lift it from the ground. “I’ll check back tomorrow. Sooner if you call.”
“We will.”
I turn toward the pen once more, scanning the calf, the cow, the shade, the water access, the ground. Making sure I haven’t missed anything. Making sure the facts are lined up properly.
It’s easier to trust facts.
“Dr. Wright?”
I blink, realizing Boone has moved toward the barn. “Yes?”
“You mind taking a look at something else while you’re here? One of the horses has a cut that probably doesn’t need stitching, but I’d rather be sure.”
“Of course.”
I follow him around the side of the barn, grateful for another task. Another thing to solve.
The horse is easy. A shallow scrape along the shoulder, already cleaned reasonably well. I examine it, approve the treatment, add a topical antibiotic from my kit, and give Boone instructions he probably already knows but listens to anyway.
Competence recognizes competence.
A sound comes from near the house then. The slam of a screen door. Uneven steps on wood. A muttered curse carried faintly by the warm air.
Boone glances toward it, and something in his expression shifts.
I follow his gaze.
At first, I only register movement.
A man coming down the porch steps awkwardly, one crutch planted too far ahead, a heavy cast stretched out in front of him. His dark hair is sleep-messy, his shoulders tense, his jaw tight with irritation or pain or both.
Then he lifts his head.
The whole ranch seems to drop away beneath me.
Clay.
This is the McCoy Ranch?
Shit.
He stops dead.
So do I.
For one suspended second, neither of us moves.
The heat. The barn. Boone beside me. Rusty in the dust. The calf, the paperwork, the careful composure I’ve spent all morning arranging around myself.
All of it goes silent.
Clay’s blue eyes lock on mine. Shock hits his face first. Then recognition. Then something I can’t read at all.
My hand tightens around the strap of my field bag until it bites into my palm.
Of course, with two secrets beating quietly inside me and his message still unanswered in my phone, the only thing my traitorous mouth can manage is a breathless, useless…
“Clay.”