34. Power on Four Legs
POWER ON FOUR LEGS
brAXTON
The alert scares me. It shouldn’t, but with my sleep so jacked up, what little I get is deep.
The problem is that particular tone is the emergency one.
We use it so rarely, and I’d really hoped it wouldn’t be needed so quickly.
It’s only been two days since Marron looked like she was beginning her labor.
Another before-dawn day. The first day, or rather… another day, when Colt will be second, not because he really is, but because ranching doesn’t work on a schedule that’s convenient for everyone. Shit, it’s rarely convenient for anyone.
Since it’s not yet four in the morning, I silence the alarm, brush my teeth, and stumble into old clothes that can stand to be ruined. Or ruined more.
I’m almost out the front door when I realize that Emberleigh can’t run without leaving Colt alone and who knows when I’ll be back.
I twist the knob to her bedroom—correction… my guest room—and step as lightly as I can to the side of her bed. The clomp of my boots is tamped by the rug under my feet.
Before I say a word, I’m struck silent by the sight of her sleeping.
I can only make out the shadows since it’s so dark out here on the ranch.
But the softness of her features is in stark contrast to the sharpness of her typical look.
I notice, for the first time, that her eyes are the same shape as Colt’s.
I can see him in her. At least he has a piece of his mom.
No boy deserves what he’s gone through. I lost mine this spring, and that was way too soon as far as I’m concerned.
The sound in my pocket scares us both.
Her eyes spring open, huge and fearful.
The lungful of air she sucks in, the only precursor I have to her scream, is cut off by my hand clamped over her mouth.
“Wait!”
She squints her eyes into slits while, for all intents and purposes, slithering away from me as much as she can.
“Wait,” I repeat, dropping my hand and stepping back from the headboard. “The mare. Marron is in labor. I have to go. Wanted you to know so we weren’t both gone if you went for a run.”
She relaxes. Her wary eyes close for a moment and then two, before her shoulders fall from their place up near her ears.
“I need to get there. I’ll text you?” Why I ask it like a question is beyond me, but I do.
I wait for confirmation. Just a single nod, before turning for the door.
I did not notice how stunning she looked in black and white. Or how makeup-free, she seems younger and more carefree. I sure as fuck didn’t notice the little strap of whatever she was sleeping in.
And those are the lies I tell myself all the way to the barn.
I park the truck outside the stables and run in, leaving the keys in the ignition. If Bright hadn’t texted twice, I’d have made the walk, but either there’s a problem or time is of the essence, and neither is a good option for a breeder.
The lights are all on and Brighton is scurrying about. Her energy and movements have purpose. Nothing is wasted.
Dad slowly moves with Marron around the foaling stall.
It’s three times the size of her normal one, a luxury most ranchers can’t afford anymore.
But Pop’s Pop was a wise man and knew losing a foal wasn’t worth it.
The extra space could always be used. “You’d rather have it and not need it than need it and not have it,” he’d always say.
We’ve made a point to plan and grow with that in mind, and it has served us well.
She’s been here for only two weeks, generally not long enough before birthing, but we didn’t expect her to deliver early either.
“How’s it going?” I ask Bright, leaning on the door, looking over into the stall.
“She’s good. She’s done this before. Less than an hour now.”
I slide my phone out of my pocket and move my thumbs over the keyboard.
“Who are you texting at this time of night?”
“Emberleigh.”
“Why?” She sounds incredulous.
“Because it’s Colt’s first foal, and he’s a Ranger.”
The subtle tuck of her chin says so much. She acquiesces immediately and completely. “Right. Good call.”
Me: It’s time. Can you bring Colt?
Emberleigh: On our way.
That simple answer allows a softness to settle in my chest. The idea that my son will be a part of this means something in the deep places of my heart.
That Emberleigh Carrington suggested it is a gesture that means she respects Colt’s place in this family and on this ranch. Both are a big deal to me.
I don’t have time to consider anything further because Brighton is barking out orders.
She is as she always is—in control. Ordered.
Commanding. She knows this process and she’ll lead the whole time.
I know it too. So does Pop. But for Bright, it’s her Super Bowl.
She’s trained for years for this and nothing will go wrong on her watch.
That’s only partially true. Marron acts unusually nervous. Her normal calm demeanor has been replaced by a restlessness. Her eyes show a wildness that I hope is only fear and nothing more. She whinnies and paces and her snorts are not of the playful variety.
“Something’s wrong.”
“I already know that,” Bright says, opening the stall doors and moving in cautiously. The fluidity in her moves is not her natural grace. She’s showing the mare that she isn’t a threat. She reaches back under the stall door into a bucket I hadn’t noticed and grabs a cookie, Marron’s favorite.
She walks over and allows Bright to rub her nose, before dipping her head and nosing Bright’s hand. She takes the cookie but doesn’t eat it, dropping it into the hay, and then bellows out a cry that can only mean pain.
I grab for the door and just as my hand hits the pull, a soft touch alights on my other bicep.
Emberleigh is there, holding a wide-awake Colt, who, for the first time, reaches out for me.
Frozen on the spot, I grab him and lift him up near my shoulder, turning him around to see over the stall doors.
“See Marron, Colt? She’s having a baby. Aunt Bright is going to help because Marron is not having an easy go.”
Pop is still in the stall, leaning on the back wall, watching the mare and Bright’s movements, and Colt’s face as he takes in the early-morning sights.
The hand on my arm slides off as Emberleigh backs away.
“Don’t.” Only one word, but I don’t want her to leave. I shouldn’t care. It shouldn’t matter, but with my distressed mare and Colt here, I want her close. For his safety… just in case.
“Foal is breach,” Bright states and Pop moves off the wall and gets nose-to-nose with Marron, speaking softly. The man does nothing softly, but somehow, he can commune with our horses in a way that doesn’t come naturally to him with humans.
He holds her halter and rubs her face and braces, because Bright is shoulder-deep inside her trying to adjust the foal that is intent on making its debut this morning.
Her cry of pain has those of us outside the stall leaning forward, worried.
Pop keeps his eyes on Marron but speaks to Bright, “You okay back there?”
“He turned on me.”
“What does that mean?” Emberleigh whispers urgently, trying not to interrupt.
“He rolled over on her arm. Tight space and heavy weight means it hurts, but she needs him to rotate. She’s got this.”
“Is the baby okay?” she asks.
“Bright, how’s the foal?”
“Better now. Maybe ten minutes to go. I’m fine, too. Thanks for asking.”
“You’re always fine, Bright. I don’t ever need to worry about you.”
Most girls would sulk, thinking I care more for the horse, but Brighton beams. “You know that’s right.”
Right on schedule, eight minutes later, our newest foal is delivered. A beautiful filly.
“Congratulations! It’s a girl,” Bright announces, as if this were her own gender reveal.
Dad drops his head to his chin and quietly puckers his lips, his little ritual of a thanksgiving prayer for a healthy foal, probably mixed with quiet sadness that Mom isn’t here to share it with us.
Our first foal birthed since we lost her.
It’s been a few months, but I suspect he’ll never get over losing her.
Brighton cleans up the babe and finds another cookie or two for Marron. She greedily accepts and downs them before returning to her daughter, cleaning and tending as only moms do.
“What’s her name?” Emberleigh asks. It’s only the second time she’s spoken since she’s been here.
“Don’t know,” I say, never having worried about that during pre-dawn birthing sessions. “Come on,” I add, and move my hand down her back, opening the door with my other that’s cradled around Colt.
“No. We can’t.” Her voice is louder now, and her spine pushes backward into my hand.
“Sure we can,” I reassure and nudge her farther into the stall.
The filly has yet to stand, but Bright hasn’t indicated any problems, so I expect the babe is going to be fine. We move toward the pair.
Pop is back leaning on the stall, one booted foot propped up on the wall.
Bright is in full veterinarian mode and probably doesn’t even notice us.
I walk to Marron and rub her nose, scratching the spot behind her left ear that she loves so much. “How are you, mama?” She neighs and gently nickers, whether to me or the foal, I don’t know, but her unease is gone, the panic subsided and she is once again content.
She drops her nose to Colt’s diaper, and I freeze. Calm or no, she’s a hell of a prize mare, in beauty and in strength. She is power on four legs, and I cannot forget it.
Colt’s chubby fingers reach out, and I gently help him rub the bridge of her nose.
His giggle surprises us all.
“Marron? This is Colt.”
She nickers again.
“He’s mine. Like she’s yours.” I tilt my head to our as-yet unnamed filly.
She bobs her head, almost as if she’s nodding, and keeps her position staring at Colt until she leaves us at the cries of her foal. When she nuzzles the filly, she nickers over her shoulder. She’s, in essence, telling me to “come see.”
I walk slowly, moving Colt to sit on my shoulders. Precarious position for me, due to lack of control, but safer from anything lower than my six-four frame.
When I get to the babe, I realize I don’t have enough hands and slide Colt back around and cradle him in tightly. He’s still wide awake and babbling gibberish around his fingers.
“Braxton?” Emberleigh’s quiet query sounds fearful. Aside from the last few minutes—mostly out of her element more so than truly afraid—I’ve never heard her sound anything but one-hundred-percent in control.
“It’s okay.”
“But—”
“It’s okay. Promise. Want to see?”
“Not yet. I’m good from here.”
“Brax?” Pop calls.
“Yeah?”
“What are we going to name your boy’s horse?”
I whip my head to look him in the eyes. We’ve never discussed anything like this.
“Pop—”
“I don’t have the say I used to around here, but, in this case, I insist. That foal is Colt’s. And she needs a name.”
I don’t hear the soft sound of Emberleigh retreating. But moments later when I glance around—why I look for her I have no idea—she’s gone.