Finding no postpartum problems, Kaycee cleaned and sutured the incision layer by layer. Behind her she heard Jon working feverishly with the calf, talking softly, urging it to live. All the while the mother stood patiently, her pain relieved by the anesthetic. She tried once or twice to look around for her calf, but the headgate restricted her. After a penicillin shot to waylay infection, Kaycee gathered her equipment.
She flicked a glance at Jon. He sat on the floor of the barn, his broad shoulders hunched over the black calf gathered in his arms like a child. He’d given up on the artificial resuscitator and was blowing his own breath into the calf, determined to force life into it. He jumped when Kaycee stooped beside him and put her hand on his shoulder.
“It’s too late. He was probably dead before we pulled him.”
“It’s not too late.” Jon blew another stubborn breath into the calf’s nostrils.
“Use the resuscitator.”
“Tried it,” Jon said between breaths. “This is better.”
Kaycee ran her fingers up and down the limp calf’s sides, encouraging circulation. Still the baby didn’t move. She watched Jon’s desperate attempt to infuse life where there wasn’t any.
“Jon,” Kaycee said. “It’s too—”
A tiny hoof quivered. Jon blew gently into the baby’s nose again. A shiver ran down the slick black body. Jon grinned. “Told you.”
Another five minutes of nurturing and the newborn was breathing without help. Gently Jon carried it to a box stall and laid it in the corner. He took off the soiled leather gloves and pulled his shirt collar over to wipe his mouth.
“I’ll milk the heifer and get a first meal down this little one,” he told Kaycee. “Then hope Mom takes over.”
While Jon coaxed colostrum from the heifer’s udder and made up a bottle, Kaycee removed the chains from the slender hind legs and laid them across the top of the stall door. Jon gave her the bottle to feed while he steadied the newborn calf. When the bottle was empty, he released the heifer into the stall.
“Maybe there’s enough afterbirth left for her to recognize her baby. Never should have happened this way, but looks like it turned out okay.”
“Looks like,” Kaycee said with a smile. “Really big calf, though. Over a hundred pounds, I’d guess.”
“Yep, felt that way. My fault, too. I should have had my mind on my business when I bred her, but I—” Jon stared at the confined heifer nosing her calf. “I just didn’t,” he said finally.
He studied Kaycee with eyes as deep blue as the Montana sky. His dark good looks overshadowed his somber, drawn expression. As tall as she was at five foot ten, she still had to look up to meet his gaze.
“You did a good job,” he said. “I’m impressed.”
“Thank you. I’m glad I could help.” Warmth spread through Kaycee’s midsection. Why did it thrill her that this particular rancher was pleased with her work? Before this, she’d only felt a satisfying triumph when she proved one more cowboy wrong about her.
They reached for the chains at the same time. Jon’s hand accidentally closed over hers. A frisson of electricity crackled through her body. He tightened his grip and lifted her hand off the chains, so he could pick them up.
“I guess we need to clean up,” he said, in a deep, low voice that resonated through her.
Kaycee cleared her throat and nodded. The barn was suddenly awfully close and overly warm.
“Urmmmm!”
Jon and Kaycee jerked apart at the sound of the accusatory grumble. A woman wearing a severely cut gray business suit glinted a hard look at them from a few feet away. No doubt they were a pretty sight, covered as they were with the drying remnants of new life.
Jon frowned at the newcomer. “Can I help you?”
Michele, along with another girl about her age and identical twin boys about five years old darted around the woman and regrouped behind Jon.
“I’m Nancy Hawthorn, the county social worker. Are you Jonathan Rider?”
“Yes,” Jon said with a hesitant nod.
The woman approached, clutching a writing pad to her chest. Her eyes darted to the pool of blood and fluid on the floor, then to the cow and calf in the stall.
“May I speak to you alone, Mr. Rider?”
Jon indicated for her to follow him, detouring briefly to the washroom to wash his hands and arms and roll his shirtsleeves down. They stopped to talk in the doorway of the barn. Kaycee couldn’t quite make out the conversation from where she stood with the children.
Before Kaycee could make a move to collect her things, she saw Jon’s face suffuse with anger and he clenched his fists.
“Child neglect? What in hell are you talking about?”
Kaycee wasn’t sure what to do. To get to her truck, she’d have to pass close enough to Jon and the social worker to eavesdrop. Although she’d always been a bit nosy, this conversation seemed too personal for idle curiosity. The four children, however, had no such qualms. Little by little they inched closer to the adults. Kaycee crossed the aisle to clean up. She slipped out of the soiled coveralls, rolled them into a ball and tucked them into a plastic bag in one of her medical cases, then washed her hands again. Wiping her boots clean in the thick hay, she glanced around for another way out of the barn.
She spied a back door, but couldn’t be sure if she could get to her truck that way. The voices at the end of the barn grew louder, more strident. She turned, staring at the two dark figures against the bright light, so focused on each other that Kaycee doubted they would notice if she made a discreet escape around them.
Hoisting her cases, she edged down the aisle, stopping when she reached the tight cluster of wide-eyed children hanging on every word of the argument.
“Mr. Rider,” Mrs. Hawthorn said, holding the notepad to her chest, “I’m here for your children’s welfare.”
“By scaring them out of their minds?” Jon snapped.
Kaycee wanted to tell him to calm down. He wouldn’t do himself any good by losing his temper.
“I have no intention of frightening them. But, I must advise you that Montana law gives me full authority to speak to your children, without your consent and without your being present. Now, if you’ll just answer a few questions, perhaps we can resolve this quickly.”
Jon’s jaw muscle ticked. He took a couple of breaths before he spoke again. “I’m sorry. You took me by surprise. Who made this accusation?”
“By state law, I can’t reveal that information.”
“Wait a minute,” Jon said, his voice growing harsh again. “You can come into my house—harass my children, interrogate me—because of somebody’s unsubstantiated accusation? And you won’t tell me who made it?”
“Can’t, Mr. Rider. I am not allowed to give you that information.”
“I don’t believe this.” Jon raked a hand through his already disheveled hair. “How am I supposedly neglecting my children?”
Mrs. Hawthorn consulted her notes. “According to the report I received you do not have proper supervision for your seven…?”
Mrs. Hawthorn cocked an inquisitive eyebrow at Jon. Kaycee automatically raised her eyebrows, too. Seven?
Jon nodded and Mrs. Hawthorn went on, “Seven children. That the younger children may be suffering from neglect. That there is a scarcity of food in the house, that the kids are not being fed, clothed or tended properly.”
“That’s