Clay ran toward the barn with Rorie right behind him. He paused to flip a switch, flooding the interior with bright light.
The gray mare in the center stall continued to neigh and thrash around. Rorie found it astonishing that the walls had remained intact. The noise of the animal’s pain echoed through the stable, reflected by the rising anxiety of the other horses.
Clay took one look at the mare and released a low groan, then muttered something under his breath.
“What’s wrong?” Rorie cried.
“It seems Star Bright is about to become a mother.”
“But why isn’t she in one of the foaling stalls?”
“Because two different vets palpated her and said she wasn’t in foal.”
“But...”
“She’s already had six foals and her stomach’s so stretched she looks pregnant even when she isn’t.” Clay opened the stall door and entered. Rorie’s hand flew to her heart. Good grief, he could get killed in there!
“What do you want me to do?” she said.
Clay shook his head. “This is no place for you. Get back to the house and stay there.” His brow furrowed, every line a testament to his hard, outdoor life.
“But shouldn’t I be phoning a vet?”
“It’s too late for that.”
“Boiling water—I could get that for you.” She wanted to help; she just had no idea how.
“Boiling water?” he repeated. “What the hell would I need that for?”
“I don’t know,” she confessed with a shrug, “but they always seem to need it in the movies.”
Clay gave an exasperated sigh. “Rorie, please, just go to the house.”
She made it all the way to the barn door, then abruptly turned back. If anyone had asked why she felt it so necessary to remain with Clay, she wouldn’t have been able to answer. But something kept her there, something far stronger than the threat of Clay’s temper.
She marched to the center stall, her head and shoulders held stiff and straight. She stood with her feet braced, prepared for an argument.
“Clay,” she said, “I’m not leaving.”
“Listen, Rorie, you’re a city girl. This isn’t going to be pretty.”
“I’m a woman, too. The sight of a little blood isn’t enough to make me faint.”
Clay was doing his best to calm the frightened mare, but without much success. The tension in the air seemed to crackle like static electricity.
“I haven’t got time to argue with you,” he said through clenched teeth.
“Good.”
Star Bright heaved her neck backward and gave a deep groan that seemed to reverberate in the stall like the boom of a cannon.
“Poor little mother,” Rorie whispered in a soothing voice. Led by instinct, she carefully unlatched the stall door and slipped inside.
Clay sent her a look hot enough to peel paint. “Get out of here before you get hurt.” His voice was low and urgent.
Star Bright reacted to his tension immediately, jerking about, her body twitching convulsively. One of her hooves caught Clay in the forearm and, almost immediately, blood seeped through his sleeve. Rorie bit her lip to suppress a cry of alarm, but if Clay felt any pain he didn’t show it.
“Hold her head,” Clay said sharply.
Somehow Rorie found the courage to do as he asked. Star Bright groaned once more and her pleading eyes looked directly into Rorie’s, seeming to beg for help. The mare’s lips pulled back from her teeth as she flailed her head to and fro, shaking Rorie in the process.
“Whoa, girl,” Rorie said softly, gaining control. “It’s painful, isn’t it, but soon you’ll have a beautiful baby to show off to the world.”
“Foal,” Clay corrected from behind the mare.
“A beautiful foal.” Rorie stroked the sweat-dampened neck, doing what she could to reassure the frightened horse.
“Keep talking to her,” Clay whispered.
Rorie kept up a running dialogue for several tense minutes, but there was only so much she could find to say on such short acquaintance. When she ran out of ideas, she started to sing in a soft, lilting voice. She began with lullabies her mother had once sung to her, then followed those with a few childhood ditties. Her singing lasted only minutes, but Rorie’s lungs felt close to collapse.
Suddenly the mare’s water broke. Clay wasn’t saying much, but he began to work quickly, although she couldn’t see what he was doing. Star Bright tossed her neck in the final throes of birth and Rorie watched, fascinated, as two hooves and front legs emerged, followed by a white nose.
The mare lifted her head, eager to see. Clay tugged gently, and within seconds, the foal was free. Rorie’s heart pounded like a locomotive struggling up a steep hill as Clay’s strong hands completed the task.
“A filly,” he announced, a smile lighting his face. He reached for a rag and wiped his hands and arms.
Star Bright turned her head to view her offspring. “See?” Rorie told the mare, her eyes moist with relief. “Didn’t I tell you it would all be worth it?”
The mare nickered. Her newborn filly was gray, like her mother, and finely marked with white streaks on her nose, mane and tail. Rorie was touched to her very soul by the sight. Tears blurred her vision and ran down her flushed cheeks. She blotted them with her sleeve so Clay couldn’t see them, and silently chided herself for being such a sentimental fool.
It was almost another hour before they left Star Bright’s stall. The mare, who stood guard over her long-legged baby, seemed content and utterly pleased with herself. As they prepared to leave, Rorie whispered in her ear.
“What was that all about?” Clay wanted to know, latching the stall door.
“I just told her she’d done a good job.”
“That she did,” Clay whispered. A moment later, he added, “And so did you, Rorie. I was grateful for your help.”
Once more tears sprang to her eyes. She responded with a nod, unable to trust her voice. Her heart was racing with exhilaration. She couldn’t remember a time she’d felt more excited. It was well past midnight, but she’d never felt less sleepy.
“Rorie?” He was staring at her, his eyes bright with concern.
She owed him an explanation, although she couldn’t fully explain this sudden burst of emotion. “It was so...beautiful.” She brushed the hair from her face and smiled up at him, hoping he wouldn’t think she was just a foolish city girl. She wasn’t sure why it mattered, but she doubted that any man had seen her looking worse, although Rorie was well aware that she didn’t possess a classic beauty. She was usually referred to as cute, with her slightly turned-up nose and dark brown eyes.
“I understand.” He walked to the sink against the barn’s opposite wall and busily washed his hands, then splashed water on his face. When he’d finished, Rorie handed him a towel hanging on a nearby hook.
“Thanks.”
“I don’t know how to describe it,” she said, after a fruitless effort to find the words to explain all the feeling that had surged up inside her.
“It’s the same for me every time I witness a birth,” Clay told her. He looked at her then and gently touched her face, letting his finger glide along her jaw. All the world went still as his eyes caressed hers. There was a primitive wonder in the experience of