A Christmas to Believe In (40 page)

At last, Angel gave up the fight and awkwardly rose to all

fours.

His heart thumping hard, he led her out of the stall and

walked her at a quick pace down the aisle and back. For a full

five minutes, he kept her moving and hoped gravity would

pull the foal back down into her uterus. Prayed the foal would

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find the position uncomfortable enough to fight for clearance

inside.

He tied Angel to the stall wall and dragged on another

clean sleeve. When he had it appropriately slick, he moved

behind her to check her progress.

Freedom given to her head, Angel buckled her knees and

tried to go down.

"Damn it, Angel. Whoa." He lunged back to her halter,

applying steady pressure to prevent her attempt. She obeyed

with a defiant swish of her tail.

His second attempt yielded the same results. As well as

the third. Realizing they could do this dance until he

exhausted all the time he'd have to help the foal, Clint turned

her loose in her stall and let her assume her prostrated

position in the straw.

Again at her tail, he followed the foot once more. The

same fetlock, the same knee, the same upper leg... The same

stout muscle of the foal's neck.

Panic churned his gut. This was why he'd hired Jim.

Together they'd handled worse dsytocias and saved both

mare and foal. He could handle his own fair share as well, but

not when the horse refused to stand.

He needed help. Preferably able-bodied, strong help. Only,

by the time he made it to his mother's to requisition Heath

and got back here, he'd push the maximum time for a live

birth.

His gaze flicked to the door, slid back to his mare. He had

one option, and he'd drag it out of Jesse's house if he had to.

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He yanked off the sleeve and bolted for her front door. Not

bothering to knock, he bellowed, "Ethan!" Crossing the room,

Clint stood at the bottom of the stairs, looked up, and yelled,

"Ethan, get down here now!"

A sliver of light overhead widened. Feet moved down the

hall. Ethan's tousled blond head emerged from the dark.

"What do you want?"

"I need you in the barn. Now. I need an extra pair of

hands."

"No way." His blue eyes widened to twice their usual size

and he backed up a step, his palms out in front of him. "I

don't know a thing about horses."

"Well you're gonna learn, and I don't have time to argue it

with you. I won't lose my foal because you can't stand me.

Now get your coat and c'mon."

Clint returned to the door, folded his arms over his chest.

Beneath his breath, he counted to two, preparing to literally

throw the boy over his shoulder if he didn't appear by three.

Lucky for Ethan, he chose not to protest and descended the

stairs, his coat half on.

His obedience, however, didn't squelch a displeased

mumble. But Ethan shoved Clint aside and started for the

barn. Jogging, Clint passed him by. He slowed to a stop at

Angel's stall and once again slid on a glove.

When Ethan arrived, Clint jerked his thumb at the lead

rope draped over the stall wall. "Snap that on the ring under

her chin. Then help me pull her up. You pull, I'll push at her

shoulder."

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Surprisingly, Ethan followed directive without hesitation.

He strained against the lead rope, his youthful muscles not

yet strong enough to accomplish the task alone. Yet with Clint

shoving on Angel's shoulder, the mare grudgingly obliged.

"Now, hold her steady. Pet her face, talk to her. I need her

to stay standing."

"Dude, I don't know what to do."

Clint looked down the length of Angel's back, and met

Ethan's wide-eyed stare. His face had gone white, and he

looked like he could bolt at any minute. Clint gave himself a

hard mental kick. He hadn't stopped to consider this might

freak Ethan out. He couldn't expect a thirteen-year-old boy to

step in like he'd been doing it for years.

Clint softened his voice. "Keep your hand on the snap

beneath her chin. Keep steady pressure there. If she tries to

kneel down, push up. Scold her with your voice."

He gulped. "What do I say?"

As Clint slid his arm inside the mare, he answered,

"Whatever you want." Concentrating on the path of hoof,

joints, and bone, Clint felt his way along the foal's extended

leg, checking once more to see if, by some random act of

fate, the foal had repositioned. When he reached the upper

foreleg, he already knew the answer. Pulling back out, he

grabbed the soft tissue of the sack that covered the

protruding hoof and ripped it open.

Fluid rushed out, soaking his clothes.

"Is she..." Ethan hesitated long enough to bring Clint's

gaze up to his for a brief moment. "Is she going to be okay?"

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He looked back to his hands, and cleared the rest of the

slippery sack away from the exposed limb. "She will be." One

way or the other, the mare would be. He'd wake up every vet

in town to save her. But no vet could get here in time to help

the foal. That little baby's fate lay in Clint's hands.

"What about her baby?"

Clint's gaze locked with Ethan's. "Don't know."

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Hoof fully exposed, Clint glanced around in search of a

strap or something he could use as a makeshift lasso. He

considered the twine that had secured the straw bales, then

quickly dismissed it as too likely to cut off circulation. Or

worse, tear the delicate newborn flesh.

Ethan shuffled to the right, lifted on his toes to investigate.

As he moved, however, Angel took a sidestep that tweaked

Clint's arm. He hissed in a breath and grimaced. "Hey," he

barked.

Adjusting his position, he relieved the pressure on his arm

and looked up at Ethan. Still standing off-center of Angel's

head, his position gave Clint a full view of what he was

wearing. Beneath his coat, an ironed Henley tucked into

casual pants, as if he might have decided to join the reception

next door. Around his waist, a green nylon belt bore tiny

images of white-bearded Santas.

"Give me your belt."

"What?"

Clint stretched out his free arm. "Your belt. I need it."

Ethan shook his head. "Mom will kill me. She loves this

tacky thing."

With a wag of his fingers, Clint insisted, "Give me the

damn belt."

Letting out a heavy sigh, Ethan pried it loose with one

hand, tugged it through the belt loops and passed it over.

"You get to explain."

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Clint agreed on a grunt. "Do you have any more?"

"Belts?"

"Yes. Like this. Not leather. Though if you've got leather,

I'll take it." He withdrew his arm, stripped off the sleeve.

"Yeah. Why?"

"Go get them. I need three or four." Moving up to take

Angel's head, he left Ethan no room to protest. As the teen

marched out of the stall, Clint ordered, "Run, Ethan!"

He took off like a rocket.

Clint leaned his head against his mare's face and expelled

a long breath. Stroking her cheek, he murmured, "We'll get

him out, sweetheart. Hang in there. Trust me."

She bumped his arm with her muzzle.

Seconds passed like hours while he waited on Ethan's

return. Each minute churned his unease, until he thought he'd

scream in frustration if Jesse's son didn't reappear. They were

losing time. At thirty minutes now, they were at the high end

of a natural delivery time. Anything longer, and the foal and

mare would face severe risk. The more she contracted, the

more her uterus would clamp around the foal and increase

the difficulty of repositioning.

As Clint's nerves threatened to snap, Ethan burst back into

the stall. He thrust four belts, one nylon, the others leather,

at Clint, and doubled-over to catch his breath.

Clint didn't give him time to rest. He snatched the belts,

resumed his position. Pulling the tip through the buckle, he

snugged a leather one around the foal's protruding fetlock. He

dropped the strap, allowing it to dangle down Angel's rump.

With a flick of his fingers, he removed his watch and tossed it

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aside. Then, he fashioned one of the nylons into a similar

loop.

Reaching inside the mare with one arm, he pushed the first

leg back into the uterus, then followed the fur to the foal's

nose and found its lower jaw. Clint stuck his finger inside and

rubbed the baby's tongue.

His heart plummeted as no suckle reflex returned. God

damn it all, no wonder the foal was cockeyed—it wasn't alive.

He should have known with the multiple dystocia. Damn,

damn, damn! This couldn't be happening. Thousands of

dollars he'd put into this breeding. He'd have risked the

disadvantages on the track, would have confronted the odds.

But a dead foal... His lungs squashed together.

He eased his shoulder back, preparing to withdraw and

phone the vet. They could do nothing now. A veterinarian

could sedate Angel and stop her contractions, thus creating

more room, and more time.

As his fingertip slid across the tongue, faint pressure met

his touch.

Clint's heavy heart kicked hard. Not dead. Weak. He

turned his face to the rafters and murmured his

overwhelming gratitude. In a heartbeat's time, he fastened

the loop around the foal's lower jaw. With his free hand, he

applied pressure to the strap. Against the foal's head, he

pushed. Slowly, tediously, it turned. The bridge of its nose

came up, and then its nostrils. Contributing a distinct nudge,

the foal's nose slid into birthing position.

Clint exhaled the breath he'd been holding. He checked the

first hoof, gave the nose a pat. Two down. One to go.

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He stepped closer to Angel's hindquarters, retrieved the

third strap, and pushed his arm in deep. Ignoring the

clamping pressure on his bicep, he fished around for the

missing foreleg. He followed the joints and bones, comparing

angles in his head, and found the foot beneath the foal's

chest.

It took some tricky maneuvering, but he managed to

secure that hoof as well. Loop in place, he cupped the hoof in

his palm. In a combination of a lift, straighten, pull,

maneuver, he eased the foot forward until it lay horizontal

beneath the foal's nose.

Almost home. C'mon, baby. Stay with me.

Everything in place, he stepped away from his horse. He

nodded to Ethan. "Let her go."

With a dubious blink, Ethan squinted at him.

Clint checked his lack of patience and explained, "We're

lined up. We'll have to help her, but let's get her

comfortable."

Ethan released the snap beneath Angel's chin. As he

backed against the wall, the mare lowered herself into the

straw with a shuddering grunt. Clint waited until she

stretched out on her side, then he moved behind her tail once

more.

"Come help."

"No way. I am so not touching that."

He shot Ethan a frown. "Get back here and help me pull."

The boy's face scrunched together with distaste, but he

shuffled up to Clint's side.

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"You take the hoof, I'll take the straps. We don't pull

unless she pushes. But she's tired, so she'll need our help."

Looking very much as if he might lose the contents of his

stomach, Ethan hesitantly reached for the hoof. He closed his

fingers around it like he might touch a venomous snake and

turned his head aside.

"Ethan," Clint said on a sigh. "You have to watch. You have

to grab the other foot when it comes free."

Ethan swallowed hard. He gave a short nod of his head,

and turned back to Angel.

"Pull now." Clint tightened the pressure on the straps.

Beside him, Ethan tugged.

When the foal slipped free, Clint ripped the rest of the sack

off its head and neck. "Grab that blanket." He indicated the

woolen throw on his chair.

Ethan stumbled out of the stall on hands and knees.

Clint's fingers worked in rapid motion as he unfastened the

straps. He vigorously rubbed both feet to stimulate circulation

until Ethan's shadow descended over the newborn. As he

looked up, the shallow rise and fall of the foal's chest froze

him in place.

He watched on baited breath, waited for the next intake of

air. With it came a gurgle that eradicated his budding relief.

"Rub his ribs," he snapped as he scooted toward the baby's