Changes of Heart (2 page)

She was a stunner. When she’d approached him at the festival and introduced herself, his eyes had swept to her left hand, and he’d swallowed a lump of disappointment when he’d seen her wedding band. She was perhaps five foot five, and her brown eyes had a warmth to them that made it impossible not to smile when speaking with her. Her chestnut hair reached to her shoulders and was all the more attractive because she didn’t fuss with it. In fact, Danny figured she probably hadn’t seen the inside of a beauty salon
in years; hers was a natural beauty that didn’t need curling irons or hairspray or makeup to manifest itself.

Danny clicked on the high beams of the already-powerful halogen headlamps, and the sweep of light deepened ahead of him. A pair of strangely green eyes, reflecting light like polished jewels, appeared to the right, perhaps fifty yards ahead. Almost immediately another pair appeared—and then another. Danny’s foot tapped the brake pedal as the group of deer—nine or ten of them, at least—moved onto the narrow shoulder of the road and stood gawking at him, obviously mesmerized by the brilliant lights bearing down on them.

Danny jammed the steering wheel to the left, at the same time stomping the antilock brake pedal. The knobby, fatly treaded tires screamed in protest as the rear end of the GMC broke traction and slid to the right, the howl of the rubber and the shrill scream of the decelerating engine a cacophony in the cab of the truck. Danny eased the steering wheel into the skid, felt the magic point where he was again in control, and down-shifted into third gear. Again, the vehicle threatened to slide, but this time to the left, where Danny wanted it. He touched the accelerator with his toe, feeding a bit more power to the engine and using the huge V-8 to neutralize the skid, and rocketed past the cluster of deer that gaped at the truck as it blasted past them, less than a yard away from the lead buck’s nose. Safe again in his own lane, the veterinarian wiped sweat from his forehead with the back of a hand and stepped again on the accelerator.

Dusty was down on her side, her bay coat slick with sweat, when Danny dashed into the barn, his bag of equipment at his side. He shoved past Rich and nodded to him without speaking, seeing the depth of the fear in the man’s eyes. Maggie, crouched at the mare’s rear, her hands bloody and her face streaked with tears that glittered in the light, was yet more frightened than her husband. “Danny,” she rasped. “She...”

Danny dropped his bag, worked the latch, and slid his hands into a pair of latex gloves. “Let me in there, Maggie,” he said, already lowering himself in front of the woman. He concentrated as his trained fingers palpated the depths of the groaning mare’s reproductive organs. A barely felt sensation—that of a tiny fingertip tapping on the back of his right hand—froze his movements. He waited a full ten seconds, focusing on the rhythmic pulsing, and then, sure that what he was feeling was blood escaping a torn umbilical cord, eased his hands into a better position. Dusty squealed as he did so, and Danny cringed, but he had no other course. Causing this fine mare some pain now could save her life and that of her foal. He followed the cord with his fingers, its sleek, warm length amazing him as it always did. The words of his Cornell University professor of anatomy’s words played in his mind: “The umbilical cord isn’t merely a messenger of life—it is life itself. It’s the tie between all of those who have come before and all of those who are to be.”

The vet’s finger found the leak, lost it for a second, found it again, and followed the sinuous path of the cord to the foal’s stomach. The problem quickly became clear: the rupture was the result of a twist around the foal’s forefoot—the umbilical cord had stretched and then had partially split, probably because of movements of the mare, the foal, or both.

Danny’s fingers told him the foal was alive, and his face broke into a relieved grin as he looked over his shoulder at Maggie and Rich. “We’re not going to lose Mama tonight,” he said. “And we’re going to have a live birth here before too long.”

For the briefest part of a moment, the eyes of the young couple brought to Danny’s mind the image of the deer eyes he’d seen not twenty minutes ago, but then the fear disappeared and the faces of the man and woman glowed with joy and relief.

Contractions started again almost immediately. Dusty’s hindquarters tensed, her muscles as rigid as bands of steel—and then Danny held a foal in his arms. Again, his hands moved quickly and surely, pulling a messy knot of greenish mucus from the baby’s nostrils, wiping afterbirth from the eyes, feeling for spinal structure, listening to the first breath the animal drew. He eased his little finger into the foal’s mouth, and when the intrusion was greeted, after a heartbeat, with a strong suckling instinct, Danny knew he was crying—just as he did each time he attended a successful birth.

And he wasn’t alone. Tears of happiness and gratitude—
and awe at the miracle of birth—streamed down the faces of Rich and Maggie Locke as well.

Even with the by-products of birth adhering to the foal’s coat, the color was apparent. He was a red chestnut, and there was a jagged snippet of white on his muzzle.

The heady, delightfully rich aroma of strong, freshly brewed coffee filled Maggie’s kitchen the way sunshine fills a perfect July day. Maggie’s Christmas roast, now like a small cinder block that’d spent a day in a blast furnace, was wrapped in newspaper on the counter, a gift for Danny’s collie, Sunday. Maggie, Rich, and Danny’s faces were flushed from the hours they’d spent in the cold, as well as from the giddy excitement each of them felt.

“What are you going to name him?” Danny asked, sipping coffee.

“Well,” Maggie said, “his name with the Quarter Horse Registry will be ‘Lancer’s Quick Prince,’ because the stud was from the Lancer line and Dusty’s registered name is ‘Far Away Princess.’ We’d already decided on that—if he was a male.”

Rich snorted. “Is there anything more pretentious than the registered names you horse people come up with?” He laughed, grinning at Maggie. “Can you imagine standing in the paddock in the morning, calling, ‘Here, Lancer’s Quick Prince?’”

“Hush, you. If you’re so clever, why don’t you name him?”

Rich didn’t hesitate. “Dancer.”

“Dancer?” Maggie and Danny asked in unison.

“You betcha. Look: first of all, if it wasn’t for Danny, we wouldn’t have the foal, correct? So, we incorporate the first part of Danny’s name. And then—did you see how the cute little guy stood on those stick legs?”

“I’ll admit I’m cute, but there’s nothing wrong with my legs,” Danny said.

“I meant the foal, you narcissist.”

“It still applies, narcissist or not.”

Maggie laughed.
How has a guy like this—good looking, bright, funny, and a genuinely compassionate veterinarian—remained unmarried
?

“Come on!” Rich said. “I’m serious—when that baby was poking around for Dusty’s nipple, did you see how his feet moved? So gracefully, as if he’d practiced it? Dancer is a perfect name for him.”

A moment passed. “You know,” Danny said, “Rich has a real good point about the way the foal moved.”

“Dancer it is,” Maggie said, rising from her chair and moving to her husband to embrace him. “Great name,” she said. “He’ll be the best barrel-racing horse ever.” She met Danny’s eyes. “Thank you,” she said quietly.

“Yeah,” Rich added. “Thanks, Danny.”

Maggie awakened shortly before 5:00 the next morning. Her husband was already gone; his side of their bed was cold under her hand. She’d known he wouldn’t be there
when she woke up—it was part of a ritual they’d established whenever Rich was flying a new, untested aircraft.

After they’d checked Dusty and Dancer one final time the night before and come back to the house, Rich had put the jeans and shirt he’d put on the next morning on one of the kitchen chairs. Neither of them spoke of what he was doing—there’d been tears and stilted conversations and a palpable tension the first few times Rich had piloted untried planes. It was terribly hard on both of them—particularly Maggie. They’d had to find a solution. Fortunately, Maggie was a sound sleeper—once she was out for the night, an earthquake couldn’t wake her. Rich slept like a feral cat, leaving sleep quickly, ready to do what needed to be done, immediately in full command of all his senses. So they decided that on the days he would be flying untried planes, he would leave very early in the morning, before Maggie woke up.

A small smile began to form on Maggie’s face as she swung her feet out from under the covers. The first time Rich had snuck out of their bed to pilot a jet fighter that was more like a rocket than an airplane, he’d left a note on the kitchen table for her in his neat, almost surgically precise handwriting.

Maggie knew there’d be another note, worded exactly the same way, on the table this morning. She had an even dozen of them neatly folded in her jewelry box. On each, a random letter or even a full word was slightly smeared from where her tears had fallen on it. Rich didn’t know that, and she never planned to tell him about how such mornings almost tore the heart out of her—how she begged the Lord to bring him back to her safely this time, just as he had in the past.

She saw the note on the table but didn’t immediately go to pick it up. The kitchen, with its brightly polished maple table and gleaming pots and pans hung over the stove, shimmered in her vision. She shut her eyes, forcing away the tears. The lights on the Christmas tree—which Rich had turned on before he left—seemed to mock her with the peace and joy they represented. The wrapped gifts they’d exchange later were piled neatly at the base of the tree, but the glossy sheen of the silver and red gift wrap did nothing to counter the strange feeling of dread she was experiencing.

Christmas morning and they’ve got to do this—they’ve got to fly that thing
. Rich had explained how the new fuel mixture—some top-secret stuff—had a very short life and needed to be used almost immediately or its chemical composition would change, and how the plane itself had to be secured in a hangar with a half dozen armed special forces personnel guarding it at all times, and how the atmospheric conditions were perfect... and so forth.

What is it with these men
? she thought.
They’re like little
boys competing to see whose bike is fastest or who can climb the highest tree. Always faster—always higher
. They laughed about what they did—they goaded one another, and then they would stand there in their full-dress uniforms while another one of them was buried. At the wake they’d give their sympathy to the widow and then cluster outside and talk about the top-secret plane Lockheed or Boeing or some such firm was building.

Maggie shook her head angrily, and it was then she noticed that her fists were clenched so tightly that her fingernails had drawn blood from her palms. For a long moment, she gazed at her right hand as if she’d never seen it before, her eyes following the tiny trickles of blood. Then, woodenly, she walked to the sink to wash her hands, her lips moving as she prayed.
Please, Lord, bring him back this time
.