The Cowboy's Twins. Tara Quinn Taylor
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over the hundreds of cows he’d have birthing every year once his operation was in full swing, but Ellie was special. She’d been his first Wagyu purchase. He’d laid down a mint for her. Massaged her himself, as the first Wagyu breeders had done so long ago. Technically the practice was no longer necessary, but he was doing absolutely everything he could to make this venture work. Overkill or not.
In a herd of hundreds, a few births would go wrong. He could lose a few calves. Maybe a mother.
He couldn’t afford to lose Ellie.
Rubbing the side of her face, her neck, he said, “That’s it, girl. You’re doing good.”
The words didn’t matter. His tone of voice did.
Her nostrils flared, and she raised her head. Looked straight at him.
And that was when he knew that something was really wrong.
* * *
NATASHA DIDN’T NEED to understand anything about birthing to know that they had an emergency on their hands. Spencer had told her in the afternoon that his cows birthed their babies without assistance. That the process was natural and took about thirty minutes, and that the mama cow would immediately stand over her calf, clean him herself and get him to stand.
If all went well.
The pinched look on Spencer’s face when he stood from his position beside the cow’s head and moved lower told her that he was worried.
The flurry of activity and harsh, staccato conversation between him and Bryant that followed filled in the blanks.
The calf was not coming out hooves first. It was going to have to be turned.
Spencer was in charge. He obviously knew what he was doing. Ellie continued to heave. To make un-moo-like noises.
Natasha couldn’t see much. Was watching out of mostly squinted eyes. The clear concern on Bryant’s face told her that at least one of the bovine lives was in danger. Maybe both.
She had to restrain herself to keep from speaking. Asking. Looking for answers. A way to help.
Her way was not to sit back and watch.
“I turn him and he moves immediately back to position,” Spencer hissed. She could see beads of sweat forming on his temples. The sides of his neck.
With energy pulsing through her, until she could almost feel its pressure against her skin, she itched to approach the cow’s head, as Spencer had done. To rub gently. To comfort the beast.
He’d told her to stay put in the corner.
Would he need hot water? She thought about the buckets she’d seen on her way to the stall. About the big utility sinks along one wall of the barn.
Spencer barked orders as he worked inside the cow. Bryant complied, working the cow’s bulging stomach.
She stood. Had to do something to help. To fix the problem. It was what she did. What she was good at. Taking charge. Helping. Fixing.
“Grab some gloves.” Spencer’s command was directed over his shoulder. She was the only person behind him. Seeing the crate of gloves along the wall, she grabbed a pair. Pulled them on.
They were far too big. There was no time to go shopping for smaller ones.
“While Bryant continues his pressure on the outside, I’m going to guide inside,” Spencer told her. “I need you to grab the hooves as soon as they appear and pull with all your might.”
She was strong. But that strong?
“If you can’t budge the calf, don’t worry. Just hold on until I can get there to pull him out.”
Nodding, Natasha jumped into the fray. She grabbed when she was told to grab. Pulled. The calf didn’t budge. Her arms ached. Using her entire body weight, she leaned back. And managed to keep the hooves outside the cow’s body.
Everything happened in seconds after that. One minute Ellie was in obvious stress with Spencer on the ground by the struggling cow’s tail. The next, Spencer was pushing Natasha aside, grabbing hooves, and had pulled a calf out into the world.
Her new red boots were going in the trash.
* * *
“I GET TO name her.”
“Nuh-uh, I do.”
Listening just outside the bathroom door while his kids stood on identical stools at double sinks, supposedly brushing their teeth, Spencer smiled. Starting the day with only two hours of sleep would catch up with him.
Later.
For now, he had duties to tend to.
“No, Justin, that is not true. Daddy said that if she’s a girl, I get to name her. And she’s a girl.”
Spencer couldn’t help the smile growing wider on his face as he listened to the most articulate seven-year-old he’d ever known. Justin was a handful but didn’t faze him a bit. Tabitha was going to be the death of him.
“Well, I get to pet her first...”
When he heard the intensity rising in his son’s voice, Spencer entered the room to see two dark-haired little kids standing on stools, their brown gazes at war in the mirror. Neither of them had anything resembling toothbrushes in sight.
“You’re supposed to be brushing your teeth.”
“We did.” Justin’s immediate response was followed by a drop in his gaze. And then his chin met his chest. “No, we didn’t,” he corrected himself before Spencer could take the breath necessary to challenge the boy. “But...do we gotta?” Justin’s eyes widened as he gave Spencer an imploring look. “They’ll just get dirty again, and I’ll brush it all away tonight.”
Spencer pressed his lips together, hoping he looked stern.
The hardest part about being a single parent was having no one with whom to share the laughter.
“I want to see Bella before we have to catch the bus, and...”
“Who’s Bella?” He allowed himself to be distracted. Just until he could demand brushing with the firmness it deserved.
“Ellie’s baby. Justin thinks he’s naming her,” Tabitha said, opening the cabinet where their teeth-brushing paraphernalia was stored. She handed her brother his brush and then took her own. “But he’s not, is he, Daddy? You said if she’s a girl, I can name her.”
He had said that. He couldn’t remember when. Or why. But he vaguely remembered making the promise.
“Yes, I did. If she’d had a boy then Justin would name her.”
Satisfied, Tabitha wet her brush and stuck it in her mouth.
“Toothpaste?” Spencer gave her the look. The one with eyebrows raised, warning that a child wasn’t going to get away with something.
“I’ve got toothpaste, see?” Justin held out his brush, turning lips smeared with goo up at Spencer. And dripping a blob of blue on the linoleum floor while he was at it. Which was why Spencer had installed the linoleum over the old wood floors when he’d remodeled the bath for the twins to share. He didn’t want to have to worry about spills and other little things.
Making a mental note to wipe up the blob later, Spencer nodded. He didn’t care about drops on the floor. What he cared about was that the twins loved the ranch, their home, as much as he did.
That they felt the same sense of excitement—of security—that he’d always felt there.
“I’ll tell you what,” he said, doing a quick mental rearrangement of his morning. “You two finish brushing and grab your backpacks.” He picked up Tabitha’s hairbrush and started in on the morning ritual of getting the tangles out of her long, dark hair, remembering to be gentle on the ones that invariably rested at the base of his