The Marshal's Mission

After the meal and his solemn thanks, she sighed in relief. Maybe he would leave right after? Nope. She heard him chopping more wood. No doubt Toby kept him company.

Why wouldn’t Cole go?

Later that afternoon as Lenora checked on her pie in the oven, she half listened to the staccato of feet, running across the yard. Toby called her name, sounding out of breath.

“Ma!”

Catching the note of panic in his voice, she straightened.

In another moment, his boots pounded up the porch stairs. He burst into the house.

One look at his face told her he was scared.

“What is it?”

“You gotta...” He paused, gulping air. “Something’s wrong with Porky. You gotta come quick.”

Their pregnant heifer?

After Porky’s mother had died giving birth, Toby had adopted the skinny calf and hand raised her. Lenora couldn’t remember exactly why he named her Porky, except he likely misunderstood Amos’s explanation about the orphan. Had their son thought they were discussing a piglet? Somehow the name had stuck, a family joke. Now Porky was pregnant with her first calf.

Without waiting, Toby spun on his heel and disappeared out the door.

Lenora pulled the unfinished pie from the oven and moved pots from the stovetop. With her son already several yards ahead of her, she lifted her skirts and ran.

Behind the barn, a splotch of black and white huddled in the middle of the pasture. Why was Porky lying down? Had Amos erred by breeding her last fall to their great big beast of a bull? She was not yet due.

When Lenora reached her, one look proved something was seriously wrong. Head extended, the heifer strained as though to push out her baby. One of its hooves briefly made an appearance before sliding out of sight. It was obvious she’d been trying to calve for hours. Most alarming was the sunken look in her eyes. She appeared exhausted.

We can’t let her die. Toby’s heart would break.

“Let’s get her up.” Lenora grabbed the rope halter, one Toby had braided.

While she tugged, her son pushed on Porky’s rump and yelled. Nothing. After several halfhearted tries, she slumped back into the soft grass. Again, she strained to push out her calf. Again, her ribcage heaved as she failed.

For several minutes, Lenora paced, at a loss about what to do.

“Is she gonna die, Ma?” Toby’s young face screwed up with fright.

“I don’t know, son.” Another moment passed until she made up her mind.

Tamping down revulsion, she unbuttoned and pushed up her sleeves. She had witnessed a cat giving birth—this situation couldn’t be much different. And she herself had brought three babies into the world, although Toby was the only one who had lived. After getting to her knees, she felt inside the birth canal, trying to determine why the calf couldn’t arrive on its own.

Hands slick with birthing fluid, she touched a small foot and leg inside its mother. Calves were supposed to come hooves first, followed by the head. She should be able to feel the soft flesh of the muzzle. Why not?

No matter. Lenora grasped the hoof and pulled while Porky strained. The leg made it out a little farther but, as soon as the contraction passed, it disappeared back into its mother. For countless minutes, she pulled. Porky strained with each contraction but failed to deliver her calf. Confounded, Lenora rose. Shoulders cramping, she wiped her hands on her apron.

The nearest ranch was Jeb Hackett’s. No way would she ask him for help. Frank Hopper’s homestead was six miles distant, but the afternoon waned. Besides, by the time Toby rode there and back—assuming he could even find Mr. Hopper on his acreage—Porky could be dead. The next closest neighbor was too far away.

“Do you think Cole could help?” Toby’s lips pressed together, as though he feared how she would respond.

Would Cole even want to? After the way she’d treated him?

She had heard him chopping more wood, but after a couple hours he disappeared. How could she even ask him for a favor?

She stared again at Porky, the last shreds of pride fluttering away. This situation was beyond her. Again. But anything was better than Toby’s pet dying.

“Go see if you can find him. Ask him...” She paused to reword her request. “Tell him that I’m asking for his help. Please.”

Toby took off like a shot.

While she waited, she patted Porky’s neck. “It’ll be okay, girl.”

Head sinking lower, the animal appeared to have given up.

It seemed a week passed before Lenora saw two forms appear around the side of the barn. Cole broke into a trot with Toby hard on his heels.

“Thank you for coming.” She sounded out of breath though she had done nothing but wait. While Cole watched the heifer succumb to another contraction, she explained what she knew. When she heard herself babbling about how important Porky was to them, she bit her lip. Cole appeared to pay no attention.

Would he deride her for caring so much for an animal? Or tell them this was their problem and walk away?

Without a word, he knelt to slide his palm across Porky’s bulging belly. His frown deepened as he muttered, “This isn’t good.”

Like Lenora, he rolled up one sleeve and reached inside the birth canal.

Less than a minute later, he rose. “Calf’s the wrong direction.”

“A breech?” A wave of terror washed over her. She pressed a hand against her throat as she fought the sudden faintness that gripped her. Almost three years before, she had lost a baby because he was breech. And nearly her own life.

The memory of her tiny boy, skin ashen, still brought tears to her eyes. He had looked like a miniature of Toby with fine, dark hair. After Amos had put the baby in her arms, she had wept uncontrollably. Lenora remembered little of the passing days while she had mourned the loss of Baby Amos. A tiny marker in the backyard stood as a silent sentinel for the infant who never had a chance to live.

Cole’s gaze met hers steadily—the first time since he had joined her in the pasture. With the late-afternoon sun beating down on them, the blue of his eyes appeared all the more intense.

“I could try to shift the calf.” He glanced up into the fading light. “But we don’t have a lot of time.”

“Couldn’t we take her to the barn?” Toby asked.

“She’s pretty weak.” Cole shook his head. “Doubt we could get her to her feet at this point. But out here, she’d be helpless with the...” He broke off when Lenora began to twist the apron between her hands.

Because of coyotes? Or a mountain lion?

Please, please, do something.

As though she had pleaded aloud, he stripped off his vest and shirt. He tossed them aside. At first he was kneeling, then lying flat on the ground, toes digging into the grass for leverage. Was he trying to swivel the calf? Porky didn’t help as she labored against him.

After several minutes, Cole was panting hard. “Just a little...” He grunted as his hold apparently slipped. Finally, he sat back on his heels. Chest heaving, he seemed to consider the options. He peered at Lenora. “Are you up for helping?”

“Anything. Just tell me what to do.”