Winter's End

Marc worked his jaw, regretful. Last night’s time glitch had cost him the life of a young cow and her calf, no small thing in the beef business. Even one as strong as his. “They’re loaded. I’ll wait for you at the end of the drive.”

“I’ll pull alongside,” Stu replied. “Sorry you lost ’em.”

“Me, too.”

They both understood how disease could spread from one farm to another via contaminated wheels and equipment. Even soiled boots could track pathogens into a barn. Marc took no chances. He’d worked too long, too hard to get his beef operation up and running. As a result, his business had grown strong, a credit to his time and patience.

Marc kicked himself for not calling his veterinary friend out sooner. He hadn’t notified Craig until it was too late, the calf trapped too long in the birth canal. A stupid mistake. Slipshod. And he was never careless with his business. That was why he turned a profit on both the feed store and his cattle production.

But Jess had mustered a bee in her bonnet over something crucial to a fourteen-year-old girl, Dad was disoriented after his new medicine and Marc hadn’t made it back to the barn in time to see something was dreadfully wrong.

He revved the engine and edged the tractor bucket off the ground. The animals jerked as the shovel lurched. The cow’s hock shifted and hung, midair. Marc frowned but relaxed as the bulk of the body settled into the crook of the shovel. Sighing in resignation, he shoved the tractor into gear and headed up the drive.

Looking way too stylish for a harsh North Country winter, the slim, blonde nurse approached her car as the tractor rumbled toward her. She watched him navigate the big John Deere, her blue-eyed gaze sweeping the sad load, the hock protruding from the bucket’s edge.

Her eyes narrowed. She stood still, despite the cold, the trendy pea coat no match for the frigid temperatures. The spunky jacket looked good on her, reminding Marc that appearances outweighed everything for girls like Kayla Doherty. Her face tightened at the sight of his loaded bucket. Disgust? Dismay? From his vantage point atop the enclosed tractor, Marc couldn’t be sure.

He winced. Was this what he wanted for his father’s care? His buddy’s old girlfriend, with her insensible shoes, expensive clothes and saucy attitude? Oh, yeah, he remembered Craig dating her, bemoaning her panache and love of style. Definitely not North Country material. No way. No how. But here she was, pert and pretty in his driveway, cringing at the thought of death.

Why did they need a nurse, anyway? Why was his father so anxious to throw in the towel? Was he that tired of the fight, that worn?

Where there’s life, there’s hope.

The adage came straight from Pete’s mouth, and Marc put stock in the saying. He’d brought some pretty sick animals back from near-death experiences. Maybe that’s why it hurt so much to wrestle the reaper and lose as he had last night.

The idea of waging a similar battle for his father had been wrested from his hands, and Marc didn’t like that. Dr. Pentrow tossed around terms like visiting nurses. End stage. Translation: Give it up. Party’s over. Call the undertakers, have ’em ready a spot.

Shoulders tight, Marc continued along the drive, not pausing until he braked at the road’s edge. As the nurse pulled next to him in her sporty red car, he averted his face. He didn’t need her disapproval at the nature of his work. In a way, it wasn’t much different than hers. You battled, you toiled and in the end, death came regardless.

But at least he had sense enough to wear proper footwear.

“Horses all set?”

Jess nodded as she shrugged out of her coat. She kicked off her boots, pegged the khaki-green jacket and headed for the kitchen.

“Jess.” Marc angled a look to the entry floor.

Jess groaned, turned and righted the boots, exasperated. “Better?”

Marc hid a smile as he stirred a pot of simmering soup. “Much. How old do you have to be before you just do it?”

She laughed. “An indeterminate factor.” Grinning at the shake of his head, she hugged him around the waist and slid a look to the foyer. “You’d probably have to care, first.”

No joke there. Marc mock-scowled. “That much I understand. I’ve seen your room.”

“I know where everything is,” she claimed, grabbing a cookie from the counter. After the first bite, she snatched another. “Usually.”

“Mmm-hmm,” Marc rejoined, skeptical. Hadn’t they been late for church because she couldn’t locate her favorite pants?

It seemed peculiar to walk into the white clapboard building after so much time, then late, besides. They’d drawn looks as they proceeded to the front instead of sliding into the empty last pew. His fault for letting Jess pick the seat.

Dad had gone with Jess these last years while Marc busied himself with farmwork. Always something to do on a cattle holding, regardless of weather, and Sunday mornings were no exception. Neither were Wednesday evenings. Or Saturday potlucks. Busy times, all.

But their current situation altered things. Pete’s weakness minimized his options, so Marc was pressed into a new fraternal duty. He’d accompanied Jess at Christmas and this past week, feeling hypocritical. Attendance at church wasn’t high on his priority list.

But there was nothing he’d deny his father, even taking his adolescent sister to a service that meant little.

“Grace looks huge,” Jess commented around bites. More through them, actually. “I can’t wait to see the foal.”

“Next month. Valentine’s Day, I figure. Thereabouts.”

“If it’s a girl, we’ll name her Sweetheart,” Jess declared.

“Boys can’t be sweethearts?”

“Please.”

“Well, not at your age,” he added, firming his voice.

That brought a glare. “I’m nearly fifteen.”

“Six months,” he corrected.

“Five-and-a-half,” Jess shot back. “In a little over a year, I’ll get my driver’s permit. Then I can work toward my license.”

Marc sent her a teasing look. “If your room’s clean.”

“Grr.”

A third voice interrupted them. “Have you gotten so old you don’t kiss your dad anymore?”

Jess crossed the room in a flash. “I didn’t want to wake you.” She grabbed her father into a gentle hug. “You were sound asleep when I got home.”

“Pills.” Pete’s voice sharpened. He sounded disgusted.

“But you’re up,” she continued, “and dinner’s almost ready.”

Marc gave Jess extra points for her positive outlook. She always saw the bright side where their father’s care was concerned. “I’ll set another place at the table.”

Marc gave his father a once-over. “You don’t seem as foggy. Not like last night.” He didn’t add how scared he’d been, to see his father dazed and confused. Pete DeHollander had been a caricature of his true self. Not pretty.

Pete shook his head. “That part’s better.”

“Good.”

The phone rang. Marc grabbed the receiver, one eye on the stove, the other on the sports section. The Division One hockey team of St. Lawrence University was pouring on the steam as their season progressed. Sweet. Hockey and North Country were synonymous. If you lived in a climate rife with snow and ice, you better find something to make winter palatable.

“Mr. DeHollander?”