Page 84 of Josephine and Clay

I look up.

A man stands near the gate to the smaller pen, tall and broad-shouldered, with the kind of solid stillness that makes him seem carved from the land around him.

He removes his hat as he approaches. “Dr. Wright?”

“Yes.” I shift my bag higher. “Josephine is fine.”

“Boone.” He nods once. “Thanks for coming.”

“Where’s the calf?”

“This way.”

No wasted words. I appreciate that.

I follow him toward the pen, Rusty trailing close enough to supervise and far enough to pretend he isn’t interested. The barn smells of hay, dust, warm animal bodies, and old wood. “What’s her age?” I ask.

“About six weeks.”

“Any diarrhea?”

“No.”

“Coughing?”

“Not that I’ve seen.”

“Still nursing?”

“Less since yesterday. Mama’s been nudging her, but she won’t stay up long enough.”

He opens the gate for me, and I step through.

The calf is lying in the shade near the fence, small body tucked awkwardly beneath her. A black baldy, eyes dull but open, breathing a little fast. Her mother stands nearby, restless and unhappy, shifting her weight as she watches us approach.

I stop several feet away and let the scene settle before moving closer.

“She tried to stand this morning,” Boone says. “Got halfway up and folded.”

“Any chance of injury?”

“Could be. Didn’t see one.”

I crouch slowly, keeping my movements calm. “Hey, sweetheart.”

The calf lifts her head but doesn’t try to rise.

I set my bag down and pull on gloves. “I’ll need someone to keep mama from deciding I’m the problem.”

Boone gives a low whistle toward one of the ranch hands near the far gate. “Tommy.”

The man moves immediately, taking position near the cow. Competent people make everything better.

I open my bag and start with the basics. Temperature. Gum color. Hydration. Heart rate. Lung sounds. I work quickly, without rushing, letting my hands gather information before my mind commits to a conclusion.

The calf’s ears flick weakly when I check her temperature.

“Sorry,” I murmur. “Indignity is unfortunately part of medicine.”