Page 95 of Runaway for the Grumpy Daddy

A calf bawled again.

Work called in a language older than grief.

Dry this one… Turn that one… Calcium for the down cow… More straw… Raise the lamp six inches… Check the generator.

Every task ended with my head turning toward the door.

Every gust carried the possibility of an engine inside it.

Low diesel.

Bad muffler.

The uneven idle of Josie's Ford.

Again and again, I heard it.

Again and again, the wind stripped down to only wind.

By seven, my coat was soaked through at the shoulders. Blood dried along one sleeve. My beard held ice. The line in my palm from the keys had faded beneath calf fluids and iodine.

Wyatt came in with his yellow pad gone limp from snow.

"Count," I said.

"Four new calves. All alive. Three down heifers, two up after calcium. One still recumbent. East pairs coming in."

"Josie?"

"No."

I took another towel.

The calf beneath the nearest lamp tried once to stand. Front legs straightened. Hindquarters rose halfway, failed, settled.

It tried again.

I put one hand beneath its chest and gave only enough support to let it find the rest.

Strong hands were for holding.

Not carrying every ounce forever.

Holding until the thing under them remembered it had legs.

The calf stood.

Its mother turned, sniffed it, and began to lick.

Outside, the wind hit the barn hard enough to shake snow from the rafters. I turned toward the open door.

Listened.

Nothing.

I turned back to the work.

Chapter 18