Against the Rules Read online

“With a cast on his leg?” she asked doubtfully.

  “Or his arm, or with his ribs taped up, or his collarbone broken. Nothing’s kept him down for long. This concussion has put him on his back longer than anything else.”

  She got up and went over to the door, sighing as she pulled on clean socks and stamped her feet into her boots. Lewis stood watching her with an odd expression in his eyes, and she looked up in time to catch a fleeting glimpse of it. “Lewis?” she asked uncertainly.

  “I was just thinking that underneath the big-city glamour you’re really nothing but a country girl.”

  “Glamour?” she laughed, tickled by the idea. “Me?”

  “You’d know what I’m talking about if you were a man,” he drawled.

  “If I were a man you wouldn’t even be thinking it!”

  His laughter acknowledged the truth of that. As they walked across the yard, Cathryn worked up enough nerve to ask him a question that had been in the back of her mind since she’d first met Lewis. “Were you in Vietnam with Rule?” she asked casually.

  He looked down at her. “I was in Vietnam, but not with Rule. I didn’t meet him until almost seven years ago.”

  She didn’t say anything else, and when they were almost at the stables he asked, “Why?”

  “You seem so much alike,” she replied slowly, not certain why they seemed to be cut out of the same mold. They were both dangerous men, hard men who had seen too much death and pain.

  “He’s never mentioned Vietnam to me.” A harsh note crept into Lewis’s voice. “And I don’t talk about it, either—not anymore. The only people who would know what I was talking about were there too, and they have their own troubles. My marriage broke up because my wife couldn’t handle it, couldn’t handle me when I first came back.”

  The look she gave him was painful with sympathy, and he grinned—actually grinned. “Don’t drag out the violins,” he teased. “I’m doing okay. Someday I’ll probably even get married again. Most men moan and groan about marriage, but there’s something about women that keeps them coming back for more.”

  Cathryn had to laugh. “I wonder what that is!”

  Her new sense of closeness to Lewis carried her through the remainder of the day, which was as hectic and troubled as the morning had been. One of the stallions was colicky, and two mares showed signs that they would be foaling before the night was over. When she finally trudged back to the house it was after seven, and Lorna reported that she had already carried Rule’s tray up to him.

  “He’s in an awful mood,” she reported.

  “Then he’ll have to stay in one,” Cathryn said tiredly. “I don’t feel up to soothing him down tonight. I’m going to take a shower and fall into bed.”

  “You’re not going to eat?”

  She shook her head. “I’m too tired. I’ll make up for it in the morning, I promise.”

  After showering she fell across her bed, too tired even to crawl under the sheet. She fell asleep immediately, which was fortunate, because in what seemed like only a few minutes she was being shaken awake.

  “Cathryn, wake up.” It was Ricky’s voice, and Cathryn forced her eyes open.

  “What’s wrong?” she asked groggily, noticing that Ricky was still dressed. “What time is it?”

  “It’s eleven-thirty. Come on. Both mares are in labor, and Lewis needs help.” Ricky’s voice was totally lacking in hostility, but then she had always been interested in ranch work. It didn’t seem strange that Lewis had sent for the two women instead of waking some ranch hands to help him; they had both aided foaling mares before, though it had been years since Cathryn had done so. But the ranch was hers, and it was her responsibility.

  Quickly she dressed and they hurried to the foaling barn, where only a few dim lights burned in the stalls with the mares. They had to be quiet to keep from upsetting the expectant mothers, so they didn’t talk except in low tones. Lewis and the foaling man, Floyd Stoddard, were waiting in an empty stall.

  Lewis looked up as the two women entered the stall. “Shouldn’t be too much longer with Sable,” he said. “Andalusia will take a while more, I think.”

  But though they waited, Sable still didn’t foal, and Floyd began to get worried. It was almost two in the morning when he checked on her again and came back to the stall where they had remained, his face strained. “Sable’s down,” he reported. “But the foal’s turned sideways. We’re going to have to help it. Everybody wash up.”

  The two men stripped to the waist and washed in warm soapy water, then ran to Sable’s stall. Ricky and Cathryn rolled their sleeves up as far as they would go and washed too, though they wouldn’t actually be helping to turn the foal. The lovely dark brown mare was lying down, her swollen sides bulging grotesquely. “Hold her head,” Floyd directed Ricky, then knelt behind the mare.

  At a loud, distressed whinny from the other stall, they jerked their heads around. Lewis swore. “Cathryn, see about Andalusia!”

  Andalusia was down, too, but she wasn’t in any undue stress. Cathryn reported back, then considered the situation. Ricky was using all her energy holding Sable’s head down; Lewis was applying external pressure to help Floyd turn the foal.

  “Andalusia’s fine, but she’s ready now, too. I’ll stay with her.”

  Sweat was pouring down Lewis’s face. “Do you know what to do?” he grunted.

  “Yes, don’t worry. I’ll call if there’s any trouble.”

  Andalusia raised her pearl gray head and gave a soft whinny when Cathryn entered her stall, then dropped her head into the hay again. Cathryn knelt beside her, her gentle touch telling the mare that she wasn’t alone. The animal’s large, dark eyes rested on Cathryn with touching, almost human serenity.

  The mare’s sides heaved with another contraction, and the sharp, tiny hooves appeared. Andalusia didn’t need any help. Within minutes the foal was squirming on the hay, still encased in the shimmering sac. Quickly Cathryn slit the sac and freed the little animal, then took a soft, dry cloth and began rubbing it with long, rhythmic strokes. She crouched on the hay as the mare struggled to her feet and stood with her head down, her sides heaving. Cathryn tensed, ready to grab the foal and run if the mare didn’t accept the baby. But Andalusia blew softly through her muzzle and came over to investigate the little creature trembling on the hay. Her loving, motherly licking took the place of Cathryn’s cloth.

  The little chestnut colt struggled to place his front legs, but as soon as he had them braced and tried to make his back legs obey, the front ones would betray him and he’d collapse. After several abortive tries he managed to stand, then looked around in infant confusion, not certain what he was supposed to do next. Andalusia, fortunately, was an old hand at this; she gently nudged the foal in the proper direction and instinct took over. Within seconds he was greedily nursing, his thin little legs braced wide apart as he balanced precariously on them.

  When Cathryn returned to the other stall, Ricky was kneeling beside an unusually small foal, rubbing it and crooning to it. Lewis and Floyd were still working with the mare and Cathryn saw at once that this was a double birth. Her heart twisted a little, because so often with twin foals one or both of them failed to survive. From the looks of the frail little creature with Ricky, the odds were all against it.

  Soon the other foal was on the hay and it was larger than the other one, though the markings were almost identical. It was an active little filly, who struggled to her feet almost immediately and raised her proud little head to survey the strange new world she was living in.

  Floyd was taking care of Sable, so Lewis came over to examine the other foal. “I don’t think she’ll be strong enough to nurse,” he said doubtfully, taking in the limp way the foal was lying. But no one on the Bar D just left a horse to die. They worked all night with the foal, keeping her warm, rubbing her to keep her circulation stimulated, dribbling a few drops of milk from her mother down her throat. But she was very weak, and soon after sunrise she died without ever havin