Chapter 7: The Barn

The deputy let Boone go at six.

I had stood in the sheriff's office doorway with seven new stitches in my palm and told him one thing.

"The report was made at noon," I said. "We found the fence at two."

The deputy looked at the log.

He looked at me.

"I'll look into who called," he said.

Boone said nothing the whole drive home.

The storm came in from the west just after dark.

Rain hit the ranch house roof hard enough that my father turned the television up, then off, and went to bed early.

He had not said a word to me about the note.

I stood at the kitchen window with my bandaged hand in my lap and watched the barn light.

A light was on in the calving stall.

I put on a coat and walked across the yard in the rain.

Boone was kneeling in the straw with his sleeves rolled to the elbow.

A first-calf heifer lay on her side in front of him, breathing in long ragged pulls.

He looked up.

"You should be in bed."

"I know."

"She's going to need two sets of hands."

"I only have one and a half."

"That'll do."

I knelt beside him and pulled up my sleeve.

He talked me through it in a low steady voice.

Hold her head.

Talk to her.

Don't pull yet.

When the calf finally slid out, wet and tangled in the straw, I laughed out loud.

Boone cleared its nose with two fingers.

It sneezed.

The heifer lowed and turned to lick it.

I sat back in the straw with my good hand over my mouth.

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