The Sweet Spot by Laura Drake Page B

trees, new leaves rattling in wild protest. Tension permeated the ozone-scented
     air. She felt the hair on her arms rising.
    The death of this calf would be devastating financially. A heavy blanket of dread
     bowed her shoulders. A tremor began in Tricks’s back leg. Not to mention the loss
     of their best bloodline cow. How much more calamity could one family stand?
    She threw her head back and yelled at the scuttling clouds. “Who am I to do this?
     I’m a
housewife
!” Tricks lifted her head, and her eyes reflected the light like a cat’s. Spooked,
     Charla shuddered, rubbing the gooseflesh on her upper arms.
    She shot one last hopeful glance to the house in the distance. The kitchen light had
     come on. Leaning into the truck, she pulled the headlight switch. If Rosa or her dad
     looked out the window, surely they’d recognize the stationary headlights as odd and
     come investigate. Hopefully, with a cell phone. She searched the truck for anything
     that could help. Grabbing a hank of rope from behind the seat, she backed out, slammed
     the door, then retrieved the two empty feed sacks from the truck bed.
    After laying the sacks at the end of the cow, she knelt, trying to remember everything
     she’d ever heard about cow birthing. A calf should be born with its head nestled between
     the two front feet. Obviously that wasn’t the case here.
    She glanced to the black clouds, almost close enough to touch. “Watch over me, Lord—I’m
     going in.”
    After removing the canvas gloves, she skinned her right sleeve to her shoulder. Bracing
     her left hand on the cow’s hip, she paused, swallowing the acid at the back of her
     throat. No time for the luxury of getting sick.
    Tricks flinched at Char’s intimate touch. “Relax, sister. At least you’re not in stirrups,
     freezing your tail off in a paper gown.”
    Closing her eyes, Char envisioned the picture her fingers relayed. The calf’s neck
     was bent back, head facing its back feet. She could only feel one hoof, the other
     wasfolded back as well. “Double crap.” Withdrawing her hand, she sat back on her heels.
    This is hopeless.
Her heart sank. This valuable cow and calf, the brightest spot of hope for their
     future, were going to die. She should be in the house, cooking dinner. Where she belonged.
    Lightning zipped across the black sky. A boom of thunder followed on its heels. Damp,
     rain-scented wind slammed into her, rocking her on her knees, blowing her hair straight
     back. She ought to be perfecting her pecan pie recipe for the county fair, not up
     to her shoulder in the back end of a cow.
    “
Damn
you, James Benton Denny!” she yelled into the wind. “This isn’t my problem!”
    Tricks groaned as another spasm ripped through her. Her hind legs shook and her hide
     rippled in a shiver.
Good lord, is she going into shock from the long labor? I’ve got nothing to lose.
     I might as well try.
    Lying on the feed bags, she flinched when the first fat raindrop spattered her face.
    An hour later, Char lay shivering, soaked to the skin, every speck of energy gone.
     She knew she should be using the lull between contractions to try once more, but she
     had to rest. The bones in her arm ached from the crushing. The feed sacks had sunk
     into the mud during the wrestling match.
    She had managed to slip the hank of rope over the tiny hoof and, between contractions,
     to pull it alongside the other. But the head was wedged tight—and she wasn’t strong
     enough to straighten it. The cow seemed to be weakening, and Char wasn’t even sure
     the calfwas alive; it hadn’t shown any signs of life since she’d begun.
    How long had she been at this? An hour? Two? Felt like eons. Why hadn’t anyone come
     looking for her? She’d never felt so sapped. So raw. So
alone
.
    The closest she’d felt to this was in her twenty-hour labor with Benje. Near the end,
     disheartened and exhausted, she’d given up. The doctor took pity, offering the oblivion
     of