Anna hadn't been that person. Rose she was beginning to realize might be. The second week brought a crisis that tested everything Rose had learned. It was Lily Chen who found her bursting into the barn where Rose was checking on Delilah's progress. The Chinese woman's normally composed face was tight with worry.
Miss Rose, you need to come quick. One of Tom Bradley's horses. Something's very wrong. Rose grabbed her father's instrument bag and followed Lily at a run. Tom Bradley owned the neighboring ranch 5 miles east.
Rose had met him briefly when he'd come by to discuss purchasing one of Wyatt's yearlings, a solid man in his 50s with kind eyes and calloused hands. His wagon was in the yard, and he was pacing beside it, his face gray with stress. "Thank God," he said when he saw Rose. "My mare, Betsy. She's been my best broodmare for 10 years.
But something's wrong. She started collicking this morning and now she's down. Won't get up. I've tried everything I know. " Rose didn't waste time with pleasantries. Where is she?
Back at my place. I came to get Wyatt, but if you're half as good as Billy says you are, maybe you can help. I'll try. Rose turned to find Wyatt already saddling horses. He moved with efficient speed, and within 5 minutes they were mounted and following Tom across snow-covered fields.
The ride took 20 minutes at a hard pace. Rose's thighs burned from gripping the horse, her face numb from cold wind, but she focused on what she might find. Collic had a dozen different causes, from simple gas buildup to twisted intestines that would require surgery. The mayor being down was a bad sign. Horses that gave up and lay down during collic often didn't get up again.
Tom's ranch was smaller than Wyatt's the barn older, but it was clean and well-maintained, the kind of place a working rancher built with his own hands and maintained with pride. The mayor was in a box stall, lying on her side, breathing hard. Her belly was distended flanks, slick with sweat despite the cold. Rose could see the pain in every line of her body. She dropped to her knees beside the mayor, hands already moving to examine her.
Elevated heart rate, pale gums, absent gut sounds, all signs of serious collic. When did she last pass manure? Rose asked, not looking up. Yesterday morning. Nothing since.
And she's been trying to roll. Constantly. I've been walking her to keep her from it, but she's too weak now. Rose pressed her ear against the mayor's belly, listening. Silence.
That was wrong. A healthy horse's gut was constantly active, producing sounds as food moved through the intestines. This silence meant everything had stopped. Impaction most likely severe enough to completely block the intestines. I need warm water, mineral oil, a bucket, and towels, Rose said.
And I need them now. Tom ran to get the supplies. Rose continued her examination, palpating the mayor's abdomen, feeling for the mass of impacted material. There in the left side, a hard lump about the size of her fist. Wyatt knelt beside her.
How bad? Bad. Complete impaction in the large colon. If I can't break it up and get things moving, she'll die probably within hours. What do you need?
Time. Luck. And for her to be strong enough to survive what I'm about to do, Tom returned with the supplies. Rose stripped off her coat, rolled up her sleeves. She'd done this procedure twice before with her father.
Both times the horse had survived, but both times the impaction had been less severe. "Hold her head," Rose told Wyatt. "Keep her calm. This is going to hurt. " She tubed the mare first, passing a long rubber tube through the nostril and down into the stomach. The mayor fought weakly, but Wyatt's hands were steady, his voice low and soothing.
Rose worked the tube carefully, feeling it pass through the esophagus. Once the tube was in place, she began pouring mineral oil through it. Gallon after gallon, coating the intestines, trying to lubricate the impacted mass enough to break it down. The mayor groaned a sound that tore at Rose's heart, but she kept working. This was the only chance.
Surgery would kill the mare within minutes in these conditions. No sterile environment, no anesthesia, no way to keep the intestines from becoming infected. After the oil, Rose withdrew the tube and began the hard part. Manual manipulation of the impaction through the abdominal wall. She pressed her hands deep into the mar's belly, feeling for the mass.
Found it, began kneading it, breaking it apart from the outside. It was like trying to massage a rock, hard, unyielding. But Rose kept at it, working in slow circles, applying steady pressure. 15 minutes passed. 20.
Rose's arms burned with effort, sweat dripping down her face despite the cold. The mayor's breathing changed, becoming more labored. Her heart rate spiked. "She's giving up," Tom said, his voice cracking. "She's dying. " "Not yet, she's not. " Rose pressed harder, finding a soft spot in the impaction.
Worked at it, feeling it start to give way under her hands. And then, miracle of miracles, she felt movement. The impaction shifted. Not much, but enough. Rose kept working, not daring to stop.
More pressure, more circular motion. The mass continued to break apart slowly, grudgingly. The mayor's gut sounds returned, faint at first, then stronger. The beautiful rumbling sound of intestines beginning to work again. I've got gut sounds, Rose said, not allowing herself to smile yet.
The oil is working through. 10 minutes later, the mayor passed a small amount of manure, then more. Then a sudden massive evacuation that made Tom whoop with joy. The mayor lifted her head, looking around as if surprised to find herself still alive. Her breathing eased.
The pain lines around her eyes faded. Rose sat back on her heels, her arms trembling with exhaustion. She'd done it. Saved a horse that by all rights should have died. Tom Bradley was crying, not bothering to hide it.
You saved her. God above you saved my Betsy. The oil saved her, Rose said, though she knew that wasn't entirely true. The oil had helped, but the manual manipulation had been crucial, and her own strength. She's a fighter.
"Thanks to you," Tom grabbed Rose's hand, pumping it with enthusiasm that made her wse. "Name your price. Whatever you want, it's yours. " "I don't charge for helping neighbors," Rose said, pulling her hand back gently. "Then I owe you a debt. " Tom's face was serious now. A life debt.
You ever need anything, anything at all, you send word to Tom Bradley and I'll come running. " Rose nodded, understanding that in this harsh country, such debts mattered. They were the bonds that held communities together when everything else failed. The ride back to Wyatt's ranch was quiet. Rose was too exhausted for conversation, and Wyatt seemed content with silence. But when they reached the barn and dismounted, he stopped her with a hand on her arm.
"That was remarkable," he said. I've seen vets with 20 years experience who wouldn't have attempted what you just did. My father taught me that sometimes you have to take risks, that playing it safe means watching animals die when they didn't have to. Your father taught you well. Wyatt's gray eyes held hers.
I'm glad you're here, Rose. Gladder than I expected to be. It was the first time he'd used her given name. The intimacy of it made something warm unfurl in Rose's chest. I'm glad too," she said quietly.
Word of what Rose had done for Tom Bradley's mayor spread through the neighboring ranches like wildfire. Within days she had ranchers showing up at Wyatt's door asking if she'd look at their horses, a geling with chronic lameness. A mayor who wouldn't settle to breed a cult with a mysterious fever. Rose treated them all, charging modest fees that Wyatt insisted on despite her protests. Your skill has value, he'd said firmly.
Don't give it away for free or people won't respect it. So Rose charged $2 for a simple examination, $5 for treatment, $10 for surgery or complicated cases. The money accumulated in a tin box, Wyatt gave her more cash than she'd seen in months. This is yours, Wyatt had said when she tried to give him half. Your skill, your earnings.
But Rose had insisted on contributing to household expenses. They'd compromised. She'd keep 70% and 30% would go toward ranch costs. It felt fair. Felt like partnership.
The third week brought a visitor Rose hadn't expected. She was in the barn treating a young stallion splint when she heard an unfamiliar voice in the yard. Male educated with the kind of smooth confidence that came from wealth and position. Wyatt Thorne. It's been too long.