“I’ll bet it can’t be soon enough for you.” The redhead slid a setup onto the table. “You must be feeling really fat and miserable.”
Infuriated by the insulting comment, Sloan looked up, but the redhead was already walking off, the loud tap of her stiletto heels masking the sound of Cat’s returning footsteps.
Sloan barely glanced at Cat when she sat down at the table. Instead she reached for the milk glass, wrapping both hands around it in a stranglehold, and fervently hoped that Cat wasn’t in one of her chatty moods. Sloan doubted that her nerves could tolerate a round of idle conversation.
But Cat simply went about the task of unrolling her silverware and arranging the napkin on her lap with a calmness that made Sloan want to scream, especially when she was torn between wanting to throw everything within reach and getting up and walking out the door. But either action would require an explanation. One of the first lessons Sloan had learned in her life was never to let anyone know how deeply she’d been wounded.
Again the swinging door to the kitchen rocked open and the redhead emerged, this time with their food order on her tray. As Sloan watched her approach, inwardly seething, a little voice inside her head demanded to know how much more proof she wanted? Did she intend to subject herself to the humiliation of actually catching the redhead in Trey’s arms?
Wise up, the voice ordered. Why show loyalty to a man who abuses it?
The final jab came when Sloan was reminded that she was surrounded by people who didn’t trust her. She wasn’t even sure why they tolerated her. Then the baby moved, and Sloan knew the reason. The only reason.
She never registered the sight of the redhead setting the cup of soup in front of her, but there it was, with a spoon nestled on its plate. Nothing had ever looked less appetizing. Still, Sloan picked up the spoon and dipped it into the soup. It was tasteless on her tongue. After two spoonfuls, she gave up the exercise and laid the spoon on the table while leaning back in her chair.
Observing the action, Cat glanced over in question. “Is something wrong with the soup?”
“It’s a little too spicy,” Sloan lied and pressed a hand against one of the tightly banded muscles in her back.
“Are you feeling all right?” Again, concern filled Cat’s expression.
“I’m fine. My back just hurts.”
“You’re sure it isn’t labor pains? When I had Quint, that’s the way mine started.”
“I don’t think so,” Sloan replied, then almost laughed. “But how would I know? I’ve never had a baby before.”
All uncertainty vanished some ten minutes later when the first contraction twisted through Sloan. The Triple C’s east entrance was in sight. But Cat didn’t slow to make the turn.
“There’s probably plenty of time,” she told Sloan. “But I think we’ll play it safe and drive straight to the hospital.” One-handed, she fished the cell phone out of her purse and held it out to Sloan. “You’d better call Trey and let him know. I have his cell number on speed-dial. Just press four.”
Rebellion formed at the prospect of speaking to him. Sloan had to force herself to take the phone from Cat and place the call. After a dozen rings
with no answer, she broke the connection. An ugly bitterness wound through her as she wondered what occupied Trey so thoroughly that he couldn’t be bothered to answer the phone. And she found herself wishing that she had checked to see if his truck was parked behind The Oasis, out of sight.
Afternoon sunlight pressed against the windows of the calving shed, but dust-coated panes diffused much of its brilliance. Inside, all the lights were on. Somewhere straw rustled, stirred by the hooves of a restless animal, and a cow lowed in mild distress.
In one of the shed’s many maternity stalls, a two-year-old heifer rolled an anxious eye at Trey as he released his hold on the pull chains and worked to push the calf a short distance back into the birth canal. Succeeding at that, he went about the task of rotating the calf half a turn. A trickle of sweat ran along his temple despite the coolness in the air.
“Hey, Trey.” Old Jobe Garvey hobbled up to the stall. “Chase is on the phone. He wants to talk to you.”
Trey never glanced up. “Tell him I’ve got a heifer with a hip-locked calf. I’ll have to call him back.”
“I’ll tell him.” Jobe shuffled off.
After the calf was turned, Trey picked up the chains again and tried again to walk the calf out, alternately pulling on first one chain, then the other. Intent on his task, he never heard Jobe come back.
“Chase said your wife’s on the way to the hospital to have your baby,” Jobe announced with a touch of personal pleasure.
The news kicked through Trey, bringing a heady rush that had him expelling a short, exultant laugh. That and the grin on his face marked his only reaction. He didn’t look around for someone to take his place on the pull chains. He already knew that no one else was available.
“He also said you were to swing by The Homestead and get her suitcase ’fore you head to the hospital yourself,” Jobe added.
“Thanks.” Trey relaxed the pressure on the chains as the calf’s hips finally slipped through the young cow’s narrow pelvic area. “Better roust somebody from the night crew to take my place.”
Thick layers of straw cushioned the calf’s fall. Trey knelt beside it and made certain its mouth and nose were clear of any mucous, then removed the obstetrical handles from the calf’s forelegs. He stayed long enough to make certain the young cow was going to accept her offspring before heading for his truck.
His clothes reeked of the calving shed. He showered and changed after he reached The Homestead, then Sloan’s suitcase in hand, climbed back into the truck and started for the hospital, some three hours away.