Vows (20 page)

 
At last Jeffcoat looked at her. "Because Charles says you know horses better than most men do."

 
"Doesn't it strike you as a little presumptuous, Mr. Jeffcoat—"

 
"Tom."

 
"—to ask me to help you set up your business when I don't want it here in the first place?"

 
"Maybe. But you've lived here longer than I have, you know the ranchers—who's honest, who's not, who's got the best horses, where they live. I'd appreciate your help."

 
She drew in a breath and held it, preparing a tirade. Instead the lungful came out with an unexpected chug of laughter. "You know, you amaze me."

 
"What's so amazing?"

 
"Your temerity."

 
He blew on the cat's face and suggested, "We could go this afternoon maybe. Or Monday." The cat sneezed and shook its head. Jeffcoat chuckled, then shifted his regard to Emily. "I need to pin down a good dozen horses, and find a rancher who'll contract to sell me hay. By the end of next week I'll have the turntable in place, but I haven't got horses
or
wagons yet. What do you say, will you help?"

 
For a moment she was tempted. He would, after all, open his doors for business and there was no way she could stop him. Also, his friendship with Charles seemed cemented; it would be hard on Charles if she, as his wife, continued discouraging it.

 
But while she was considering, her eyes dropped to Jeffcoat's lips and out of nowhere came Tarsy's description of kissing him.

 
"Sorry, Jeffcoat." She leapt to her feet and headed to the door. "You'll have to find somebody else. I'm busy."

 
Naturally, Charles heard that she'd refused to help his friend, and that evening he chided gently, "You know, you could be a little nicer to him. It's tough on him being alone out here."

 
"I dislike him. Why should I help him?"

 
"Because it's the neighborly thing to do."

 
"He claims he's been around horses all his life. Let him find his own."

 
The following morning Emily was cleaning stalls when she heard a wagon approach and tie up outside. Footsteps hurried toward her father's office and a moment later she heard two men talking. Momentarily, Edwin came out to find her.

 
"Emily?"

 
"I'm back here, Papa."

 
He stopped at the stall opening followed by a shorter man with a worried face.

 
"Well, little doctor." Edwin smiled indulgently at his daughter. "You wanted a chance to practice, this is it. You know August, don't you?"

 
"Hello, Mr. Jagush."

 
August Jagush was a stocky Pole, fresh from the Old Country. His face was round, ruddy and mustaschioed, and his hands as wide as soup plates. He wore a red plaid shirt buttoned to the throat, and on his head a flat-billed wool cap brought from Poland. Jagush removed the cap and bowed servilely.

 
"
Ja
, hullo, miss," he said with a heavy accent.

 
Edwin acted as spokesman. "August has a brood sow who's ready to farrow but she's been trying for over sixteen hours and nothing's happened. He's afraid the pigs will die and maybe the sow, too, if something doesn't happen soon. Will you go out there and have a look?"

 
"Of course." Emily was already hurrying across the stable. The baby pigs—she knew—could survive in the birth canal a maximum of another two hours, and it might take her most of that to reach Jagush's place. "I'll need to saddle a horse and get my bag."

 
"I'll saddle Sagebrush for you," Edwin offered.

 
Jagush said, "The missus she sends a list, so I go to Loucks's first before I head back."

 
"Have you got some beer out at your place?" Emily asked, shouting from the office.

 
"Beer?
Ja
, what
Polak
don't have beer?"

 
"Good. I'll need some."

 
If she waited for Jagush, precious minutes would be wasted. The animal was doubtless in pain and Emily found herself unwilling to prolong its suffering any longer than necessary. "If it's all right with you, Mr. Jagush, I won't wait for you. I know where you live."

 
"
Ja
, you hurry, miss," he agreed.

 
Jagush lived—it occurred to Emily—on the road out to the Lucky L ranch. Tom Jeffcoat wanted to buy horses. And Charles was haranguing her to help him. And Cal Liberty had a reputation for raising healthy hearty American saddlehorses and for being too proud of his stock to sell any inferior animals. Emily made a snap decision.

 
"Papa?" she called.

 
"What?"

 
"Saddle Gunpowder, too. I'm taking Jeffcoat along with me."

 
Her stomach danced with excitement. At last, a real call. Few ranchers had asked for her help. They instinctively doubted her ability since she was a woman, and since she hadn't fully earned her certificate from Barnum yet. Even when she did, it would not be the equivalent of a degree from a college of veterinary medicine. Those colleges were all back East or she'd be attending one right now. But she cared about animals and had what Papa had always called a natural instinct for helping them. It would take time before the bigger ranchers would trust her. In the meantime, she'd help the smaller farmers like Jagush whenever possible, and wait for her reputation to grow.

 
In the office she opened a black leather satchel and took stock of her instruments: pincers, twitch, probang, and hopples; forceps in two sizes; balling iron and a balling gun; a pair of curved scissors, hand clippers, a clinch cutter; funnel and rubber tubing; a blacksmith's hoof knife; and an assortment of ordinary tools—a steel chisel, a pair of pliers, and a claw hammer. Yes, everything was there. And the bottles and vials too, neatly lining the sides of the case, each buckled into place by a leather band.

 
Satisfied, she snapped the bag closed, wrapped it in a black rubber apron, and went to tie it behind her saddle and mount up.

 
"Wish me luck, Papa," she called, taking Gunpowder's reins from Edwin.

 
"Bring 'em in alive, honey!" he called as she touched heel to Sage's flanks and took off at a canter through the double-wide door.

 
Thirty seconds later she reined in at the great north door of Jeffcoat's livery stable leading the spare black gelding.

 
"Jeffcoat?" she shouted. Inside, the syncopated beats of two hammers stopped. "Jeffcoat, you in there?" She peered into the depths of the building, which she'd never come near before. It was bigger than her father's and promised to be much more serviceable, with its brick floor, loft
steps
instead of a ladder, half-doors on the stalls, and the capstan for the turntable already in place. The windows were seated, the sliding door hung, pushed wide now to light both ends of the building. The stalls along the left were nearly complete, and from one, halfway down, Jeffcoat emerged. Even in silhouette she could tell it was he instead of Charles by the outline of his cowboy hat and the length of his legs.

 
"That you, tomboy?" he called.

 
"It's me. You wanna look at horseflesh or not?"

 
"Hey, Charles!" Tom threw down a hammer. "Can you work without me for a couple hours? Somebody's here who says she'll take me out shopping for horses."

 
Charles appeared behind Tom and walked with him the length of the building. "Emily, this is a surprise." He stopped beside Sagebrush, pulling off his work gloves, smiling up at her. "Why don't you come in and see the building? It's really shaping up."

 
"Sorry, I don't have time. I'm on my way out to August Jagush's to look at one of his brood sows that's having trouble farrowing."

 
"You're taking Tom out
there
?"
Charles asked, surprised.

 
"No, out to the Lucky L after I'm done—it's close by and I figure Cal Liberty will treat him fairly. If you're coming, Jeffcoat, hurry up."

 
"You sure you don't mind, Charles?" Jeffcoat paused to ask.

 
"Not at all. Get going."

 
As Jeffcoat took the reins from Emily and mounted up, Charles squeezed her calf and said quietly, "Thanks, Emily. He's been worried about getting those horses."

 
"I'll see you tonight," she replied, giving Sagebrush both heels. Tom's stirrups needed lengthening, but Emily took off at a trot leaving him leaning sideways in the saddle.

 
"Hey, wait a minute."

 
"You can catch up!" she called without slowing.

 
While Charles volunteered to adjust the stirrups Tom glanced after his friend's fiancée and inquired, "Is she always this ornery?"

 
"She'll get used to you. Give her time."

 
"She's got the temperament of a wounded buffalo. Hell, I don't even know this horse's name."

 
"Gunpowder."

 
"Gunpowder, huh?"
And to the horse: "Well, you'd better have some in you because we've got some catching-up to do." When the stirrups were adjusted Tom said, "Thanks, Charles. I'll see you here when I get back if it's early enough. Otherwise, at Tarsy's."

 
He took off at a canter, scowling at the rider ahead. She rode prettier than most women walked, with a natural roll and balance, her back straight, the reins in one hand, the other resting on a thigh. She wore her brother's cap again but she sat her saddle so perfectly it didn't even bounce. As Jeffcoat came up on her left flank he noted the sleek fit of the trousers over her thigh, her intent stare at the horizon, her taut lips. There was no warmth in her today at all, only spunk and determination. Yet she fascinated him.

 
"Hey, slow up there. You'll get that horse lathered."

 
"He can take it. Can you?"

 
"All right, sister, they're your horses."

 
They rode in silence for nearly an hour and a half. He let her control their pace, slowing to a walk when she slowed, cantering when she cantered. She spoke only once, when they were turning into the driveway at their destination. "This is no country to raise pigs in but Jagush is Polish and the Polish eat pork. He'd have been better off to bring lambs out here when he homesteaded."

 
A short pudgy woman in a
babushka
came from an outbuilding the moment they arrived. Her face was round as a pumpkin and contorted with worry. "She is down here!" Mrs. Jagush called, gesturing toward the crude log barn.

"Hurry."

 
Dismounting, Emily told Jeffcoat, "You can wait here if you want. It'll smell a lot fresher."

 
"You might need some help."

 
"Suit yourself. Just don't get sick on me." Turning sideways in the saddle, she slid to the ground, landed lightly, and let Tom tie both horses to a fence post while she retrieved her pack from behind the saddle. They walked to the barn together, met by Mrs. Jagush, whose creased face spoke of long hours of anxiety.

 
"Tank you for comink. My Tina she is not so good."

 
No, her Tina wasn't. The sow lay on her side, shaking violently from fever. It appeared she had gathered straw and arranged a nest, sensing her time was at hand. But she'd been lying in it, probably thrashing, for the better part of a day and at some point her water broke and soiled the bed, which was flattened now into a dish shape. Emily donned her rubber apron, and disregarding the condition of the pen, dropped to her knees and touched the sow's belly, which was bright red instead of its usual pale pink. Her ears, too, were scarlet: a sure sign of trouble. "Not feeling so good, huh, Tina?" She spoke quietly, then informed Mrs. Jagush, "I'll need to wash my hands. And your husband said you have beer in the house. Could you bring me about a quart?"

 
"
Ja
."

 
"And lard, a half cup should do."

 
When Mrs. Jagush went away, Jeffcoat inquired, "Beer?"

 
"It's not for me, it's for Tina. Pigs love beer and it calms them. Hand me that pitchfork, so I can get her up."

 
Jeffcoat obliged, then watched while she slipped the tines beneath the pig and gently rocked them against the floor. Pricked, but unhurt, the sow grunted to her feet.

 
"Pigs are very maleable. They get up and down naturally all through the birthing anyway, so nudging her up won't hurt her a bit. Good gal," Emily praised, rubbing the sow's back when she was on her feet.