thankful Pat had insisted she keep the car. They’d agreed it would be a loan. He had reduced his receptionist’s hours until after Christmas, when, Megan hoped, she would make enough money from her pottery to take over the car payments.
She slowly drove through the back streets, observing the newly hung eighteenth – century Christmas decorations. Red velvet bows and evergreen sprays adorned many of the private residences. Traditional Williamsburg wreaths of laurel, trimmed with fresh apples, pineapples, pine cones, and peanuts hung on doors. By next week the town would be alive with the spirit of Christmas, bracing itself for the onslaught of holiday tourists. Megan didn’t want to think about it. Christmas was a family time, and she no longer had a family. She had a mother and father, of course, but they were far away.
She grimly stared at the back – street houses and wondered what activity was taking place behind the wreaths and bows. Windows glowed golden through the curtain of snow, and smoke curled from old brick chimneys. It was easy to imagine the laughter of children as they hunted for boots and scarves and begged their parents to get sleds down from summer hiding places in the garage.
She purposely avoided passing by Pat’s house and Tilly Coogan’s apartment. She couldn’t bear the thought of being on the outside, looking in. She couldn’t bear the pain of not belonging.
She carefully traveled the country road, becoming more tense as the snow deepened, grateful for the new tires and front – wheel drive, which held the car on the slick surface. She briefly closed her eyes in silent thanks when her driveway appeared. Be it ever so lonely, she thought, it was still good to be home.
She locked the car and went straight to the barn, cautiously opening the paddock door for the horse. When she’d first moved to the farm she’d tried to make friends with the animal, but it had been aloof, disdaining her clucking noises and ignoring offered apples. When its owner had appeared recently on Megan’s doorstep at seven one Saturday morning, looking for a weekend horse sitter, Megan had jumped at the chance.
It wasn’t the prettiest horse she had ever seen, nor the most charismatic, but it intrigued her all the same. And besides, she needed the money. Two scoops of grain, a slice of hay, and let it come inside for the night. Those were the instructions. Very simple.
It was a nice horse, Megan told herself as it obediently plodded toward its stall. It had soft brown eyes and a glossy black coat. It was just that horses were so big, and this particular horse seemed bigger than most, with a huge belly, large, clomping hooves, and enormous teeth. She gave it grain and hay and filled its water bucket with fresh water.
“Nice horse,” she told it timidly, giving it a good – night pat on the forehead.
Once inside her house Megan retreated to the kitchen. She made herself a cup of hot chocolate and a ham sandwich and sat at the round wood table, sketching new designs and planning formulas for new glazes for her pots.
Outside the wind howled under the eaves, and snow pinged against frosted windowpanes. When a particularly ferocious gust of wind buffeted the old house, Megan looked up in surprise. It was eleven – thirty by the cuckoo clock on the kitchen wall.
The barn door blew open with a slam, and she scowled at the thought of going outdoors. She had to check on the horse, she reminded herself firmly. She had to make sure it was warm enough.
This was silly, she thought as she trudged through the snow. She wouldn’t know a cold horse if she saw one, and if it was cold, she wouldn’t know what to do about it. She switched the barn lights on and was greeted by a low whinny that caused all the little hairs to stand up on her neck.
The horse was moving about its large box stall, restless and agitated. It rolled its eyes at Megan, showing the whites, and gave another whinny from deep in its throat. Its belly bulged awkwardly hanging heavy.
“Holy smoke,” Megan whispered. The horse looked deranged. Probably from carrying that bloated stomach around. It looked as if it had eaten a small cow.
“Listen,” she said to the horse, “don’t worry about it. I’ll get a vet. He’ll know what to do. Probably you just need some Pepto Bismol. About two gallons of it.”
She copied the vet’s number from the barn wall, ran back to the kitchen, dialed the number, and waited. No answer. Great. The horse was dying at eleven – thirty on a Sunday night in the middle of a raging blizzard. Her chances of finding a vet were about as good as her chances of flying to Tokyo without a plane.
Stay calm, she told herself. If you can’t get a vet, then call a doctor! That was insane. What doctor would come out on a night like this to look at a hyper horse? Pat.
Half an hour later Pat slowly drove his car into a ditch at the entrance to Megan’s driveway. He crawled through the passenger side window, catapulted himself off the tilted chassis into a waist – high snowbank, and quickly ran through his entire repertoire of expletives.
He was wading through the storm of the century, in the middle of the night, to examine a horse. He’d have liked to think it was a ruse Megan had constructed to bring them together, but he knew better. Not even Megan could think up something as dumb as this. A horse, for crying out loud. He didn’t know anything about horses.
He’d been in a black mood for six days, and slogging through knee – high snow wasn’t doing much to improve his disposition. He missed Megan, dammit. He missed her every second of every minute of every day. And he was furious with himself for missing her. He should have known better than to fall in love with a stubborn redhead. When Megan did something, she did it all the way. A hundred and three percent. She was… overwhelming.
He opened the barn door, and was happy for the warmth he found there. Megan had dragged her space heater into the building. She’d also draped a full – size feather quilt over the obese horse and tied it on with baling twine. She was standing beside the stall, wringing her hands, and he smiled in spite of himself. She was singing nursery rhymes, trying to calm the crazy horse.
“Looks like you’re taking good care of my patient,” he said softly.
She whirled around to face him. “I don’t know what to do for it!” she cried. “I tried calling the owner and the vet but no one answered. I don’t know anything about horses.”
Pat looked at the horse. It seemed bigger than he’d remembered.
“So what’s wrong with it? Measles?Sore throat? Diaper rash? I hope it’s one of those, Megan. They’re my specialty.”
“Um, no. It’s none of those. It’s just acting weird.”
“You called me over here because the horse is acting weird?”
“I think it ate something awful. Its stomach is all distended.”
Pat cautiously approached the horse and untied the baling twine. “Nice horsey,” he said, sliding the quilt off. “Nice
Suddenly the horse’s knees buckled and the animal rolled onto its side.
“Holy cow!” Pat said, jumping back. He cleared his throat and blushed. “Took me by surprise.”
“Oh, Pat, what’s wrong with it? I don’t know much about horses, but I know they’re supposed to be standing up. It’s not going to die, is it?”
He knelt beside the animal and ran his hand along the straining belly. “Honey, I’m afraid you called the wrong doctor. This horse doesn’t need a pediatrician. It needs an obstetrician.”
“You mean it’s having a baby? Can it do it by itself?”
“Lord, I hope so.”
After ten minutes Pat felt the mare’s belly again and shook his head. “I don’t know much about this, but I don’t think she’s progressing the way she should. Keep her calm. I’ll be right back.”
Within minutes he’d returned, carrying a sheet and a plastic bag. “Let’s get the sheet under her as best we can. Tie her tail up in the plastic bag so it’s out of my way.”
He took off his jacket, sweater, and shirt and knelt behind the horse. “I’m scrubbed up to my armpits. Let’s hope once I get my hand in there, I can get it back out!”
