Light to the Hills: A Novel (45)
Finn eased down until he sat on the ground, legs out in front of him, much like his description of how he used to sit and shovel coal. Once more he rolled up his sleeves and felt inside. He made a loop of chain and passed it into the birth canal with one hand and, two hands deep, snugged the loop around the calf’s left front hoof with his eyes closed in concentration. Tree limbs cracked and crashed against the barn roof.
“Amanda, c’mere and grab ahold o’ this end.” She crawled beside him and held the chain, waiting. Finn repeated the process and looped a second chain over the right front hoof.
“I’m gonna push the shoulders back, and when I do, you pull on that chain. Don’t worry ’bout hurting her none. She’ll be a lot better off when this bugger’s out.” He reached inside again, half lying behind the cow now as he shifted and maneuvered the baby inside her. Beads of sweat appeared on his face. Myrtle seemed to know they were helping and she lay still, her breath heavy and wet as she bore the contractions rippling down her sides. Finn grunted with a final push and barked, “Pull!”
Amanda braced one foot against the cow’s back end so that she wouldn’t slide across the ground, and pulled with all her might. Finn tugged the end of the other chain with one hand and worked inside with the other, his eyes shut tight. “That’s it, there it is.” Amanda got some slack and stopped as a tiny pale hoof poked out. Finn kept pulling until the second hoof appeared. When it did, he loosened the looped chains and let them fall. He scooted backward, and Amanda scrambled back toward the wall of the pen. Myrtle sensed the change and struggled to stand. Once she got to her feet, she seemed to relax, curious about what was happening behind her. She planted her feet and lowed, long and low, until, with a final gush of placenta, the calf slid out in one motion onto the straw.
Sass squealed from her post on the pen rail. “He is a big’un! Poor Myrtle! Look at the white spot on his face, just like hers.”
Amanda and Finn gathered the chains, and they slipped out of the pen to let nature take its course. Within the space of fifteen minutes, Myrtle’s great pink tongue had cleaned her baby dry and encouraged him to struggle to his feet on his awkward, untested legs. Finn dropped the chains into one of Sass’s water buckets and used the other one to clean up. His arms were slick with blood and birth. Amanda washed as well, and then the three of them stood back to admire the wobbly calf, bumping his nose into Myrtle’s side until he found his target—her ready milk bag.
Judging by the sinking moon, it was the wee hours of the morning, and Sass threw a final split log into the stove before she curled up in the hay under her quilt. Two giant yawns later, she slept heavily. They’d decided to stay out in the barn to keep an eye on the newborn and wait out the hours till morning. Finn tossed some fresh hay to Myrtle and made a pile near the stove where he and Amanda could get some rest, or as much as they could with the racket of splintering trees echoing outside.
“Don’t matter how many times you witness such, it’s always a miracle,” Finn said, settling back against a hay bale and stretching his legs toward the stove.
“You believe in miracles?” Amanda asked.
“See ’em ever’ day,” he said, surprised.
“I grew up hearing a lot about signs and wonders,” she said, “but after a bit of living, maybe I’m more cautious about the like.”
“Depends what you call a miracle, I s’pose. Way I see it, you can either live like nothing’s a miracle or like everything is. Either way, it’ll work out to be the truth. But one makes your boots step a lot lighter than t’other’n.” Finn pulled his quilt up to his chin and laid his head back on the hay.
Chapter 14
Finn’s crooked smile played on his lips even while he slept. Amanda let her eyes linger over his face, studying the lines of his jaw and the straight slope of his nose, his lashes so long they curled up the slightest bit at the ends. She breathed deeply, testing the safety of him as he lay there, the cautious borders around her heart giving way. She’d loved before and been fooled. It was a mistake she would not make twice.
Frank had promised independence and adventure. It wouldn’t be long, he’d said, before he and Gripp had raked in enough for Frank and her to be able to make their way to the West. It might be a push getting through the middle of the country, which the papers reported were dried up like a raisin, with clouds of dust blowing in your eyes day and night, but they were young and tough. Although the gold had petered out in California long ago, Frank had met folks on his travels who told him about a rock-studded ocean, palm trees, and nothing but sunshine. Not to mention Hollywood. You never knew who you might run up against in California. They might see Greta Garbo or Clark Gable at the dry-goods store, movie stars like in the papers. Wouldn’t folks back in the mountains go crazy over a postcard that carried news like that?
Pa had married them at the church on one of the last warm days of fall, with Amanda wearing Mama’s lavender linen-and-lace dress and Frank all shaved and prim, with suspenders on. She’d scoured the woods early that morning before the dew had burned off, gathering a bouquet of trillium, wild violets, and devil’s bit. She tucked a few in her pinned-up hair and walked to the front of the church, with one of the deacons fiddling sweet, wavering notes that made Mama cry. Frank gave her a thin gold band. It was her first and only piece of jewelry, and she felt like a queen.