“Watch it,” Owen said.
Becca gifted him with an evil glare. “I know what I’m doing.”
The cow mooed—long, low, and mournful. He couldn’t blame her.
“Do you need help?” Owen asked.
Obviously Becca had delivered calves before, though he wasn’t sure how she’d managed to yank a hundred-pound animal out of a thousand-pound animal when she didn’t weigh much more than a hundred pounds herself. She’d need to use the calf chains at her feet, once she grabbed hold of something to wrap them around.
“I can help,” Emerson muttered.
Owen cast him a dubious glance. Once upon a time the old man had possessed Popeye forearms. Most dairy farmers did, especially the ones who’d grown up hauling buckets of milk from the cow to the holding tank. When dairy farming went high tech—i.e., the lines ran from cow to holding tank, no more hauling—it got easier. However, there was plenty of work to keep a farming man fit. Pitching hay, shoveling manure, driving a tractor, lifting … everything.
Emerson still had some impressive forearms, but the rest of him appeared more Olive Oil than Popeye. He was skinny as an exclamation point, and his back had started to hook like a question mark.
“I don’t mind,” Owen said.
“The last time you were here you didn’t mind helping yourself to my beer.”
“About that—” Owen began.
“Betcha didn’t expect to get shot.”
“Does anyone?” Owen murmured.
“You shot him?” Becca straightened, though she still had her hand in the cow. She seemed to be mining for gold in there and not finding any.
The cow mooed, stamped, and shifted her huge rump. “You probably don’t wanna do that, Duchess.” Becca patted her butt. “Lord knows what I’ll pull out if you don’t stand still.”
Duchess blew air through her nose like a bull.
Owen didn’t much care for that sound. Duchess might not have horns, or a ring through her nose, but she was as big as any bull and she could do some damage, even with her head in that gate, if she wanted to. In his present condition Owen wouldn’t be able to reach Becca in time to help. In his present condition he probably wouldn’t be any help even if he got there in time.
“She seems upset,” he said.
“How’d you like to squeeze a watermelon out your back end?”
“No, thank you?” Owen ventured.
“Damn right,” Emerson agreed.
Becca narrowed her eyes on the old man. “While I’m fishing around in here for the hoof I just lost because Duchess couldn’t be still, why don’t you tell me why you shot someone over a few beers.”
“Stealing is stealing.”
“And shooting might be killing.”
“It was a pellet gun. Just stung a bit. Right?”
Owen rubbed his rear. “Right.”
“You ever gonna pay me for that six-pack?”
“Sure.” Owen took out his wallet, removed a ten, and held it out.
Emerson lifted a furry eyebrow, waiting for Owen to bring it closer. When Owen didn’t, the old man, who still got along fairly well for his age, though his legs were as bowed as any lifetime cowboy’s, crossed the short distance and plucked the ten from Owen’s hand, tucked it into his overhauls, then peered up, up, up Owen’s length. “Heard you got some fancy medal.”
“Nothing fancy, sir.” He’d gotten a Purple Heart. The medal they gave you for not running fast enough or ducking quick enough. He’d prefer to be back on the front line, sans medal.
“Don’t be modest.” Emerson slapped Owen on the shoulder so hard his teeth rattled. “I always thought there wasn’t anything the matter with you that a kick in the butt, or some basic training, couldn’t cure.” He held out his hand.
Owen was so surprised he stared at the large, thick, scarred appendage until Becca cleared her throat, then Owen’s hand shot out to take the other man’s.
“Guess I was right.” Emerson shook, released.
Owen wasn’t sure what to say to that, so he went with what he’d learned in the Marines was the best answer to everything. “Good to go, sir.”
The old man shuffled his dirty boots, glanced at his watch, then peered longingly toward the house. Morning milking loomed only a few hours away. At his age he could use some sleep before that. At any age, dairy farming wasn’t easy. Owen preferred the Marines.
“You don’t have to stay,” Becca said. “If I need a hand, I can always call you.”
“You sure?” Emerson asked, but he’d already taken a step toward the door.
“I have my cell.” Becca pointed to the phone, which lay atop an overturned bucket out of harm’s way. Lord only knew what kind of damage it could sustain during a calving.
Emerson ran a hand through hair that wasn’t. “I’ll take you up on that. It’s been a long day’s night, y’ know?”
“I know,” Owen agreed. He should be dizzy with exhaustion; he had been only about fifteen minutes ago.
But the proximity of Becca had revived him.
Chapter 6