Her eyes narrowed. Had she heard the lie? She should be getting better at it by now—thanks to him.
“Becca?” Emerson stood in the circle of light just outside the open barn door. The man looked exactly the same as he had the day he’d chased Owen off his land with a rifle.
Was this place caught in a time warp? Owen had yet to run into anyone who had changed as much as he had.
Then again, he was the one who’d left. Which only made the time-warp theory more plausible.
“Thanks for the ride.” She got out of the truck.
“Don’t you need your doctor bag or something?” Owen asked.
“I’m hoping all I have to do is turn the calf, and it’ll come out easy-peasy.”
Owen had been around enough cows to know that if the delivery was going to be easy-peasy, it would have happened already with no need for veterinary assistance. “You’re gonna be up all night, aren’t you?”
“Probably.” Becca rubbed Reggie’s head one last time then slammed the door and went into the barn. The old guy cast a dubious glance in Owen’s direction before following.
Owen rested his hand on the gearshift, but he didn’t throw the truck into reverse. Reggie nudged his arm.
“Gotta go?” Owen opened the door and got out. After a curious glance in his direction, Reggie jumped out too. The dog had just been outside for hours, if he’d had to go, he would have. But Owen wanted to watch Becca work—or maybe just watch Becca. Either way, Reggie was a good excuse.
“Voraus.” Owen pointed to the tall grass at the side of the barn and the dog trotted off, nose to the ground. He’d probably already caught the scent of a field mouse and would be occupied tracking it for the foreseeable future.
Owen crossed the short distance from his truck to the barn. He’d been on his feet so much in the past few hours, his leg both ached from overuse and moved with less of a hitch for the same reason. Nevertheless he was glad the darkness shrouded him. Once he reached the barn door, it was an easy matter to steady himself with a hand on a stall, a stanchion, a pitchfork, a wheelbarrow.
The only people in the barn were Emerson, Becca, and Owen. One cow stood in a well-lit stall, her head confined in a portable gate. The rest lowed from the corral. At this time of year they should be walking free in the pasture, but for some reason they crowded around. Several hung their heads over the half back door. The way they chewed their cud and mooed every so often, dark, limpid gazes on the mother, they seemed to be giving advice.
Owen must have made a sound or a movement because Emerson glanced in his direction. “Whaddya want?”
Becca, elbow deep in the cow, glanced Owen’s way. “I thought you left.”
“I wanted to watch.”
“It’s not a reality show.” She turned her arm so her shoulder spun forward. The cow stomped, narrowly missing her toes.
“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