A Cowboy Under the Mistletoe (5 page)

Irritated, Hank continued in a flat tone. “Someone needs to be with Duchess during the entire labor and delivery process. Kurt has other patients and responsibilities. He couldn't leave Duchess at home while he's off working with other animals. And if he took her to the clinic, she and her litter would be exposed to the viruses other dogs bring in, and that could be lethal to the newborn pups.”

That much, Ally understood. But she was still reluctant to participate. She threw up her hands as if warding off an emotional disaster. “Okay, I get that, but I still can't do this, Hank! It's just too far out of my realm of expertise!”

He had thought it was a bummer that Ally Garrett
loathed Christmas. With effort, he checked his disappointment about this, too. “Fine. You don't have to help.” Holiday or not, he couldn't magically infuse her with the spirit of sacrifice and giving. No matter how much he wished otherwise…

“Good,” she snapped, appearing even more upset. “Because I'm not going to!” After taking one long, last look at Duchess, she handed the folder to Hank, and rushed out of the kitchen.

 

T
HERE WAS ABSOLUTELY
no reason for her to feel guilty, Ally told herself firmly as she went up to the second floor sewing room and checked out the bolts of upholstery fabric still on the shelves. Not when she heard the canine whimpering coming up through the heating grate.

Or when Hank ran upstairs to raid the linen closet, and hurried back down again.

Or when she heard him rushing back and forth below, his boots echoing on the wood floor.

But twenty minutes later, when a loud whimpering was followed by an unnatural stillness, she couldn't stand it any longer.

On the pretext of getting the tape measure from the drawer in the kitchen, she went back downstairs to find the table had been pushed to one side.

Duchess was settled in a child's hard plastic swimming pool in the center of the kitchen. Hank knelt next to her. “Come on, girl,” he was saying softly, as the animal arched and strained. “You can do it.”

Duchess let out a yelp, then looked at her hindquarters with a mixture of alarm and bewilderment. A dark blue water bag had emerged. “Get a couple of the towels. They're warming in the dryer,” Hank directed.

Figuring that was the least important of the chores, Ally
rushed to comply. By the time she returned, Duchess had heaved again, and the pup was out completely.

Duchess reached around, tore and removed the sack with her teeth, and cut the cord. As soon as that was done, she licked her newborn vigorously. The pup let out a cry.

Ally's eyes welled with tears at the sound of new life.

Duchess turned away from the pup and began to strain again. Hank picked up the whelp, wrapped it in a towel and handed it to Ally. The pup was warm and soft to the touch. The joy she felt as she looked down at the pale gold puppy cradled neatly in the palm of her hand was overwhelming.

Hank set the warming box on the floor, made sure the heating pad was turned to low, positioned it on one side of the plastic incubator, then covered it with a white, terrycloth crate pad. “We'll give this a moment to warm up,” he said, “before we unwrap the pup and put him in.”

Too overcome to speak, Ally nodded.

Seconds later, Duchess strained yet again, and the second pup was delivered.

Over the next two hours, eight more were born.

Amid the squeaking and the squirming, Duchess cared for them all.

Until finally, she collapsed with a sigh.

“Do you think that's it?” Ally asked.

“Only one way to tell,” Hank said. He counted the pups. “Kurt said there were definitely ten….”

Duchess strained again, ever so slightly.

A dark blue sack, tinier than the others, fell out.

Only this time, Duchess merely nosed the pup and turned away.

Please don't let this last one be stillborn,
Ally prayed. “What do we do?” she asked frantically.

“Do our best to save it,” Hank muttered. He picked
up the sack, quickly figured out which end contained the pup's head, and tore the protective membrane open with his fingers. Amniotic fluid spilled out as he gave the pup's nose a squeeze.

There should have been a cry, as with the others.

But there wasn't.

Knowing there was no time to waste, Hank grabbed the bulb syringe, pressed the air out of it, and then suctioned mucous from the lifeless pup's throat and nostrils. Nothing happened. Again, he suctioned out the fluids. The puppy still didn't respond.

Hand pressed to her chest, Ally watched as Hank lifted the tiny form and made a tight seal by putting his own mouth over the pup's nose and mouth, gave two gentle puffs, then pulled back and assessed her. Again nothing, Ally noted in mounting despair. No visible sign of life.

Helpless tears streamed from her eyes as Hank repeated the puffing process, then rubbed the puppy's chest while holding her head down.

Still nothing, Ally noted miserably.

Hank used the bulb syringe again, then lifted the puppy and attempted mouth-to-mouth resuscitation once more. And this time, to Ally's overwhelming relief, their prayers were answered.

 

T
HE SOUND OF THAT SMALL
gasp, followed by a highpitched, rather indignant squeak, was nothing short of a miracle, Ally thought.

With tears of joy rolling down her cheeks, she watched as Hank gently wiped the moisture from the tiny puppy and wrapped her in a cloth.

Ally drew a quavering breath and edged so close to Hank their bodies touched. “That was…incredible,” she
breathed, not sure when she had ever been so impressed by a man's gallantry under pressure.

He nodded, looking as amazed and grateful as she felt. “I didn't think she was going to make it,” he admitted in a rusty voice.

Ally studied the cute black nose and tightly closed eyes. The pup's ears were as small and compact and beautiful as the rest of her snugly swaddled form. “You saved her.”

Yet a trace of worry remained in Hank's blue eyes, Ally noted as he passed her the newborn.

A ribbon of fear slipped through her. She cuddled the tiny pup close to her breast, relieved to feel its soft puffs of breath against the open vee of her shirt. The whelp was breathing nice and rhythmically now, and felt warm to the touch. Yet…Ally searched Hank's face. “What is it?” she asked quietly. “What aren't you telling me?”

His glance met hers, then skittered away, as if he didn't want to be the bearer of bad news. “She's really small,” he said finally.

About a third smaller than the others, Ally noted. She nuzzled the top of the puppy's head as she followed Hank back to Duchess's side. “So?” She felt the tiny pup brush its muzzle against her collarbone and snuggle even closer. Unbearable tenderness sifted through her and she stroked the dog gently with her free hand. Was this the connection dog lovers felt? Why many considered canines not just pets but members of their family?

All Ally knew for sure was that she felt fiercely protective of this tiny being. And would do anything to help her thrive. “Isn't there usually a runt of the litter?”

Hank admitted that was so, then frowned. “But it's not just that.” He bent down to tend to Duchess.

Ally watched him remove the placenta and gently clean away any remaining afterbirth with the skill of a veteran
rancher. “Then what's wrong?” she pressed. She lowered her head and heard a faint purr emanating from the whelp's chest. “I mean, she seems to be breathing okay now.” The other ten puppies were okay, too. All snuggled together cozily in the warming box, which had been placed inside the whelping pen, within easy reach of Duchess.

Hank brought a bowl of water to Duchess, and knelt down next to the golden retriever. Shakily, the dam got to her feet and lapped at the water, before sinking down once again. Surveying her with a knowledgeable eye, Hank said reluctantly, “It could just be that the pup you're holding was the last of the litter to be born. And Duchess was exhausted.”

Another shiver of dread swept through Ally.

She watched Hank take a fistful of kibble and hand feed it to Duchess. Wondering what he still wasn't telling her, Ally prodded, “I hear an ‘except' in there.”

Hank's big body tensed. “Sometimes,” he allowed wearily, deliberately avoiding Ally's eyes, “when a mother dog shows absolutely no interest in one of her whelps, it's because the dam knows instinctively there's something wrong with the pup. That it may not survive…”

Shock quickly turned to anger. How could he even say that, after all they'd already been through? Ally wondered. “But the littlest one did survive,” she protested heatedly, still cradling the puppy to her chest.

Hank nodded. And remained silent.

“She's going to be fine,” Ally insisted, and to prove it, placed the runt in the warming box with the rest of the litter.

Again, Hank nodded. But he didn't seem nearly as certain of that as she wanted him to be.

Wary of fast wearing out his welcome at Mesquite Ridge in regards to Duchess and her puppies, Hank gathered up the soiled towels and cloths, and carried them to the washing machine. For the second time that night, he added detergent and bleach, and switched it on. He returned to the kitchen, spray bottle of disinfectant cleaner, paper towels and plastic trash bag in hand.

He hunkered down to clean out the plastic whelping bed.

While he worked, Ally knelt on the floor next to the warming bed that contained all eleven puppies. The whelping instructions Kurt had left for them were in her hands. She appeared seriously concerned and incredibly overwhelmed with the responsibility of caring for the dam and her litter. Duchess was right beside Ally, face on her paws, serenely keeping watch over her brood.

Hank knew there was no need to burden Ally with this, too—she had enough on her plate, with the sale of the ranch, the task of sorting through her parents things and the possible loss of her job. “I think I can handle it from here,” he said gently.

She stopped reading and looked up, as if she hadn't heard right. “What?”

Was that hurt he saw flashing in her eyes? Or just fatigue
and confusion? It had been a long day for Ally, too. “I need to walk Duchess for a moment,” Hank told her. “But then I can handle it.” He paused, wishing Ally would hang out with them a little longer. She was turning out to be surprisingly good company. “Unless you want to stay,” he added impulsively.

For a second, Ally looked truly torn about whether to stay or go. “I'll stay until you get them all settled,” she said finally.

“Thanks.” Deciding to leave her to her thoughts, he headed outside, with Duchess beside him.

The retriever quickly got down to business, then headed back inside. This time she walked straight to Ally.

Hank knew Duchess was waiting to be petted.

Ally didn't.

Recognizing it wasn't going to happen, at least not then, the dog sank down beside her, close enough that her nose was touching Ally's thigh.

Ally looked at Duchess briefly, tenderness flickering across her delicate features. Wordlessly, she smiled and went back to her reading.

Hank folded a clean blanket in the bottom of the whelping pen, then encouraged Duchess to climb back in. “Come on, girl. I need you to get in here so you can take care of your puppies.”

Duchess just looked at him, clearly understanding, but in no mood to comply.

At the “standoff” between him and his canine pal, Ally did her best to stifle a grin. Which showed how much she knew.

“You want to try?” Hank asked.

Her eyes twinkling, Ally tilted her head to one side and said drily, “I don't think she's in a mood to listen to me, either. But…” She rose gracefully and moved to the
makeshift bed, patting it firmly. “Come on, sweetheart. You'll be more comfortable in here.”

Surprisingly, Duchess rose, climbed in and settled down immediately.

Hank was stunned—and grateful. “Thanks.”

“No problem.” Ally waved the papers still clutched in her free hand. “I think we're supposed to introduce the puppies to Duchess next.”

That was indeed the protocol. The only surprise was that Ally—a confessed dog loather—wanted to be present for this, too. But maybe tonight, Duchess and her big brood, were changing all that, as well as Ally's feelings about being at the ranch. Which only went to show that miracles did happen at Christmas, Hank thought.

Keeping his feelings to himself, he asked, “You want to do the first one?”

Ally bit her lower lip, abruptly appearing shy and uncertain once again. “Maybe you better.”

Figuring the littlest pup needed her mama most, Hank picked her up and laid her ever so gently in front of Duchess.

Once again, the mother dog turned her nose away, prepared to go to sleep.

Hank tried again, with the same result.

For whatever reason, Duchess wanted nothing to do with her tiniest whelp.

Ally shot Hank a look that mirrored his own consternation.

The worry Hank had felt earlier, when they'd been resuscitating the pup, increased. “Let's see if we can get the little one to nurse.” He put the tiny pup at a nipple. She suckled weakly and soon fell right back to sleep.

Hank frowned in concern. “Let's see how the rest of
them do.” He picked up the hardiest pup, a male, from the warming bed and put him in front of Duchess.

The retriever immediately nosed the whelp, kissing and licking him. Encouraged, Hank put him to a nipple. The pup immediately latched on and began to nurse.

And so it went with the remaining whelps, until finally, they were left with eleven pups and ten nipples. Reluctantly, Hank removed the littlest one from Duchess's side, and handed her ever so carefully to Ally. The last puppy took the little one's place and began to nurse vigorously.

Ally cradled the tiniest puppy against her chest. “What are we going to do if she doesn't nurse any better than that?”

Hank studied the sweet-faced golden retriever curled against the warmth of Ally's breast, and knew they were the castaway pup's last hope. “I'll tell you what we're not going to do,” he stated firmly. “We're not going to wait. I'm calling Kurt right now.”

 

T
O ALLY'S RELIEF,
Kurt McCabe came right out to the ranch, even though it was well past midnight. The personable veterinarian brought a digital scale and his vet bag and checked over the dam and her litter. “Duchess and the whelps all look great,” Kurt said when he'd finished recording the weight and sex of all five males and six female pups.

“What about the littlest one?” Ally asked.

“She's definitely a little weaker—as well as tuckered out from her rocky start. That's probably why Duchess initially turned away from her—because she knows instinctively that this pup is going to need more care than the rest, if she's to survive. And on her own, Duchess can't provide that,” the vet explained.

Ally glanced at Hank's face, to gauge his reaction.
Obviously, this was something the handsome rancher already knew. Which was why he had looked so concerned, and insisted they ask his cousin to make a house call, even if it was the dead of the night.

Her respect for Hank grew.

Ally turned back to Kurt, watching as he gently lifted the littlest one from the warming bed. “Fortunately, the pup's heart and lungs are strong, and there are a lot of things we can do to help her out,” he continued.

“Like what?” Ally asked, feeling as protective as if she were the mama herself.

Kurt handed her the puppy. As before, she held the tiny puppy against her chest, and felt it instinctively cuddle close.

“The first thing I'm going to do is give her an injection of replacement plasma to help boost her immune system.” Kurt paused to give the puppy the shot.

The little one flinched and let out several high-pitched squeaks.

Ally took comfort in the whelp's strong show of indignation. Judging by the looks on Hank's and Kurt's faces, they also thought it was a good sign.

“It's important you keep her warm. She's going to need to be hand-fed every two hours or so, until she's strong enough to nurse alongside her littermates.” Kurt removed several cans of formula and a bottle from his bag, along with another set of instructions. “Come morning, let her try nursing again. Even if it's for only a couple minutes, she'll get colostrum. And of course, keep introducing her to Duchess. Sooner or later they should begin to bond.”

And what if they didn't? Ally wondered, exchanging concerned glances with Hank. How would that impact the tiny puppy? Would it alter her chances of survival? Would she grow up feeling like Ally had—as if she never quite
fit? Not with her family, not on the ranch, not at school… and now, maybe not even at the job that had been her whole life for the last ten years?

The thought of the defenseless little puppy being rejected made her heart ache.

Mistaking the reason behind Ally's melancholy, Hank stepped closer and patted her arm. “I know this little gal is only twelve ounces—which, according to the weigh in we just did, makes her roughly twenty-five percent smaller than her siblings. And definitely the runt of the litter.” He paused to gaze into Ally's eyes before continuing in a consoling voice, “But often times the smallest one will turn out to be the scrappiest.”

“That's true,” Kurt agreed.

Realizing worrying about things she couldn't change wouldn't help anything, least of all the tiny puppy cuddled in her arms, Ally began to relax.

Only to see Hank frown again. “The bigger problem is…who do these dogs belong to?”

Kurt nodded toward the wriggling bodies in the warming bed. “These dogs are all definitely show quality purebreds.”

Duchess was pretty enough to appear in the Westminster Dog Show, Ally thought, and her puppies were miniature versions of her.

Kurt continued, “Duchess was obviously bred deliberately.”

“Which means someone has to be looking for her.” Hank knelt down to pet the retriever. He rubbed her large shoulders and stroked behind her ears with so much tenderness Ally felt her own mouth go dry.

“The larger question is how she became separated from the breeder in the first place.” The muscles in Hank's own
broad shoulders tensed. “Since I'm sure some of these puppies, if not all, have got to be spoken for already.”

Surely not the littlest one, Ally thought, then caught herself up short. What was she doing? she wondered in alarm. This puppy wasn't hers to keep! None of them were….

Kurt unhooked the stethoscope from around his neck. “Some dogs want their privacy when they give birth, and slip off to nest in secret. My guess is that's what Duchess did.”

“But wouldn't someone have reported her missing by now?” Ally asked.

“You'd think so,” the vet replied.

“It's a mystery,” Hank concurred grimly. “But one I intend to solve.”

Kurt packed up his vet bag. “I'll do everything I can to help.” He paused to pet Duchess and several of her puppies. Standing, he glanced wryly at Hank and Ally. “In the meantime, try not to get too attached.”

“Easier said than done,” Hank muttered beneath his breath.

And for once, Ally knew exactly how Hank McCabe felt.

 

“S
O HOW DO YOU WANT
to do this?” Hank asked her, after Kurt had left.

Ally handed him the littlest pup so she could prepare a bottle of canine milk replacement formula, according to the directions, and set it in a bowl of warm water to heat. Then she checked the items in the emergency kit Kurt had left for them, taking out the unscented baby wipes, cotton balls and petroleum jelly, and lining them up neatly on the table. Lips pursed thoughtfully, she went to the drawer in the kitchen where linens were kept, and pulled out several clean dish towels.

Trying not to notice how cuddly—and fragile—the little puppy felt, Hank followed Ally back to the table. He wasn't sure exactly when the tables had turned. He just knew that she was now the “professional” on the scene. Aware how comfortable she looked in the home she was determined to sell ASAP, he asked, “You want me to handle the feedings tonight?”

Ally shook a few drops of formula on the inside of her wrist, looking up from what she was doing long enough to say, “I can manage the bottle feedings tonight. If we do one now…” She glanced at the clock. It was two in the morning. “…then I'll do another at four, and at six.”

Which meant she'd get practically no sleep whatsoever, Hank thought in concern.

He watched her pull out a kitchen chair and sit down. “You sure?”

Ally spread one of the towels across her lap, then held out her arms for the puppy. “I don't mind.” Her expression was incredibly tender as the transfer was made. Looking as contented as a new mother, she settled the puppy on her side and gently offered her bottle. “You've got other responsibilities.”

No more eager to leave the brand-new litter than she was, Hank pulled up a chair beside them. “So do you.”

Ally smiled as the puppy finally got the idea and began to suckle. “Yours are more pressing,” she reminded him.

Hank couldn't argue that. It had been raining all night, and the temperature was near freezing. His cattle were going to need extra feed to successfully weather the elements. Plus there were Duchess and the other puppies to consider. They needed help now, too. “Okay.” He rose. “I'll take the ten puppies to Duchess, so they can nurse again, and then get everyone settled for the night.”

Fifteen minutes later, all eleven puppies had been fed,
licked by Duchess to ensure they would go to the bathroom, and then been cleaned up by their mama. Because Duchess still had no interest in the littlest one, Ally had taken care of the runt. She'd rubbed a moistened cotton ball across her bottom, and after the desired result, had cleaned her up with more cotton balls, adding a protective application of petroleum jelly.

Amazed that a self-professed city girl like Ally could take so early to such a task, Hank moved the puppies away from Duchess and back into the incubator, one by one, where they would be certain to stay warm.

All except the littlest one.

“You want to put her in the warming box, too?” he asked Ally, before he went up to bed himself.

Her gentle smile beautiful to behold, she cuddled the tiny pup to her chest. “I think I'll hold her just a little while longer,” she murmured, without looking up.

And Hank knew for certain what he'd only guessed before. Ally was in love. With the puppy whose life he had saved…

 

“J
UST A LITTLE WHILE LONGER”
turned out to be most of the night. Hank knew that, because Ally was still up, albeit nodding off, when he rose again at five-thirty. “You've really got to get to some sleep,” he told her, as he put another pot of coffee on the stove.