The Midwife of Hope River by Patricia Harman

decide, it’s still amazing. If I believed, I’d call it God’s miracle.
    â€œThank you for taking me with you,” I say humbly. “I’ve never seen anything born before, except a human. Are they always that way? Or was that an especially hard delivery?”
    â€œNo, it wasn’t especially hard. I’ve never seen a human born. Seen all kinds of animals . . . but . . .” He changes the subject. “Every now and then I need an assistant for the hard deliveries. I’m the only vet in the county now, and my practice is new. Some of the farmers are helpful, and some I wish would just go back in the house. Mr. Hicks was okay, not as nervous as some.
    â€œHorses are like people, all different. Each will react to foaling in her own way. Mares that haven’t foaled before can foal late; then you worry about the size. Also, mares that are nervous struggle more and impede the process.” He’s lecturing now, almost as if I’m a student.
    â€œJust like women in labor,” I comment. “Turn here.” I direct him down Raccoon Lick to Wild Rose Road.
    As we pull into the yard, the vet looks around. “I haven’t been up here before.”
    I take out my timepiece; it’s been four and a half hours since Moonlight was milked. “The barn is in back, but we better wash up.”
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    â€œSorry the water’s cold,” I murmur. We’re in the kitchen, and I ladle almost cool water from the hot-water reservoir on the side of the cookstove. There are only coals left, and the house is growing chilly. “When the fire’s going, the water’s nice and warm.”
    Mr. Hester shrugs and turns to stare through the doorway into my living room. He takes in the piano, the books, the framed paintings on the wall. I realize that he’s the first male to stand in this house since the men from the church brought the piano two years ago.
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    In the barn he’s all business, goes right to Moonlight.
    â€œSee what I mean? It’s a breast infection, isn’t it?” I comment. Then correct myself. “A teat infection, I mean.”
    Hester doesn’t answer. He takes a thermometer out of his box and sticks it into my cow’s rectum. Moonlight barely reacts, just looks back once, her head hanging low. Gently he washes the whole udder with soap and water, then squeezes some kind of salve on his hands and palpates the red, swollen teat. The cow moans and he sees how it hurts her, but he keeps on with his examination.
    I hand over the milk bucket, and he wraps his index finger and thumb around the red, swollen teat, then squeezes down with the other three fingers, careful not to force the milk uphill into the bag. I wince when blood squirts into the bucket.
    The vet stops and examines the sick teat again. “The straw looks clean. Are you routinely washing your hands with soap and water before you milk?”
    â€œYes.” What I want to say is “What do you take me for, a dummy?” but I bite my tongue. No need to be disagreeable.
    The vet gently compresses the bloody teat, up and down, side to side, searching for something. First one side, then the other. I watch his hands, wondering what he’s looking for.
    â€œI think she has an obstruction, not simple mastitis. It might be a milk stone.”
    He reaches into his satchel, selects a small metal box with sterilized instruments, pulls out a scalpel, and before I can say no makes a slit down the side of Moonlight’s sore teat. This time she almost kicks him, but he’s ready for her and ducks away. When she settles, he takes a long pair of curved tweezers and pulls out a white object about the size of a pea. He hands the instrument back, then gets out suture and gauze and begins to blot the oozing red as he sews up the incision in my poor cow’s teat.
    â€œThat’s a milk stone, probably what caused the infection in the first place,”