A Cowboy Under the Mistletoe by CATHY GILLEN THACKER

done it before. I helped deliver a litter of Labrador retriever puppies on our ranch, when I was a kid.” That had been one of the most exciting and meaningful experiences of his life.
    Ally put the pages aside and wrung her hands. “Can’t your cousin do this? He is a vet!”
    Annoyed by her lack of faith, Hank frowned. “There’s no reason for Kurt to do this when I can handle it.”
    Ally lifted a brow, unconvinced.
    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 Garrettloathed 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…
    â€œGood,” 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.
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    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, Allyrushed 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