A Cowboy Under the Mistletoe by CATHY GILLEN THACKER Page B

watched him remove the placenta and gently clean away any remaining afterbirth with the skill of a veteranrancher. “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.
    â€œShe’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.

Chapter Five
    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 fatigueand 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.
    â€œThanks.” 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