Free Wanted: Wife by Gwen Jones Page B

this trail was a post road to Camden.”
    “Back when people actually wanted to get to Camden,” I said.
    “Some still do, but not from there.” He made a right onto an even narrower trail. “A friend of mine said some folks from Trenton were sniffing around last month—more than likely from the State Museum, looking for relics.”
    “This friend of yours,” I ventured, “does he live in the woods, too?” “Of course. He works for the fire service— merde!” The truck jangled as it hit a rut. “Sorry about that. Anyway, he works the tower over at Snakes Ridge. He told me we had a big one near there two years ago. Burned for a week and nearly four thousand acres. Ray’s the one who spotted it. Lightning.” He shrugged. “What’re you going to do?”
    “Put it out, I’d imagine.”
    Again, that insular smile. “That’s the general consensus.”
    Suddenly the air changed. It felt denser, even amid all the humidity, yet it took on a spicy freshness. A slight breeze kicked up. “How far out of town will we be?”
    He looked at me, his hair catching the breeze. “Little over five miles, although I prefer to think of it as five miles in .”
    I took a deep breath, settling my hands in my lap.
    He reached over, taking one. “Hell of a wedding, I know. But I’ll make it up to you, I promise. How are you doing otherwise?”
    His hand was warm, his thumb stroking the inside of my palm. “I’m okay.”
    “Glad to hear it.” He gave my hand a squeeze then abruptly let go, twisting the wheel into a sharp right. The over-reaching bushes scraped the side of the truck, the dense foliage overhead closing around us like a tunnel. I glanced to my hand, still warm from Andy’s touch and my heart raced, my throat harboring the occasional gulp. Overcome by exploding nature, my senses worked overtime.
    A couple hundred more feet and the trail opened up into a large, weedy clearing and a small one story wooden house sorely in need of paint, a long barn with more than a few broken windows, several vehicles of questionable operation, an overgrown garden, and to the left, a dock leading to a wide expanse of lake, tall pines rimming it. A moment later, Jinks barreled out of the shed.
    “Jesus, Andy—get in here! I think something’s wrong with Betsy!”
    Andy yanked off his jacket. “Just what I wanted to hear.”
    “Ever done this before?” I asked.
    “No, but I’ve been reading a book.” He grabbed my hand. “Come on.”
    We tore from the truck as a lamentable moooo emanated from inside. Andy threw back the door and there was Betsy, on her belly on a bed of hay, her soft-brown head thrashing side to side. The stalled barn was rife with the scents of manure and alfalfa, tempered somewhat by the opened windows and the fecund odor of bovine birth. Andy whipped his tie off and tossed it to me, rolling his sleeves as he hurried toward the stall.
    “She can’t push it out!” Jinks said, frantic, a book in his hand. “She’s been like this since you left, yelling and mooing.”
    “Damn,” he said, squatting to get a better look. The heifer’s distended belly rippled in a mohair wave, her swollen vulva dripping and contracting. I clamped my hands around the rim of the stall, alternately appalled and fascinated.
    “I guess the water’s broken,” Andy said to Uncle Jinks. “Did you see a hoof?”
    “Yeah,” he answered, but it was pointing up. And according to this book . . .” He tapped a page, “it’s supposed to be facing down.”
    “Like in a diving position,” Andy said. He looked to Jinks, his brow furrowed. “Damn.”
    “What?” I said. “What’s that mean?”
    Jinks closed the book. “Means someone’s gotta reach inside Betsy here and turn her calf around.”
    “What!” I cried. “Call a vet or something!”
    Again, Andy’s insular smile. “She might be dead by then. Or her calf.” He pushed a sleeve up over his bicep and loosed a couple buttons of his shirt, his chin jutting