Make-Believe Mum

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This book is lovingly dedicated to my husband,

Tony, and son, Justin, for their constant love and

support in spite of my obsession with made-up

worlds; my mother, Julia, who patiently read and

reread the different versions; and my Aunt Grace,

whose faith in me never wavers.

CONTENTS

ACKNOWLEDGMENT

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

ACKNOWLEDGMENT

I would like to thank the following people for their knowledge, support, willingness to help, encouragement and input. Any misinterpretations or errors belong to me, not them.

My critique partners: Eleanor, Sylvia and Kris, who know this story backward and forward.

Barb McCritty, an extremely knowledgeable rancher from Wyoming, who gave me invaluable insights; Sandra Cahill of 63 Ranch near Livingston, Montana, who answered my questions about Kaycee and made her look good. Also, Noelle in Big Sky for pointing me to the ambience of Rainbow Ranch for that special date.

Bora Sunseri, who answered question after question about Child Protection Services and how a good social worker would interact with a family. Flavia Wright, science teacher, for input on school disciplinary issues.

Wally Lind and all the folks on his Crimescenewriter group, who answered many technical questions on child abuse, law enforcement and search and rescue.

Dr. C. J. Lyons, pediatric emergency physician, for emergency medical procedures.

CHAPTER ONE

TOMORROW HAD TO be better—if only he could make it through today. In weary frustration, Jon Rider wiped the sweat off his forehead with his upper arm. The anxious mother-to-be in front of him, held immobile by the headgate of the calving pen, lowed in distress and kicked at her swollen belly.

“Yeah, I don’t blame you,” Jon muttered. “I wouldn’t want to be in your position.”

His own position wasn’t ideal, up past the elbow in the slippery birth canal of a first-year heifer. His hand measured the breadth of the two hooves stuck in the pelvic opening with little room for them to push through, and none for the calf’s head. Jon’s bare chest gleamed with sweat, blood and sticky amniotic fluid. For most of an hour, he’d been trying to turn the big calf so he and Clint could pull it, but he had resolved himself to the hard truth. This baby wasn’t coming out the back door any way you looked at it, and a C-section was out of his league. If he didn’t get help soon, he stood to lose both mother and calf—something he couldn’t afford just now.

“No luck, huh,” Clint said, striding loose-jointed down the aisle of the calving barn.

Jon extricated his arm and got up. “Not a bit. Is the vet coming?”

“Got the answering service.” He raked his tousled sandy hair back and reset his hat. “Said she’d send out somebody named Dr. K. C. Calloway soon as she could.”

“Great,” Jon said. “Must be the young vet that took over old Doc Adams’s practice. Know anything about him?”

“Naw, no reason to.” Clint Ford had been foreman at the R-Bar-R ranch for thirty years. The veteran cowhand held to the old way of doing things, hands on and without outside help.

K. C. Calloway. Sounded like an outlaw’s name. Hopefully the new vet could handle the job. Having learned from the best—his dad and Clint—Jon prided himself in rarely needing a vet. Birth was a natural progression on a ranch, as was death. Repositioning and pulling a calf was routine. But this narrow heifer needed help he couldn’t give her. He had an excellent calving setup, so a C-section on the premises wouldn’t be a problem—if the vet ever arrived.

“I’ll finish feeding in the other barn unless you need me for something here,” Clint said.

“I don’t know anything we can do right now. Go ahead.”

In the washroom, Jon lathered his chest and arms, toweled off, then slipped his flannel shirt on, letting it hang loose over his jeans. Pacing to the end of the barn, he scowled down the empty road leading to the ranch, then glanced toward the house.

Hopefully, things were going better there than with the heifer lowing behind him. Jon still expected Alison to walk out, waving for him to come in for breakfast. He shook his head. Impossible. She was gone.

And so was the last housekeeper. So, maybe the twins had locked her in the cellar and maybe they had threatened to burn her at the stake if she didn’t bake cookies. Was that really a good reason to walk out on him? They were five years old—they couldn’t even reach the matches. A smile twitched at his lips. They were just boys.

Clint joined him at the door, restless, shuffling his six-foot-four frame from foot to foot.

“Aren’t you supposed to be somewhere with Claire this afternoon?” Jon asked.

“Some kinda music recital she’s in. Don’t matter. You need me here….”

“And what are you going to do if you stay? You can’t get that calf out any better than I can.” He knew how much it meant to Clint to make up for lost time with his daughter. She’d only come to live with him this year, to attend Montana State University in Bozeman. They’d been separated by distance since Clint’s divorce when Claire was nine. “Once the vet comes, the section won’t take but the two of us. Go on with Claire.”

Gratitude and relief swept over Clint’s leathery face. “You sure, Jon? You know I’ll hang around.”

“Claire’s more important. Clean up and get out of here. If I need help, I’ll pull somebody off another job.”

Clint bobbed his head once and disappeared around the corner. Alone in the shadow of the barn, Jon’s gaze drifted to the wild beauty of the high country, but even with the sun glinting off the snowcapped peaks, it didn’t touch him today. Only hinted of early floods.

Everything about this winter had bitten him hard. Stunned into slow motion over the past year, he’d inadvertently let some things slip between the cracks—important things, things he’d never been careless of before. This heifer for example.

He always bred a first-year heifer for a small calf, but during breeding season, his in-laws hit him with that lawsuit over custody of the kids….

Jon pivoted on his heel toward the suffering heifer, his jaw clenched so hard the muscles ached. He couldn’t absorb many more losses.

Where the hell was that vet! He strode to the phone on the post and was punching in the number when the crunch of tires on gravel followed by the slam of a door caught his attention.

“Well, finally,” he said, hanging up. Silhouetted against the bright sunshine outside, the vet walked into the dark barn holding a large metal case in either hand. Jon couldn’t make out any features but he noticed the vet’s frail frame. Somehow he had a hard time picturing this guy pulling an obstinate calf out of a cow’s backside or manhandling an irate bull.

As the vet approached, Jon’s gaze traveled slowly upward, taking in coveralls tucked into Justin boots, shapely legs and sleeves rolled to the elbows displaying smooth, well-muscled forearms. A baseball cap shaded one of the prettiest faces he’d ever seen.

A woman?

Just showed how much he got into town these days, else he’d have heard about this. The new vet was a woman. And she was watching him with intense green eyes. Her light brown hair was swept back into a ponytail and looped through the hole in back of her cap, but a few curling tendrils had escaped.

She smiled as she put down one of the medical cases and held out her hand. “Hi, I’m Katherine Calloway, Kaycee for short. I believe you’re Mr. Rider?”

“Yes. Jon Rider. Glad you’re here.” Impressed with her firm, confident handshake and enthralled by her soft-spoken Southern drawl, Jon reserved judgment about her vetting ability.

Kaycee cocked her head slightly. “Yes, I’m a woman. Yes, I’m a vet. Yes, I can pull a calf.”

Jon hoped the dim light hid the embarrassment he felt. She smiled again, released his hand and picked up the metal box.

“Let’s see what we can do for you.”

Jon cleared his throat and tried to clear his head as he led the way. “Pretty sure she needs a C-section. Calf’s huge, she’s not.” He stepped aside when they reached the heifer.

Kaycee didn’t look around, but she could sense Jon Rider watching her every move as she opened her cases. She’d learned to get on with the job before the ranchers had time to object to her being a woman. Generally, once she successfully treated their animals, they grudgingly accepted her.

Although he hid it well, she sensed Jon’s skepticism, but to his credit, he hadn’t been rude to her like some had. No snide comments, no come-on for a date or worse—at least not yet. Whatever he might think of a young female vet, he was keeping it to himself and Kaycee appreciated that.

Or maybe he was just worried about his livestock. With good reason, Kaycee saw at once, as the heifer strained. Kaycee slipped on a shoulder-length OB glove and did a quick exam. This calf was locked solidly behind the mother’s pelvic bone.

“You’re right, she needs a Caesar. Let’s prep her.” Kaycee pulled a pair of electric clippers from her equipment chest. “Where can I plug these in?”

“I can shave her while you wash up,” Jon said. He pointed out the washroom across the aisle.

“I’m going to give her a sedative to calm her, then a paravertebral block on the left side. Shave along her spine and from here to here and down her side.” Kaycee indicated with her hands the area from the heifer’s top midline to low on the flank.

By the time she returned, Jon had done an expert job of shaving the cow. Kaycee prepped the area, injected lidocaine along the edges of the vertebrae to block the nerves and laid out her instruments beside Jon’s pulling chains. By now, the barn smelled strongly of antiseptic mingled with warm animal hide, sweet hay and human tension, the familiar scent of the career Kaycee had chosen long ago. Clean hay had been spread around the calving area.

Kaycee cast a glance at Jon. “Nice spread. How many head do you run?”

“Thousand to fifteen hundred, year to year.”

Kaycee raised her eyebrows as she calculated the range necessary to graze that big a herd. Forty or fifty thousand acres. And this was the first time she’d been called out here.

Kaycee’s scalpel sliced smoothly just behind the ribs, through thick hide and muscle. The anesthetized heifer munched contentedly on a sheaf of hay, unconcerned that her side now lay open under the surgical drape. “How long has she been in labor?”

“Couple of hours before I called you, maybe. We had her on close watch since yesterday. She was fine through the night, started showing signs of trouble this morning,” Jon said, his voice edged with concern. “Calf locked up. I tried to turn it, but she was pushing too hard. Couldn’t budge it.”

“It’s way too big. Sometimes Mother Nature plays tricks like that.”

A careful second cut opened the peritoneum. Kaycee gently moved the rumen aside, then reached into the heat of the heifer’s body, searching by feel for a foot to use as a guide to cut into the uterus. Finding it, she made a precise incision and extended the opening enough to deliver the calf without tearing. As she drew the foot out, Jon passed her a pulling chain, which she popped over the calf’s leg above the fetlock adding a half hitch below to give surer purchase on the slippery legs. Handing the first chain off to Jon, Kaycee groped through the warm blood until she found the calf’s other hind leg and attached the second pulling chain. Once the uterus was open, there was precious little time to get the calf out alive.

She worked quickly, with deft, practiced hands, ignoring the trickle of sweat down her forehead. She didn’t want to admit that this baby’s life might already be beyond saving. She sensed that same dread in Jon Rider, as he watched in silence.

Kaycee nodded. “Okay, let’s get it out.”

Jon set his full weight against the chains. She grabbed the calf’s slippery hindquarters. Together they struggled to tug the sodden calf out of the steaming security of its mother’s body.

“Daddy! Oh, yuck, what are you doing?”

Startled, Kaycee hazarded a quick glance at the breathless little girl pushing long, sun-streaked hair out of her eyes and staring in disgust at the cow’s bloody side.

“Not now, Michele.”

“But, Daddy, you have to come in—”

“Not now,” Jon said in a sterner voice.

“But, Daddy, Rachel says—”

“Is Bo worse?”

“No, sir.”

“Is anybody hurt?”

“No, sir.”

“Is the house on fire?” Jon shot the questions at her in staccato succession, his voice choked from the effort to free the calf.

“No. But—”

“Then it can wait. Go back in the house.”

“Dad-dy.”

“Go!” Jon ordered, repositioning his weight, subtly changing the direction of the leverage.

“Good,” Kaycee said. “It’s coming. Just slow.”

The wide-eyed girl turned and ran. Kaycee concentrated on her work, but it worried her that the child had seemed frightened. Maybe it was just the shock of coming upon a cow with her belly slit and a calf hanging half out.

Jon made no further comment as he strained harder against the chains.

“We need somebody else to pull,” Kaycee said, her knuckles white as she gripped the slippery skin.

“I don’t have anybody else around right now,” Jon muttered between clenched teeth. “Stubborn little fellow.”

Kaycee dug her heels in, knowing her strength would fail soon. Stinging sweat trickled into her eyes. Jon braced a booted foot against a support post and widened his stance. Sweat streamed down his face, too, veins popped out in his neck and his hard thigh muscles swelled beneath his jeans as he grunted with the effort. The chains inched back, digging into his leather gloves.

The calf’s body shifted and the suction of the uterus gave way with a soft whoosh. The massive black calf squirted into Kaycee’s arms, its weight staggering her backward. Jon caught her against his chest. He reached around her, grasped the big calf by the hind legs and hauled it out of her grip, gently shaking it to clear the mucus.

“Take care of my heifer,” Jon said. “I’ll see to this one.”

Kaycee jerked her head toward one of her cases. “There’s a resuscitator in there. Looks like you might need it.”

Finding no postpartum problems, Kaycee cleaned and sutured the incision layer by layer. Behind her she heard Jon working feverishly with the calf, talking softly, urging it to live. All the while the mother stood patiently, her pain relieved by the anesthetic. She tried once or twice to look around for her calf, but the headgate restricted her. After a penicillin shot to waylay infection, Kaycee gathered her equipment.

She flicked a glance at Jon. He sat on the floor of the barn, his broad shoulders hunched over the black calf gathered in his arms like a child. He’d given up on the artificial resuscitator and was blowing his own breath into the calf, determined to force life into it. He jumped when Kaycee stooped beside him and put her hand on his shoulder.

“It’s too late. He was probably dead before we pulled him.”

“It’s not too late.” Jon blew another stubborn breath into the calf’s nostrils.

“Use the resuscitator.”

“Tried it,” Jon said between breaths. “This is better.”

Kaycee ran her fingers up and down the limp calf’s sides, encouraging circulation. Still the baby didn’t move. She watched Jon’s desperate attempt to infuse life where there wasn’t any.

“Jon,” Kaycee said. “It’s too—”

A tiny hoof quivered. Jon blew gently into the baby’s nose again. A shiver ran down the slick black body. Jon grinned. “Told you.”

Another five minutes of nurturing and the newborn was breathing without help. Gently Jon carried it to a box stall and laid it in the corner. He took off the soiled leather gloves and pulled his shirt collar over to wipe his mouth.

“I’ll milk the heifer and get a first meal down this little one,” he told Kaycee. “Then hope Mom takes over.”

While Jon coaxed colostrum from the heifer’s udder and made up a bottle, Kaycee removed the chains from the slender hind legs and laid them across the top of the stall door. Jon gave her the bottle to feed while he steadied the newborn calf. When the bottle was empty, he released the heifer into the stall.

“Maybe there’s enough afterbirth left for her to recognize her baby. Never should have happened this way, but looks like it turned out okay.”

“Looks like,” Kaycee said with a smile. “Really big calf, though. Over a hundred pounds, I’d guess.”

“Yep, felt that way. My fault, too. I should have had my mind on my business when I bred her, but I—” Jon stared at the confined heifer nosing her calf. “I just didn’t,” he said finally.

He studied Kaycee with eyes as deep blue as the Montana sky. His dark good looks overshadowed his somber, drawn expression. As tall as she was at five foot ten, she still had to look up to meet his gaze.

“You did a good job,” he said. “I’m impressed.”

“Thank you. I’m glad I could help.” Warmth spread through Kaycee’s midsection. Why did it thrill her that this particular rancher was pleased with her work? Before this, she’d only felt a satisfying triumph when she proved one more cowboy wrong about her.

They reached for the chains at the same time. Jon’s hand accidentally closed over hers. A frisson of electricity crackled through her body. He tightened his grip and lifted her hand off the chains, so he could pick them up.

“I guess we need to clean up,” he said, in a deep, low voice that resonated through her.

Kaycee cleared her throat and nodded. The barn was suddenly awfully close and overly warm.

“Urmmmm!”

Jon and Kaycee jerked apart at the sound of the accusatory grumble. A woman wearing a severely cut gray business suit glinted a hard look at them from a few feet away. No doubt they were a pretty sight, covered as they were with the drying remnants of new life.

Jon frowned at the newcomer. “Can I help you?”

Michele, along with another girl about her age and identical twin boys about five years old darted around the woman and regrouped behind Jon.

“I’m Nancy Hawthorn, the county social worker. Are you Jonathan Rider?”

“Yes,” Jon said with a hesitant nod.

The woman approached, clutching a writing pad to her chest. Her eyes darted to the pool of blood and fluid on the floor, then to the cow and calf in the stall.

“May I speak to you alone, Mr. Rider?”

Jon indicated for her to follow him, detouring briefly to the washroom to wash his hands and arms and roll his shirtsleeves down. They stopped to talk in the doorway of the barn. Kaycee couldn’t quite make out the conversation from where she stood with the children.

Before Kaycee could make a move to collect her things, she saw Jon’s face suffuse with anger and he clenched his fists.

“Child neglect? What in hell are you talking about?”

Kaycee wasn’t sure what to do. To get to her truck, she’d have to pass close enough to Jon and the social worker to eavesdrop. Although she’d always been a bit nosy, this conversation seemed too personal for idle curiosity. The four children, however, had no such qualms. Little by little they inched closer to the adults. Kaycee crossed the aisle to clean up. She slipped out of the soiled coveralls, rolled them into a ball and tucked them into a plastic bag in one of her medical cases, then washed her hands again. Wiping her boots clean in the thick hay, she glanced around for another way out of the barn.

She spied a back door, but couldn’t be sure if she could get to her truck that way. The voices at the end of the barn grew louder, more strident. She turned, staring at the two dark figures against the bright light, so focused on each other that Kaycee doubted they would notice if she made a discreet escape around them.

Hoisting her cases, she edged down the aisle, stopping when she reached the tight cluster of wide-eyed children hanging on every word of the argument.

“Mr. Rider,” Mrs. Hawthorn said, holding the notepad to her chest, “I’m here for your children’s welfare.”

“By scaring them out of their minds?” Jon snapped.

Kaycee wanted to tell him to calm down. He wouldn’t do himself any good by losing his temper.

“I have no intention of frightening them. But, I must advise you that Montana law gives me full authority to speak to your children, without your consent and without your being present. Now, if you’ll just answer a few questions, perhaps we can resolve this quickly.”

Jon’s jaw muscle ticked. He took a couple of breaths before he spoke again. “I’m sorry. You took me by surprise. Who made this accusation?”

“By state law, I can’t reveal that information.”

“Wait a minute,” Jon said, his voice growing harsh again. “You can come into my house—harass my children, interrogate me—because of somebody’s unsubstantiated accusation? And you won’t tell me who made it?”

“Can’t, Mr. Rider. I am not allowed to give you that information.”

“I don’t believe this.” Jon raked a hand through his already disheveled hair. “How am I supposedly neglecting my children?”

Mrs. Hawthorn consulted her notes. “According to the report I received you do not have proper supervision for your seven…?”

Mrs. Hawthorn cocked an inquisitive eyebrow at Jon. Kaycee automatically raised her eyebrows, too. Seven?

Jon nodded and Mrs. Hawthorn went on, “Seven children. That the younger children may be suffering from neglect. That there is a scarcity of food in the house, that the kids are not being fed, clothed or tended properly.”

“That’s not true. I have two freezers full of food in there. Who around here would say something like—” Jon’s eyes narrowed. “My in-laws! That’s who it is, isn’t it? The Arants from San Francisco.”

“I’m sorry, I can’t—”

“Yeah, I know, you can’t give me that information. You don’t have to. All right, ask your questions.”

“Your children are Rachel, aged twelve, Samantha, eleven, Wendy, nine, Michele, eight, twins Tyler and Zachary, five, and Bowie, two. Is that correct?”

“Yes.”

“Your wife Alison passed away last year?”

“Fourteen months, five days, three hours and I can give you the minutes if you need that, too,” Jon said, hiding whatever emotion he might be feeling.

Kaycee’s lips parted slightly at the startling revelation and she looked at the motherless children through new eyes.

Mrs. Hawthorn’s expression was a mix of sympathy and impatience as she jotted a note. “And you make your living by ranching alone?”

“Yes.”