Half the Ranch Belongs to His Enemy's Daughter

Sierra's POV

The wild mare lay flat against the frosted grass of the north slope, her flanks heaving in irregular, exhausted spasms. Two tiny hooves protruded from the birth canal at a twisted, unnatural angle. A breech presentation.

"The BLM contract vet is an hour out," Wyatt argued over the rumble of idling truck engines. "Let them handle it."

"In an hour, the mare and the foal will both be dead," I snapped, dropping my aluminum medical kit onto the hard dirt. I pointed toward the blinding headlights of the ranch trucks. "You have a choice, Wyatt. Back those vehicles up and clear out your cowboys, or stand here and watch two animals die from stress and a blocked canal."

Wyatt stared at me. He didn't throw Dr. Hale in my face. He didn't mention my father. He spun toward the clustered ranch hands.

"Cole," Wyatt barked. "Kill the headlights and get these men back to the bunkhouse. Now."

Cole stepped forward, his boots crunching on the frost. "You're letting a sanctuary doctor run our night crew?"

Wyatt closed the distance between them, forcing the foreman to step back. "Do what I said."

The trucks reversed, tires spitting gravel, plunging us into the dim, focused beam of my headlamp.

I dropped to my knees behind the mare. "Hold her front shoulders down. Keep her neck flat so she doesn't thrash when the contractions hit."

Wyatt moved instantly. He pinned the mare’s front half, his broad shoulders locking into place. He waited for my next instruction.

I stripped off my denim jacket, sliding my bare arms into the birth canal. The mare groaned, her muscles clamping down like a vice. "Pushing back. Give me a minute to find the joint."

"Take your time," Wyatt grunted, bracing his weight against a sudden, violent kick from her hind legs.

I found the foal's shoulder, corrected the twisted angle, and pulled in time with the mare's next heave. The foal slid free in a rush of fluid, hitting the cold ground. I immediately cleared the thick sac from its nostrils. A tiny, rattling breath filled the quiet night, followed by a weak snort.

Wyatt wiped his forehead with the back of his flannel sleeve. "You don't just write environmental opinions."

"I've never written one of those," I replied, grabbing a rough towel to vigorously rub the foal's ribs.

Tires crunched along the ridge path. Brooke stepped out of a county patrol vehicle, flanked by a uniformed ranger. She bypassed me entirely, walking straight to the shivering foal.

"They aren't domesticated, Sierra," Brooke warned, her tone sharp. "If the ranch pens them, you're looking at illegal tampering charges."

"The ranger can take over at dawn," I said, standing up to face her. "But we need to temporarily close off the broken fence section behind us. If the cattle push through the gap, they'll drive this mare right back down the ice slope."

Brooke crossed her arms. "That cuts off the Mercer cattle rotation for the entire upper pasture. You can't disrupt a working herd for a stray."

Wyatt stepped up beside me. "Losing a little pasture tonight is cheaper than dragging away two carcasses tomorrow morning."

Brooke's mouth formed a tight line. She swallowed whatever argument she had ready. The easy intimacy she usually shared with Wyatt flared and quickly muted, but I didn't miss the loaded glance they exchanged. I kept my guard up. One agreement over a horse didn't erase the rest of our war.

"Fine," Brooke said, adjusting her collar against the wind. "But we've already had two complaints this week about wild horses getting pushed onto the highway by new fencing. Keep your boundaries clean."

I pulled out my phone. I logged the mare’s birth location, the exact fence coordinates, and the breech injuries into the public veterinary database. Nobody was going to claim I corralled a mustang for a pet.

Back at the main house, the kitchen remained freezing. I sat at the island, opening my laptop. An email from my clinic manager sat at the top of the inbox.

Frontier Veterinary Partners - Final Buyout Offer.

They wanted an answer by the end of the month. I built my clinic to escape the shadow of my father's lawsuits and Rowan’s suffocating career plans. Selling it meant surrendering the only thing I owned outright. I clicked archive. I told Wyatt nothing.

Heavy footsteps sounded in the hall. Wyatt stopped outside my door. He tossed a pair of clean leather work gloves onto the floorboards.

"We need to recheck the north slope tomorrow morning," he said. His voice remained rigid, but he didn't question my right to ride out with him.

"I'll be ready," I told him.

I stared at the leather gloves. He respected the work I did tonight, but two days ago he tried to buy me out, and my ex-fiancé currently represented the mining company circling our borders.

Before dawn, static hissed from the two-way radio on the kitchen counter.

"Wyatt, get down to the south herd." Cole's voice cracked through the speaker, pitching high with panic. "The cows won't go near the trough. I got a calf stumbling around, foaming at the mouth."

We took Wyatt’s truck, tires tearing up the dirt road. We hit the south well just as the sun crested the ridge.

I jumped out before the vehicle fully stopped, grabbing my kit. I jogged straight to the metal water trough.

A sickly sweet, astringent chemical odor hit my nose before I even leaned over the edge. I scanned the water surface. No algae blooms. I checked the surrounding dirt. No rotting feed.

"Did the mustangs drag a sickness down here?" Wyatt asked, coming up behind me.

"No." I spun around. "Cole, cut all the water lines to the south well immediately. Drive the herd to the backup trough."

I pulled a glass sampling vial from my bag, plunged it into the trough, and screwed the black plastic cap on tight.

I held the sealed water sample up between us. "From now on, don't let a single cow drink from this well."

Wyatt stared at the vial.

"This isn't disease," I said. "Someone put chemicals in your water."