Fallow Fields

Willa hefts one of the boxes marked “BOOKS” with a grunt. “Good lord, Immy. Did you rob a library on your way out of Chicago?”

“Ha ha,” I say dryly, grabbing another box. “Some of us like to read, you know.”

We work in companionable silence for a while, unpacking my meager belongings. Willa’s already settled into the larger bedroom across the hall, her few personal effects neatly arranged amidst the same worn furniture that fills the rest of the house.

It feels strange, living together like this. We’ve shared hotel rooms on the rare occasions we’ve managed to meet up over the years, but this is different. This is permanent. Or at least, as permanent as our arrangement needs to be.

“About the living arrangements,” Willa says, as if reading my mind. She sets down the empty box she’s been folding and turns to face me, her expression serious. “I think we should establish some ground rules. So things don’t get… messy.”

I nod, feeling suddenly nervous. “Okay. Shoot.”

“First, separate bedrooms. Obviously.” Willa ticks the point off on her fingers. “Second, shared chores. Cooking, cleaning, ranch work. We split it fifty-fifty.”

“Agreed,” I say. I’m not much of a cook, but I’m determined to pull my weight.

“Third, finances,” Willa continues. “We keep everything separate. You cover the mortgage and any major repairs on the ranch. I’ll cover my own expenses and half the utilities.”

I blink, surprised. “Willa, I can’t ask you to–”

“You’re not asking,” she interrupts, her tone firm. “I’m telling you how it’s going to be. This place is a money pit, and I’m not going to let you drown in debt trying to fix it up.”

I open my mouth to argue, then close it again. The set of her jaw tells me there’s no point. “Fine,” I say grudgingly. “But I’m keeping track. I’ll pay you back once the ranch is turning a profit.”

Willa rolls her eyes. “Whatever makes you feel better, Moneybags.”

I stick my tongue out at her, feeling my nerves ease slightly. This is Willa. My Willa. Marriage certificate or not, she’s still the same pragmatic, no-nonsense woman she’s always been.

“Lastly,” Willa says, her tone shifting, becoming more serious. “No emotional entanglements. We’re friends, Immy. Best friends. I don’t want this… arrangement… to mess that up.” She meets my gaze, her brown eyes intense. “If things start to get complicated, we pull the plug. No questions asked.”

I swallow hard, the weight of her words settling over me like a physical thing. “Agreed,” I say softly.

“Okay,” Willa says, some of the tension draining out of her shoulders. “Good.”

She picks up another box, her movements brisk and efficient. I trail behind her, my mind racing.

No emotional entanglements. Right.

So why does the sight of her bending to tuck a stack of towels into the linen closet make my throat go dry?

I give myself a sharp mental shake. Stop it, Imogen. This is Willa. Your friend. Your wife in name only.

But later, as we sit at the kitchen table eating a simple dinner of grilled cheese and tomato soup, our knees bumping under the small surface, I can’t help but notice the way the setting sun catches the red highlights in her hair. The way her eyes crinkle at the corners when she laughs at something I say.

Friends, I remind myself firmly. Just friends.

But as I lie in bed that night, staring at the unfamiliar ceiling, the sound of Willa’s steady breathing drifting across the hall, I can’t shake the feeling that the ground rules we’ve so carefully laid out are already in danger of being irrevocably broken.

The first major test of our arrangement comes sooner than either of us expects. We’ve been married for exactly two weeks when I’m jolted awake in the wee hours by the shrill ring of Willa’s cell phone.

I blink blearily at the clock on my nightstand – 3:47 AM – before stumbling out into the hallway, nearly colliding with Willa as she bursts out of her own room, already pulling a sweater over her pajamas.

“Sorry,” she mutters, already moving past me toward the stairs. “Emergency. One of the Anderson mares is foaling and having trouble.”

“Can I help?” The words are out before I can think them through, born of some instinct I didn’t know I had.

Willa pauses at the top of the stairs, looking back at me in surprise. “You don’t have to do that, Immy. It’s the middle of the night.”

“I know.” I rub my eyes, forcing myself awake. “But I want to. Unless I’d just be in the way.”

She studies me for a long moment, her expression unreadable in the dim glow of the hallway nightlight. Finally, she nods. “Okay. Throw on some boots and meet me at the truck.”

The drive to the Anderson place is short, just a few miles down the gravel road that winds past our property. Willa fills me in as she drives, her hands steady on the wheel despite the urgency of the situation.

“The mare’s name is Daisy. She’s a maiden – first foal. The Andersons think she’s been in labor for a couple of hours with no progress. Could be a lot of things. Malpresentation, maybe. Or just a big foal.”

I nod, absorbing the information. My grandfather had kept horses, and I’d spent enough time around them as a kid to pick up the basics, but Willa’s rapid-fire explanation is mostly Greek to me.

We pull up in front of a sprawling barn, the headlights cutting through the pre-dawn darkness. Mr. Anderson, a grizzled man in his sixties, meets us at the door, his face etched with worry.

“Thank God you’re here, Doc,” he says, clapping Willa on the shoulder. “She’s not doing good.”

Willa gives his arm a reassuring squeeze before striding into the barn, all business. I trail behind, feeling suddenly out of my depth.

The mare is in a large, clean stall at the back of the barn. She’s a beautiful chestnut, her coat dark with sweat. She stands with her head down, sides heaving, clearly exhausted.

Willa moves to her side immediately, running gentle hands over her distended belly. “Hey there, Daisy girl,” she murmurs, her voice low and soothing. “Let’s see what’s going on with you, huh?”

I hover in the doorway, feeling useless, as Willa conducts her examination. She dons a glove and performs an internal check, her expression growing more focused by the second.

“Okay, I feel a nose… and one front hoof…” She frowns, her eyes closing as she concentrates. “But not the other. It feels like the second leg is tucked under. That’s what’s causing the blockage.”

Mr. Anderson groans. “Is the foal okay?”

“It’s still alive,” Willa confirms. “But we need to get it out soon. Daisy’s getting too tired.” She strips off the glove and turns to me. “Immy, I need you to hold Daisy’s head. Keep her calm while I try to reposition the foal.”

I swallow hard, my heart pounding, but I nod. “Okay.”

I move to the mare’s head, stroking her sweat-dampened neck and murmuring nonsense words as Willa gets back to work. The mare tosses her head, a low groan rumbling in her chest, but I keep my touch steady, my voice calm.

“You’re doing great, Daisy,” I murmur. “Such a good girl. You’re so brave.”

Minutes stretch by, punctuated by the mare’s labored breathing and Willa’s occasional muttered instructions to herself. My arms start to ache from holding the mare’s head steady, but I don’t dare move.

Finally, Willa lets out a triumphant sound. “Okay, I’ve got it! The leg’s free. Next contraction, Daisy, push!”

As if on cue, the mare’s belly tightens, her sides heaving. With a guttural groan, she bears down, and I watch in awe as a pair of tiny hooves emerge, followed by a velvety nose.

“Okay, good girl, keep pushing!” Willa says, her voice rising with excitement.

The foal slips out in a rush of fluid, a dark, wet bundle that lies motionless for a heart-stopping moment. Then it gives a tiny, shuddering breath, its sides expanding.

Willa quickly clears its nostrils and rubs it down with a towel, and within seconds the foal is blinking up at its mother, its long lashes framing dark, curious eyes.

I let out a breath I didn’t know I was holding, my knees suddenly weak. Mr. Anderson is openly crying, wiping at his eyes with the back of his hand.

“You did it, Doc,” he says, his voice thick with emotion. “I can’t thank you enough.”

Willa waves him off, but I can see the pleased flush on her cheeks. “Just doing my job,” she says gruffly.

We stay long enough to make sure both mare and foal are stable and to give Mr. Anderson instructions on what to watch for. By the time we head back to the truck, dawn is breaking over the mountains, painting the sky in shades of pink and gold.