I open her bedroom door softly and in the shaft of light from the kitchen behind me, I see her asleep in her bed. Quietly, I walk to the side. For a few seconds, I don’t do anything. I can’t. I just stare at her. In sleep, with her blonde hair spread out around her, she is like an angel. This moment when I found her asleep is precious beyond words, and my mind takes a picture of it. For later. For when I am old and sitting on my porch smoking my pipe.

I reach down and gently shake her arm. “Tamara,” I call softly.

“Daddy,” she mumbles in her sleep.

That moment of vulnerability makes something inside me shift, and I feel as if I could give my life up for this beauty. I long to stroke her silky golden hair.

“Wake up, Tamara,” I say.

She opens her eyes and for an instant, she smiles at me. An open, childlike, innocent smile. Totally without guile. “Lars,” she whispers.

I stare at her. How different it would be if this sweet creature was the real her, but as I watch, a veil comes into her eyes and she jerks back.

“What are you doing in my bedroom?”

“Bessie is in labor and Emma Jean said you wanted to see a foal being born. Do you still want to?”

Her eyes widen with surprise. “Yes,” she says nodding her head. “Yes, I do.”

“Okay, get ready and join me in the kitchen.”

I go into the kitchen and stand by the table. My heart is pounding in my chest. There is a saying around these parts. Don’t go in if you don’t know the way out. I don’t know what’s happening to me. I’ve never wanted a woman so badly in my life. I thought it was just lust, but it is more. So much more.

“I’m ready,” she says from behind me.

I whirl around. She is dressed in a plain blue sweatshirt and black jeans. Her hair has not been combed and it makes my fingers itch to run through it, fist it, and turn her face up to mine.

“Come on,” I say, picking up the lantern from the kitchen table.

We walk quickly out of the house into the darkness of the night. The night air is cool and we go quickly toward the barn. I don’t switch on any of the lights to avoid disturbing the other horses. I lead Tamara to the stall thickly laid with hay. It is larger than all the others and designed to give a laboring mother plenty of room to move around. I’ve already tied her tail and she is pawing the ground restlessly. A gust of wind slams against the side of the barn, but inside the stall, the world is warm and humid.

“How do you know she’s ready?” Tamara whispers.

“I’ve been watching her all night.”

“You’ve been up all night.”

“Yup.”

The lantern casts a gentle glow over the mare’s smooth, tan hide. She snorts and tosses her head then slowly comes to a stop. Painfully, she lowers herself to the straw and rolls onto her side, breathing hard, her big belly rising in the light.

It’s almost time.

I point to the milking stool at the corner of the stall and Tamara goes and sits on it. She pulls her knees up to her chin and stares at the mare with wide eyes. I know she’s trying to play it cool, but inside she must be quaking with the same something I felt when I saw my first foal being born. It’s a blend of discovery, fear, joy, and worry, all rolled into an emotion so sharp and strong, it stings your eyes.

I sit back on my heels and watch as the mare turns this way and that, her restless hooves kicking through the hay. She huffs hard through her nose, lifts her huge head, and looks first at Tamara, then me, before she lays back down with a soft groan. Her sides heave with the effort of breathing, and her belly is hard as she bears down, preparing to bring her foal into the world.

“Is the baby coming?” Tamara asks, her voice hushed.

“Nearly. It won’t be long now.”

“Have you seen many births?” Her eyes gleam wetly in the yellow light.

“Many, but the magic never dies,” I tell her.

At that moment, the mare rises to her front knees and rocks back and forth, obviously in the throes of pain. She gets back down on the straw and lies on her side. This time, she pushes long and hard. Suddenly, a bulge appears between her legs and then it is gone. Liquid seeps out.

“Come. You can see it better from here,” I whisper.

Tamara creeps from the stool to sit on her knees next to me. I look over to her and our eyes meet. For a long, excruciating moment, our gazes remain locked. I take a deep breath and it hurts deep at the bottom of my lungs, just as if I’d sucked in a cold blast of mountain air.

Our gaze breaks when the mare kicks at the straw and rolls. This time, the bulge takes more shape. Little hooves wrapped in a white sac appear. I stare intently, ready to jump in and help if necessary. I had to help Bessie once before. I hope I won’t have to again. Tamara creeps closer still.

“What can I do?” she whispers.

“Nothing. Just watch. We’ll intervene if things don’t go smoothly.” We stand guard as the mare pushes again with a long drawn out sigh, this time revealing not only tiny hooves but the nose of her foal as well.

“Oh, my God,” Tamara squeals, her hand clasped over her mouth.

Another gust of wind rattles the old barn. I settle on my knees, a little bit closer to the mare. I look at Tamara and tears are slipping down her face.

“Why are you crying?” I ask, making my way to her side

“She’s in pain and I can’t do anything to help her. Can she even do this on her own?” She sniffs, wiping her tears with the sleeves of her sweatshirt.

I stare at her in amazement. It never crossed my mind that she could feel so much for another creature. How I longed to take her in my arms and comfort her.

“She has to do this part on her own,” I say softly.

She hugs herself. “She’s hurting though.”

“Giving birth hurts, but she’s done it before. It shouldn’t take her too long this time.”

Tamara nods and tries to creep even closer to the mare, but I reach out to her.

“Come back here with me. She might kick out and you could get hurt. Give her plenty of room.”

We sit side-by-side against the wall, watching the mare as she labors to bring her baby into the world. She pushes, then pauses, then pushes again. Each time she pushes the baby a little further out.

“Does it always take this long?” Tamara asks.

“It’s only been fifteen minutes,” I tell her.

“It feels like hours.”

Finally, the baby’s head pops out of the birth canal so suddenly that Tamara gasps. I grin at her.

The mare rests for a bit then pushes again. A sudden gush of red liquid soaks the straw underneath the mare, and the foal begins to slide out, covered in a glistening sac. There’s a small popping sound and the sac rips away. There is nothing left inside but the foal’s hind legs. Bessie lays her head down as if she is done.

The foal lies on the ground, lifeless. I wait for a moment then pick up a piece of straw and gently poke at the baby’s head.

“What are you doing?” Tamara cries, her face a mask of fury. I know what she feels. She is overwhelmed with the need to protect the new baby. She thinks I’m messing with the miracle in front of us.

“I’m making him breathe,” I explain as I tickle the baby’s nostrils with the straw.

The foal suddenly heaves, his whole body shaking as he coughs the tiniest cough imaginable, then his chest rises with a small breath. The second breath is much bigger and a moment after that, the mare pushes one last time and the little one is free.

The foal lifts its head, lays it back down, then tries again.

Tears run completely unheeded down Tamara’s face. I look at the city girl, the painted butterfly who has spent her entire empty life fluttering about in the glare of the media, and all I want to do is wipe away those tears and never let her go again.

I reach out and take her hand.

A spark of static electricity shoots up my arm, heightening everything that is already coursing through my mind. She feels it too, because she jumps. Then she grips my hand hard and together we watch as the foal begins his clumsy journey of standing on his own legs. For almost ten minutes he flops around, trying out his spindly legs, failing, and trying again. Finally, when his exhausted mother reaches her nose out to him, it is as if he takes strength from her. This time when he stands, he stays up.

“It’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen,” Tamara murmurs.

“Yes, it is,” I agree, but I wasn’t talking about just the foal.

Her cheeks become pink with confusion. “I like it here at the ranch,” she whispers. “I like everything about it, but I especially like the way it smells. It’s so crisp and clean that it almost hurts my lungs when I take a deep breath.”

Then she holds her breath, because she’s opened the door to her heart the tiniest little bit, just enough to let in a sliver of light, and if I throw it back in her face, she will slam it shut forever.

For the longest time, there is silence because I can’t find the words. For the first time in my life, I’m at loss for words. “I was going to ask you on a date. I mean, it doesn’t have to be formal if you don’t want it to be. It can be an apology or an actual date. It’s up to you.” Fuck, I sure messed that one up.

The horse neighs loudly and she jumps back and almost hits the foal. I shoot a hand out and catch her by the wrist and pull her toward me. She slams into my body.

“I’ll go on a date with you,” she says, her body molded to mine.

I smile. “Good.”

“So you don’t hate me?” The unguarded words tumble out of her mouth. Her lashes sweep down and she looks up at me through them.

“I never did.”

“I don’t hate you either,” she says, a small smile trembling on her lips.