Touching the Moon Read online

  Julie chuckled. “I like taking care of animals because they love so easily, so unconditionally. Fallston needed a vet, so here I am. The Sweeting place is a doll-house. I’m living right out of the pages of the Brothers Grimm. I have no family here, and I’m not afraid of lions, tigers or bears provided that there is a solid safety barrier between us.”

  “I do believe you addressed every burning issue I had,” he said with a grin.

  “I aim to please.”

  “I can see that.” He took a sip of coffee and eyed her speculatively. “How do you handle pressure?”

  “I like to think that I’ve got a good head on my shoulders.”

  “How do you handle sexism?”

  She looked up at him in surprise.

  “This is the Wild West, Ms. Hastings. When a cowboy comes to town looking for help with a breech birth, he might not count you as viable assistance.”

  “Why did you hire me then?”

  “I didn’t,” Cole responded in a level, matter-of-fact tone. “That Kyle Johnson, newly retired to sunny Florida, did.”

  “I see,” she said, her stomach flipping. Suddenly, her hands were quite clammy and cold.

  He studied her carefully. “I’m thinking that you’ve got enough spunk in you to turn around popular opinion about your competency among the cattle folk. Just make sure you don’t make a mistake. Not one.”

  “Talk about pressure.”

  “You seem to have a good head on your shoulders,” he countered, sending her own words back at her. “Have you worked with large animals before?”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you have a healthy respect for things with teeth?”

  “Absolutely. Regardless of size.”

  “We have a lot of wild animals out here. You should always be on guard both inside and outside the office.”

  “Outside?”

  “If you hike, wear a bell on your belt. Keeps the bears away. Unfortunately, some say the damn thing attracts wolves.”

  “You’ve got to be kidding,” she said, her face incredulous.

  “No. Unfortunately, I’m not. One rancher put bells on all of his sheep. So, as I’m told, now the chimes kind of work like a dinner bell.”

  “Oh!” Julie exclaimed, her hand flying to her throat.

  “And wear boots that cover your ankles if you do opt to hike. They protect against snakebite and sprains.”

  “Anything else?”

  “Watch out for elk. They might be standing in your driveway when you come home at night. My cousin is your realtor. The Sweeting place borders the woods. You don’t want to hit one, and you certainly don’t want one to trample you in a frightened rage.”

  Julie nodded, thinking of her bell-less hike over the weekend. Then she did a mental shift as she registered the lack of privacy so typical of small towns. His cousin, the realtor?

  “Danger is greatest at twilight, especially when driving a car. The animals are moving and they cross the roadways as they get ready to bed down for the night. They also move right before a rain or snowfall. A lot of animals on the roadways are a sure sign of weather moving in.”

  The door jingled and Rose waltzed in carrying a tray of spice cupcakes. “Good morning,” she enthused. “I brought us a treat for your first day. Sorry about Friday.”

  Julie looked to Cole and explained her brief fly-by upon her arrival in town.

  “Well, shall we give you the grand tour first?” Cole asked, refilling her coffee mug.

  “Sure,” Julie said, mentally trying to digest the list of warnings, cautions, and snippets of sage advice. She was a vet and not ignorant of the animal kingdom, but South Dakota sounded like a different kind of world.

  “Let’s get you acclimated.”

  Somehow, Julie thought, getting acclimated might take a little more time and effort than anticipated.

  The first few months were a blur. She gave all the appropriate booster shots for rabies and distemper, prescribed pregnancy vitamins, gave tick baths and extracted a mini-Frisbee from the stomach of a pygmy goat.

  Cole was still handling most of the big-animal house calls while she learned the ropes. She genuinely enjoyed his company. Rose’s too. The three of them worked well together and they worked hard. There were a lot of animals in Fallston.

  It had taken her over two weeks to get rid of the chemical miasma that had greeted her upon her first visit. She changed their cleaning products, purchased Bad Air sponges and single-handedly gifted Arm & Hammer baking soda their annual sales numbers within a fortnight.

  It was tough for her furry friends to heal in a “sick” building, and tough for her to work in such an environment as well. As she entered the office, she took a sniff and smiled secretly.

  Cole hadn’t said anything about the change in the atmosphere, though she did see him heft a Bad Air sponge on the first day of her stench campaign. He had pursed his lips thoughtfully, set the sponge down, and gone about his routine.

  He watched her as she worked, but was never obtrusive about it. He gave her a lot of space and she filled that space gratefully. She was polite with their customers. She was competent and dependable. She worked hard for him and even harder to win his approval.

  She had made big points when she had been entrusted with kennel duty one weekend. It had been her turn to take care of the boarders, but while she fed the four-legged ones Saturday and Sunday, she took care of the kennel too. Cole had been thinking of replacing the linoleum, but what greeted him Monday morning was so brilliantly white and pristine that he opted to order new furniture for the reception area instead.

  He had commented on the kennel cleaning then handed her a few office furniture catalogues over coffee mid-week saying something about her being a breath of fresh air. She had blushed at his choice of words, but was inwardly pleased. She dog-eared certain preferred selections and handed the catalogues back to him the next day.

  He had ordered what she had suggested, much to her delight. As she got a pot of coffee brewing, she surveyed the reception room, picturing in her mind’s eye how it would look in a few months’ time.

  The front door jingled. It was early yet, and she frowned at the intrusion. Two Native Americans struggled with the door as they lugged a stretcher through. She set her coffee down and raced to assist.

  A wolf lay unconscious on the gurney, blood dripping freely onto the reception floor.

  “This way,” she instructed, ushering them into examination room #1. She slipped on a pair of gloves.

  “Gunshot wound,” said the elder man.

  The animal’s breathing was fast and shallow. She slipped a muzzle onto the unconscious animal and hooked up an I.V. with saline, then shot a sedative into the catheter. Her actions were automatic as her professional training kicked in.

  “Is he someone’s pet?”

  “Feral.”

  She quickly checked the wolf’s body from snout to tail looking for injuries other than the huge, gaping holes in its abdomen. The bullet had passed all the way through. There were both entrance and exit wounds.

  “Why was he shot?” she asked, aligning her surgical equipment on a tray.

  “Ranchers and wolves don’t peacefully coexist.”

  Julie grunted and nodded her head in understanding. “The nurse isn’t here yet,” she said. “Can you help me? He’s losing a lot of blood.”

  The elder man nodded. “I’m Ben Half Moon.”

  “Julie Hastings.”

  “Whoever did this used a powerful rifle,” she said, exploring the wound. “With a very big bullet.” She’d seen her share of bullet wounds in the dogs that had developed a taste for chicken back in Virginia. Live chickens. Farmers didn’t take kindly to four-legged predators, domesticated or not.

  “Ben, slip on a pair of gloves. I’m going to need you to unwrap some packets of gauze and place them on my tray as I ask for them. The gauze is on the far counter.”

  She gestured with her chin. “Grab some suture packets while you’re a
t it.”

  “Sure.”

  It was the last time she looked up. She staunched the bleeding by cauterizing the severed blood vessels, siphoned out the gastric juices from the abdominal cavity in order to avoid corrosion then injected a saline wash to prevent infection. In the interim, Ben did whatever was asked of him. The other Native American was clearly uncomfortable with the surgery and excused himself to the waiting room.

  “You ought to have considered a medical career,” she teased, dropping a wad of blood-soaked gauze into the pail at her feet.

  “I don’t do well with the injured. Suffering upsets me greatly.”

  “More gauze.”

  He placed another wad on her tray.

  “You are looking at this backwards,” she chided. “The wolf isn’t suffering. He is being healed.”

  “How old are you?” Ben asked quietly.

  She glanced up at him with a tight smile.

  “Old. Don’t let my looks fool you.”

  Julie discarded another blood-soaked gauze.

  “I am fooled by very little,” he said.

  She gave him a hard look. “Then you know that your wolf is getting better every minute. Suture packet, please.”

  “I’m here,” said Rose, swinging through the door of the examination room.

  “Can you ready a comfy kennel for me, one with a foam floor? I’ll need a big space, but don’t give him too much room to move around. This big boy is going to need to lie very still for a while.”

  “I’m on it,” chirped Rose.

  “Will he make it?” asked Ben.

  “The bullet just nicked the duodenum, but the rest of his intestines are intact,” she said, as she sewed the wounds closed. “But, it’s a gut wound and the wound is serious. It is definitely life-threatening.”

  “Will he make it?”

  “I won’t know for sure until tomorrow, Ben.”

  The Sioux nodded. “You will save him. I know you will.”

  Julie looked up at him in surprise.

  “You are more than a doctor. You are a healer. I feel better and I’m not even the patient.”

  4

  Ben’s words were all she could think about.

  After the operation, the wolf was moved into the kennel. Although it proved problematic and inconvenient, Julie managed to move all the boarders in that room to other areas of the building so that the wolf would have true peace and quiet.

  She placed a few extra Bad Air sponges near his kennel and opened a window to give him some ventilation to make sure his senses weren’t overly offended. A feral wolf had sensibilities a hospital environment would diametrically oppose. She monitored him carefully. He was well-sedated for the first day or two. Protocol mandated a soft, bland diet, but the wolf turned his nose up at the canned food she offered him. He was despondent and she worried.

  After two days of not eating, Julie made him a savory broth from roasted veal and beef bones. It was full of marrow and sage, pureed carrots, turnips and onion. His nose flared the moment she placed the bowl in front of him.

  “Come on, Big Boy,” she soothed. “Eat for me.”

  He did.

  Always harboring a healthy fear of “teeth”, as Cole put it, she passed his food bowl beneath the grill and stepped back, her voice soft and melodic. He watched her as he ate. And she watched him. In fact, he wouldn’t eat without her. So she spent considerable time on the kennel floor.

  She fed him well and gradually nursed him back to health. As the days passed, she sat closer and closer to the cage. He didn’t shy away. In fact, if she came in for a social visit to deliver a stick of beef jerky, he seemed genuinely happy to see her.

  It saddened her more than she cared to admit when Ben Half Moon came to claim him, but she was happy for his release.

  Lions and tigers and bears! Oh, my!

  On Saturday, she went for a hike in the state park. It was a warm day and the heat made the air fill with the heady scent of resin. She sported a nice pair of over-the-ankle leather boots, backpack, and a bell that jingled on her belt.

  There would be no bears with the noise she was making as she climbed a vertical trail of rock and scree. She took an ancillary path off of the main track and followed it through the forest of Ponderosa pine and spruce. The woods grew deep and very, very hush. Unconsciously, she altered her footfall so that it made less noise.

  There was a deep green pool fed by both stream and waterfall at path’s end. She spread a blanket and stretched out in the warmth of the sun’s rays. She ate her picnic lunch and drank the contents of her water bottle. And her eyelids grew heavy as the sun warmed her. The breeze buffeted her body in soft percussion. Woods. Warmth. It was such sweet surrender.

  She awoke with a start.

  The sunlight was golden and mellow through the leaf canopy above her. She must have dozed for an hour or two. Her head swiveled quickly to scope her surroundings and jolted back in shock when she found an enormous wolf watching her serenely from a rock outcrop above.

  She scrambled to her feet, her heart hammering. The wolf trotted down off of the rock escarpment and entered the clearing where she had napped. He approached her tentatively then sat on his haunches as if asking silent permission.

  Her mouth went dry.

  The wolf inched toward her, crawling on his belly, and she tried to quell her panic, but her fear was a tangible thing. She broke out into a sheen of acrid sweat. She was trembling so hard her knees knocked together.

  She stood frozen to the spot as the animal drew closer. And as he drew closer, he hugged the ground. He licked her foot then rolled over exposing his underbelly.

  “Big Boy?” Her voice was corn-husk dry. She didn’t know what to think. He wiggled his body, his tongue lolling, mouth open, four legs pawing upward.

  She knelt down slowly and rubbed him. This was a feral wolf? He grunted with satisfaction as she massaged his legs and loved upon his ears and neck. She checked his underbelly. The wound was scabbed over and whole.

  “Good to see you, Big Boy. Thank you for remembering me!” she cooed.

  He sat up abruptly, and suddenly, they were face-to-face and eye-to-eye.

  She looked down immediately, knowing that such close eye contact would be interpreted as a challenge. He moved closer to her, and with dawning awareness, she realized just how vulnerable she was, her naked throat but a foot from a wild animal with very large teeth.

  She stood slowly and the animal watched her. She packed up her things, eyeballing him surreptitiously. When she started back down the trail, he shadowed her. But, with each step, she grew more comfortable. He walked close to her… always touching her leg.

  “Jeesh,” she exclaimed after a piece. “You are a tactile animal aren’t you? Needy, needy, needy.”

  When she got close to the end of the trail, she stopped and tentatively stroked his back and flanks. He grunted in satisfaction. Her hands moved hesitantly to his chest and he pressed himself into her, voicing his pleasure. She scratched his ears and he groaned.

  “Damn!” she said. “You are a most expressive beast!”

  Then, without warning, he opened his mouth a fraction. All the fangs were there at the ready. She froze. In fact, she stopped breathing. Into the stillness, a pink tongue escaped to lick her hand. She collapsed on her knees in a pool of jitters. The wolf, sensing her anxiety, laid his head on her shoulder. This did nothing to quell her fear.

  The both of them were locked, not sure as to how to move, when suddenly, in the distance, they heard a hiker’s belt bell. It jingled, a high- pitched, melodic chime. Big Boy lifted his head and bolted into the underbrush. Her chest heaved in release and she power-walked to the parking lot in search of an I Love Lucy episode and a refreshing glass of Provence rosé.

  The next Saturday, she hiked to her wading pool and waited on her wolf. He posted almost immediately. In fact, they were only twenty feet apart when he emerged from the underbrush. Once again, her heart started to pound, but his quiet manner r
eassured her.

  She reached into her backpack, opened the Ziploc bag she carried and emptied some scraps of tenderloin onto a paper plate. With care, she slowly set the food out between herself and the wolf, then withdrew to sit upon her haunches.

  The wolf kicked his head upwards… once… twice… sniffing. Then he inched forward slowly. Hesitantly, he took a piece of steak. His eyes never left Julie and she never moved at all. He ate everything, then sat down and looked up at her expectantly.

  They sat staring at each other.

  “Come here, Big Boy,” she whispered. And he slunk toward her, ears perky and playful, his belly hugging the ground. He was close enough to touch, and she did so.

  Very hesitantly, she stroked his fur, then she reached into the backpack and grabbed a cookie. She flattened her palm as if feeding a horse and offered her hand forward. The wolf sniffed carefully and extended his tongue to pick up the offering, ant-eater-style.

  “See?” she said. “So very easy.” And she put another cookie on her palm. The wolf drew closer and took that morsel from her hand as well, licking her palm for good measure.

  “Don’t hike alone,” said the locals, but she was never alone. The wolf was her companion, and he always growled a warning when another hiker approached.

  Although he usually let the interloper pass by with nothing more than a cautious and watchful eye, the wolf never let anyone get too close… to him or to her. One particularly chatty man from out-of-state almost lost his hand when he went to introduce himself to her with a formal handshake. She figured that she had about a ten-foot safety bubble around her up on that mountain, and that the perimeter was vigilantly guarded.

  There were days when she re-visited the swimming hole to swim and then dry in the sun with his furry head flat upon her abdomen in complete repose. There were days when she’d find a warm patch of sunlight and curl up and take a nap, a hand lightly resting on his flank or shoulder. She feared for nothing.