Six months earlier, Willow had arrived at Daphne’s small boarding farm in the back of a battered trailer. Her coat was dull, her ribs showed, and she flinched when anyone moved too quickly. The woman who brought her had few answers. Willow had been taken from a neglected property with three other horses.
The papers were incomplete. The dates were guesses. Someone had said Willow might be pregnant, but nobody knew when she had been bred. The first exam confirmed it, yet Willow was already far along and too nervous for much handling. Dr. Okafor had warned Daphne that late rescue pregnancies came with unknowns.
So Daphne built her days around the mare. Quiet feedings. Clean bedding. Slow hands. No crowds. No surprises. Tonight was supposed to be the reward for all that patience. But in the stall, the colt was breathing well while Willow kept pushing. Dr. Okafor watched the mare instead of the baby. He checked her pulse again, counted under his breath, then pressed a hand to her damp neck. “She’s tired,” the farmhand said. The question reached Daphne like cold water down her back again. Dr. Okafor nodded once. “Yes. But that does not explain this.”