The Vet

“No worries, lovely,” Jan hollers down the phone. “Someone’s on their way. Just stay with her, and don’t let her lie down. You know the drill.”

Clara ended the call and shoved her phone into her jacket pocket. She was freezing, even in the barn, even under three layers. It was bloody March, but the wind outside still bit like January. And of course, like most animals and apparently humans, cows preferred to give birth in the middle of the bastard night.

She stroked the heaving flank of her cow, Starling, one of her favourites. The poor thing was groaning softly, eyes wide, belly taut with effort. Clara had tried everything short of reaching in herself, but it was clear. The calf was not coming. Not without help.

Clara kept glancing towards the farm driveway, praying for headlights, praying for Turlough. The locum from last calving season had been a wizard with stuck calves—a small, fast-talking Irish vet with soft hands and no room for flim-flam.

A set of headlights finally cut through the darkness and washed across the barn doors. Clara’s heart jumped.

“Thank fuck,” she muttered, stepping into the shadows. “Turlough? I’m in the barn!” she called out loudly.

Boots crunched on gravel, then straw. A large figure loomed, tall and broad-shouldered, a duffel on one shoulder.

“You’re not Turlough,” she blurted, startled by the figure in front of her. “Where’s Turlough?”

A pause. “Er… sorry. Don’t know a Turlough. I’m the vet dispatched by the agency.” The imposter looked completely confused at her question. He wondered if he had the right farm. “Your vets called us, yeah?”

“You’re the locum?” she quizzed him hard.

“Last I checked,” he said, giving himself a pat-down of his coat as if to reinforce he was real and loaded with kit. “I come with gloves, ropes, and mediocre small talk.”

Clara swallowed her disappointment. Turlough, she trusted. Turlough, she knew. This guy… was an unknown. Starling was her cow. What if this bloke messed it up?

She gave a short nod, realising there wasn’t much she could gain from being stubborn and waiting for Turlough to materialise. The cow needed help now. “Right. Calf’s stuck. She’s three, had one before. I think this one’s too big. She’s been like this for over an hour.” Clara waded in with an update to the unexpected locum.

He crouched beside Starling. “Is she pushing? Any feet? Discharge?”

“No feet. She tried earlier, but now… not much.”

“Okay.” He stripped off his jacket, pulled on a long vet glove and reached for the tub of lube. “Let’s see what we’ve got,” he muttered.

Starling lowered softly as he worked. Clara stayed near her head, whispering reassurances.

“Front leg’s twisted under,” he called out, wedged behind the cow’s arse, a frustrated tail flapping in his face. “Head’s there, but she can’t move it forward like this. No wonder she’s knackered.”

“Can you fix her?” Clara desperately asked.

He said nothing for a moment. Then he adjusted his stance and, with slow, controlled effort, he eased the calf’s leg round.

“There we go… nearly… got it,” he rasped, the effort visible on his face.

He reached for the ropes and looped them on.

“Alright. On my count. She’ll do most of the work; we need to lend a hand.”

Clara braced. They pulled. Starling pushed. One final groan and the calf slid into the straw in a wet, shining heap.

He peeled off his glove and grinned. “Little bull calf. He’s a belter.”

Clara was already kneeling beside it, clearing its nose, her heart swelling with relief.

“You’re a bloody magician,” she breathed, relieved beyond words.

He chuckled, wiping his brow. “Nah. Just lucky. And stubborn.” He stood and stretched. “Zac Lomax, by the way.”

“Clara Hollings.” She shook his hand, both of them exhausted, stinking of cow muck, adrenaline still buzzing.

“This is Starling,” she said absently.

Their attention dropped back to the calf, already trying to rise on wobbly legs.

Zac packed his bag methodically. Late-night barns were his normal, but the cold always cut to the bone. Clara fussed around Starling, fresh bedding down, a heat lamp glowing red over the straw. She watched the man from the corner of her eye. Australian, clearly. Built like a brick wall. A broken nose. A scar tucked under his brow. Calloused hands that worked with surprising finesse. Ridiculously handsome. Turlough’s opposite in every possible way. She surprised herself at how much of him she had taken in, how much she had seen. She pulled her eyes away, clearing her throat, certain she was blushing.

She gave Starling a final check, then turned. “Fancy a cup of tea?”

“You betcha,” he said, full Australian cliché, and not remotely embarrassed.

She smiled. It was nice. A distraction. Something human after the chaos.

They left boots by the door, washed quickly, and stepped into the warm kitchen. The Aga radiated heat. The house felt like a lived-in museum of her parents. Clara filled the kettle and reached for the fruit loaf. Tea for guests meant cake. Always.

Zac took the mug and plate, smiling gratefully. “Thanks.”

“So,” Clara said, perched on a stool. “What brings you to my neck of the woods?”

He laughed. “That obvious?”

She nodded, a gesture to his accent. “Just a bit.”

“Doing locum work here. Seeing the country. Earning a crust. Figuring out where to put down roots.”

“And you landed on Devon?”

“Lucky me,” he said, his voice low and reverberating in the kitchen.

Before she could dig deeper, he motioned around. “What about you?”

“This was my parents’ place. Now it’s mine.” Clara didn’t elaborate any further. She couldn’t find the words.

There was a silence. Zac noticed but didn’t pry. His gaze flicked to the biscuit tins, faded notes on the corkboard, and a tea towel covered in cartoon sheep. It felt homely and real.

He filled out the visit form. “Contact details are there. If she takes a turn or anything else crops up.” Clara signed. His eyes stayed on her a moment longer than necessary, and he gave her a copy of the invoice.

Eventually, she gathered the mugs, and he swung his bag onto his shoulder.

At the door, he paused. “Starling, yeah?”

Clara blinked. “What?”

“The cow. Her name is Starling?”

“Yeah. That’s right.” She smiled. She hadn’t forgotten. Not for a second.

“Let me know how she does.” He dipped his head and stepped back into the cold. Gone. A wind of arrival, a whirl of saving her best cow, an influx of hormones, smell, and manliness. Then gone.

She felt bereft with his absence for a few seconds, then shrugged it off. Routines and normality called.

Clara returned to the barn. Starling slept. She’s earned that, Clara thought to herself. The calf snuffled. They were fine. Safe.

Yet she felt… unsettled.

Late checks done, she showered and collapsed into bed. Normally, sleep would take her instantly. Not tonight.

Something new hummed under her skin.

She shifted, heat curling low between her legs. It had been months. More than months. Since before the accident. Grief had switched her body off like a light.

But now…

Her fingers drifted. Cautious. Then bolder. A flicker of an image. His image as it happened. His hands. The rope. Control. His voice. His eyes. That scar.

Oh God.

She pinched a nipple, breath catching in her throat, hips lifting off the bed involuntarily. Her fingers slipped inside, and the ache sharpened. Her pulse jumped. What the fuck was she doing? The tension climbed fast. His soft laugh. His drawn-out chuckle. A flash of his eyes, his broken nose. The way he had looked at her in the kitchen—that moment in the doorway, framed in light.

She groaned, lost in the vision of him.

Her breath snapped, and she came, silent and long and shaking.

She lay there in the dark. Guilty. Naughty. Relieved. Wide awake.

Something had shifted inside her. Something she had almost forgotten she had.

Clara was whistling as she fed the cows the next morning. Not a tune she recognised, just something that slipped out, uninvited but not unwelcome. The sun was trying to break through the March grey sky, and though it hadn’t quite managed, the air felt like it had made up its mind. Spring was on the way.

She zipped around the farm on her battered quad bike, checking fences and water levels and livestock, one eye on her trusty coffee cup jammed in the quad’s DIY cupholder. Wrapped in wool and waterproofs, she topped up her energy with caffeine, trying not to think about how little sleep she had enjoyed. Still, she buzzed. Still, she moved.