The Ford

There were three reasons Justin Miller hated me. One, I was the only vet in the valley, which meant I held the monopoly on his livelihood. Two, I had testified against him last spring when his neighbor’s ewes jumped the fence and mixed his bloodline, a fact that cost him two hundred dollars and three hours of his time. Three, he remembered I drank his coffee black because he watched me pour the cup for him in the breakroom of the county fair, and he judged me for it.

I stood in the bed of my truck, the rain coming down in sheets that turned the valley into a smear of gray and green. The power had gone out an hour ago, killing the heating lights in his barns. The ford was swollen, churning brown and fast, cutting off the lower pasture where his best mare, Bess, was currently foaling alone in the dark.

I waded into the water. It was cold, sucking at my boots, rising to my thighs. I didn’t care. I cared about the foal, but I also cared about the man waiting on the other side.